The Habitant and Other French Canadian Poems
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William Henry Drummond >> The Habitant and Other French Canadian Poems
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THE HABITANT AND OTHER FRENCH-CANADIAN POEMS
By William Henry Drummond, M.D.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
Louis Frechette
AND WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
Frederick Simpson Coburn
TO MY DEAR FRIEND AND FORMER TEACHER
GEORGE MURRAY, ESQ., B.A., A.K.C., F.R.S.C.
THESE VERSES ARE DEDICATED WITH SINCERE
ADMIRATION AND RESPECT
INTRODUCTION
On me demande, pour ce charmant volume, un mot de préface en français;
le voici:
Quand, en 1863, je publiai mon premier recueil de poésies--écrites au
collège, pour la plupart,--le grand poète américain Longfellow eut la
flatteuse bienveillance de m'appeler _The pathfinder of a new land of
song_.
Avec mille fois plus de raison puis-je aujourd'hui passer le compliment
à mon sympathique confrère et ami, l'auteur de ce livre; car, si jamais
quelqu'un, chez nous, a mérité le titre de _pathfinder of a new land of
song_, c'est assurément lui.
Non seulement il a découvert le champ, la clairière, la vallée fertile
et encore inexplorée; il en a fait l'exploitation à sa manière, avec
des outils et des moyens de son invention; et, fier de sa conquête,
il laisse, de son épaule robuste, tomber à nos pieds le fruit de son
travail, la gerbe plantureuse aux ors vierges, à l'arôme sauvage,
aux savoureuses promesses, toute fraîche et toute crissante dans sa
rusticité saine.
N'est-elle pas, en effet, d'une originalité peu commune, l'idée de
prendre un pauvre illettré, de le présenter comme un type national à
part, de lui mettre aux lèvres une langue qui n'est pas la sienne et
qu'il ne connaît qu' à demi; d'en faire en même temps un personnage
bon, doux, aimable, honnête, intelligent et droit, l'esprit en éveil, le
coeur plein d'une poésie native stimulant son patriotisme, jetant un
rayon lumineux dans son modeste intérieur, berçant ses heures rêveuses
de souvenirs lointains et mélancoliques?
Et cela sans que jamais, dans ce portrait d'un nouveau genre, le plus
subtil des critiques puisse surprendre nulle part le coup de crayon
de la caricature!
Dans ses inimitables contes villageois, George Sand a peint les
paysans du Berry sous des dehors très intéressants. Elle nous les
montre même d'un sentiment très affiné dans leur simplicité naïve
et leur cordiale bonhomie. En somme, elle en fait des natures, des
tempéraments, quelque chose de typique, en même temps qu' harmonieux
de teinte et de forme.
Mais George Sand faisait parler ses personnages dans la langue du
pays, dans la langue de la chaumière, dans leur propre dialecte,
enfin. Elle n'avait, pour ainsi dire, qu' à faire pénétrer le
souffle de son talent sous le réseau de la phrase, pour animer
celle-ci d'un reflet de lyrisme ou d'une vibration attendrie.
La tâche abordée par M. Drummond présentait un caractère beaucoup
plus difficile.
Ici, le poète avait bien, il est vrai, le milieu à saisir, placé,
droit en face de son objectif. Il était assez familier avec ses
acteurs pour les grouper avantageusement, en ménageant les effets
d'ombres et de lumière. Il est naturellement assez artiste pour ne
rien négliger de ce qui ajoute du pittoresque à la pose; surtout, il
connaissait à fond le type à reproduire, ses moeurs, ses passions,
ses sentiments, ses penchants, ses superstitions et ses faiblesses.
Mais comment, sans tomber dans la charge ou la bouffonnerie, faire
parler systématiquement à ses personnages une langue étrangère,
forcément incorrecte dans la bouche de quelqu'un qui l'a apprise
par oreille, sans savoir lire même dans sa propre langue?
La tentative était hardie; mais on sait que le succès a un faible
pour les audacieux.
Dans son étude des Canadiens-français, M. Drummond a trouvé le moyen
d'éviter un écueil qui aurait semblé inévitable pour tout autre
que pour lui. Il est resté vrai, sans tomber dans la vulgarité, et
piquant sans verser dans le grotesque.
Qu'il mette en scène le gros fermier fier de son bien ou de ses
filles à marier, le vieux médecin de campagne ne comptant plus ses
états de service, le jeune amoureux qui rêve au clair de la lune,
le vieillard qui repasse en sa mémoire la longue suite des jours
révolus, le conteur de légendes, l'aventurier des "pays d'en haut,"
et même le Canadien exilé--le _Canadien errant_, comme dit la
chanson populaire--qui croit toujours entendre résonner à son
oreille le vague tintement des cloches de son village; que le récit
soit plaisant ou pathétique, jamais la note ne sonne faux, jamais
la bizarrerie ne dégénère en puérilité burlesque.
C'est là un tour de force comme il ne s'en fait pas souvent, et
c'est avec enthousiasme que je tends la main à M. Drummond pour
le féliciter de l'avoir accompli.
Il a véritablement fait là oeuvre de poète et d'artiste.
J'ajouterai qu'il a fait aussi oeuvre de bon citoyen. Car le
jour sous lequel il présente mes compatriotes illettrés ne peut
manquer de valoir à ceux-ci--et partant à tout le reste de la
nationalité--un accroissement désirable dans l'estime de nos
compatriotes de langue anglaise, qui n'ont pas été à même de
les étudier d'aussi près que M. Drummond.
La peinture qu'en fait le poète est on ne peut plus sympathique et
juste; et de semblables procédés ne peuvent que cimenter l'union
de coeur et d'esprit qui doit exister entre toutes les fractions
qui composent la grande famille canadienne appelée à vivre et à
prospérer sous la même loi et le même drapeau.
En lisant les vers de M. Drummond, le Canadien-français sent que
c'est là l'expression d'une âme amie; et, à ce compte, je dois
à l'auteur plus que mes bravos, je lui dois en même temps un
chaleureux merci.
LOUIS FRÉCHETTE.
MONTRÉAL, 13 octobre 1897.
PREFACE
In presenting to the public "The Habitant and other French-Canadian
Poems," I feel that my friends who are already, more or less,
familiar with the work, understand that I have not written the
verses as examples of a dialect, or with any thought of ridicule.
Having lived, practically, all my life, side by side with the
French-Canadian people, I have grown to admire and love them, and
I have felt that while many of the English-speaking public know
perhaps as well as myself the French-Canadian of the cities, yet
they have had little opportunity of becoming acquainted with the
habitant, therefore I have endeavored to paint a few types, and in
doing this, it has seemed to me that I could best attain the object
in view by having my friends tell their own tales in their own way,
as they would relate them to English-speaking auditors not
conversant with the French tongue.
My good friend, Dr. Louis Frechette, Poet Laureate, has as a
French-Canadian, kindly written an "Introductory" in his own
graceful language, and I have to thank him above all for his
recognition of the spirit which has actuated me in writing
"dialect" verse.
To Mr. F. S. Coburn, the artist, also, I am deeply indebted for
the faithful manner in which he has interpreted the different
characters and scenes contained in this volume. All the pictures
have been sketched from nature or life, and the keenest critic will
agree with me, that Mr. Coburn's illustrations are most typical,
both of the people and the soil.
WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.
CONTENTS.
DE HABITANT
THE WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE"
LE VIEUX TEMPS
DE PAPINEAU GUN
HOW BATEESE CAME HOME
DE NICE LEETLE CANADIENNE
'POLEON DORÉ
DE NOTAIRE PUBLIQUE
MAXIME LABELLE
MEMORIES
PHIL-O-RUM JUNEAU
DE BELL OF ST. MICHEL
PELANG
MON CHOUAL "CASTOR"
OLE TAM ON BORD-A PLOUFFE
THE GRAND SEIGNEUR
M'SIEU SMIT'
WHEN ALBANI SANG
DE CAMP ON DE "CHEVAL GRIS"
DE STOVE PIPE HOLE
DE SNOWBIRD
THE HABITANT'S JUBILEE ODE
OLE DOCTEUR FISET
DE HABITANT.
De place I get born, me, is up on de reever
Near foot of de rapide dat's call Cheval Blanc
Beeg mountain behin' it, so high you can't climb it
An' whole place she's mebbe two honder arpent.
De fader of me, he was habitant farmer,
Ma gran' fader too, an' hees fader also,
Dey don't mak' no monee, but dat isn't fonny
For it's not easy get ev'ryt'ing, you mus' know--
All de sam' dere is somet'ing dey got ev'ryboddy,
Dat's plaintee good healt', wat de monee can't geev,
So I'm workin' away dere, an' happy for stay dere
On farm by de reever, so long I was leev.
O! dat was de place w'en de spring tam she's comin',
W'en snow go away, an' de sky is all blue--
W'en ice lef' de water, an' sun is get hotter
An' back on de medder is sing de gou-glou--
W'en small sheep is firs' comin' out on de pasture,
Deir nice leetle tail stickin' up on deir back,
Dey ronne wit' deir moder, an' play wit' each oder
An' jomp all de tam jus' de sam' dey was crack--
An' ole cow also, she's glad winter is over,
So she kick herse'f up, an' start off on de race
Wit' de two-year-ole heifer, dat's purty soon lef' her,
W'y ev'ryt'ing's crazee all over de place!
An' down on de reever de wil' duck is quackin'
Along by de shore leetle san'piper ronne--
De bullfrog he's gr-rompin' an' doré is jompin'
Dey all got deir own way for mak' it de fonne.
But spring's in beeg hurry, an' don't stay long wit' us
An' firs' t'ing we know, she go off till nex' year,
Den bee commence hummin', for summer is comin'
An' purty soon corn's gettin' ripe on de ear.
Dat's very nice tam for wake up on de morning
An' lissen de rossignol sing ev'ry place,
Feel sout' win' a-blowin' see clover a-growin'
An' all de worl' laughin' itself on de face.
Mos' ev'ry day raf' it is pass on de rapide
De voyageurs singin' some ole chanson
'Bout girl down de reever--too bad dey mus' leave her,
But comin' back soon' wit' beaucoup d'argent.
An' den w'en de fall an' de winter come roun' us
An' bird of de summer is all fly away,
W'en mebbe she's snowin' an' nort' win' is blowin'
An' night is mos' t'ree tam so long as de day.
You t'ink it was bodder de habitant farmer?
Not at all--he is happy an' feel satisfy,
An' cole may las' good w'ile, so long as de wood-pile
Is ready for burn on de stove by an' bye.
W'en I got plaintee hay put away on de stable
So de sheep an' de cow, dey got no chance to freeze,
An' de hen all togedder--I don't min' de wedder--
De nort' win' may blow jus' so moche as she please.
An' some cole winter night how I wish you can see us,
W'en I smoke on de pipe, an' de ole woman sew
By de stove of T'ree Reever--ma wife's fader geev her
On day we get marry, dat's long tam ago--
De boy an' de girl, dey was readin' it's lesson,
De cat on de corner she's bite heem de pup,
Ole "Carleau" he's snorin' an' beeg stove is roarin'
So loud dat I'm scare purty soon she bus' up.
Philomene--dat's de oldes'--is sit on de winder
An' kip jus' so quiet lak wan leetle mouse,
She say de more finer moon never was shiner--
Very fonny, for moon isn't dat side de house.
But purty soon den, we hear foot on de outside,
An' some wan is place it hees han' on de latch,
Dat's Isidore Goulay, las' fall on de Brulé
He's tak' it firs' prize on de grand ploughin' match.
Ha! ha! Philomene!--dat was smart trick you play us
Come help de young feller tak' snow from hees neck,
Dere's not'ing for hinder you come off de winder
W'en moon you was look for is come, I expec'--
Isidore, he is tole us de news on de parish
'Bout hees Lajeunesse Colt--travel two forty, sure,
'Bout Jeremie Choquette, come back from Woonsocket
An' t'ree new leetle twin on Madame Vaillancour'.
But nine o'clock strike, an' de chil'ren is sleepy,
Mese'f an' ole woman can't stay up no more
So alone by de fire--'cos dey say dey ain't tire--
We lef' Philomene an' de young Isidore.
I s'pose dey be talkin' beeg lot on de kitchen
'Bout all de nice moon dey was see on de sky,
For Philomene's takin' long tam get awaken
Nex' day, she's so sleepy on bote of de eye.
Dat's wan of dem ting's, ev'ry tam on de fashion,
An' 'bout nices' t'ing dat was never be seen.
Got not'ing for say me--I spark it sam' way me
W'en I go see de moder ma girl Philomene.
We leev very quiet 'way back on de contree
Don't put on sam style lak de big village,
W'en we don't get de monee you t'ink dat is fonny
An' mak' plaintee sport on de Bottes Sauvages.
But I tole you--dat's true--I don't go on de city
If you geev de fine house an' beaucoup d'argent--
I rader be stay me, an' spen' de las' day me
On farm by de rapide dat's call Cheval Blanc.
THE WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE."
A LEGEND OF LAC-ST. PIERRE.
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
Got scar't an' run below--
For de win' she blow lak hurricane
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.
De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck too--
He call de crew from up de hole
He call de cook also.
De cook she's name was Rosie,
She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor'-eas'-wes,'--
De sout' win' she blow too,
W'en Rosie cry "Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w'at I shall do?"
Den de Captinne t'row de big ankerre,
But still the scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark lak' wan black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
W'en de captinne tak' de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak' de life preserve,
An' jomp off on de lak',
An' say, "Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early
'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four--
De captinne--scow--an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore,
For de win' she blow lak' hurricane
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL.
Now all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm.
De win' can blow lak' hurricane
An' s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.
LE VIEUX TEMPS.
Venez ici, mon cher ami, an' sit down by me--so
An' I will tole you story of old tam long ago--
W'en ev'ryt'ing is happy--w'en all de bird is sing
An' me!--I'm young an' strong lak moose an' not afraid no t'ing.
I close my eye jus' so, an' see de place w'ere I am born--
I close my ear an' lissen to musique of de horn,
Dat's horn ma dear ole moder blow--an only t'ing she play
Is "viens donc vite Napoléon--'peche toi pour votre souper."--
An' w'en he's hear dat nice musique--ma leetle dog "Carleau"
Is place hees tail upon hees back--an' den he's let heem go--
He's jomp on fence--he's swimmin' crik--he's ronne two forty gait,
He say "dat's somet'ing good for eat--Carleau mus' not be late."
O dem was pleasure day for sure, dem day of long ago
W'en I was play wit' all de boy, an' all de girl also;
An' many tam w'en I'm alone an' t'ink of day gone by
An' pull latire an' spark de girl, I cry upon my eye.
Ma fader an' ma moder too, got nice, nice familee,
Dat's ten garçon an' t'orteen girl, was mak' it twenty t'ree
But fonny t'ing de Gouvernement don't geev de firs' prize den
Lak w'at dey say dey geev it now, for only wan douzaine.
De English peep dat only got wan familee small size
Mus' be feel glad dat tam dere is no honder acre prize
For fader of twelve chil'ren--dey know dat mus' be so,
De Canayens would boss Kebeck--mebbe Ontario.
But dat is not de story dat I was gone tole you
About de fun we use to have w'en we leev a chez nous
We're never lonesome on dat house, for many cavalier
Come at our place mos' every night--especially Sun-day.
But tam I'member bes' is w'en I'm twenty wan year--me--
An' so for mak' some pleasurement--we geev wan large soirée
De whole paroisse she be invite--de Curé he's come too--
Wit plaintee peep from 'noder place--dat's more I can tole you.
De night she's cole an' freeze also, chemin she's fill wit snow
An' on de chimley lak phantome, de win' is mak' it blow--
But boy an' girl come all de sam an' pass on grande parloir
For warm itself on beeg box stove, was mak' on Trois Rivières--
An' w'en Bonhomme Latour commence for tune up hees fidelle
It mak' us all feel very glad--l'enfant! he play so well,
Musique suppose to be firs' class, I offen hear, for sure
But mos' bes' man, beat all de res', is ole Bateese Latour--
An' w'en Bateese play Irish jeeg, he's learn on Mattawa
Dat tam he's head boss cook Shaintee--den leetle Joe Leblanc
Tak' hole de beeg Marie Juneau an' dance upon de floor
Till Marie say "Excuse to me, I cannot dance no more."--
An' den de Curé's mak' de speech--ole Curé Ladouceur!
He say de girl was spark de boy too much on some cornerre--
An' so he's tole Bateese play up ole fashion reel a quatre
An' every body she mus' dance, dey can't get off on dat.
Away she go--hooraw! hooraw! plus fort Bateese, mon vieux
Camille Bisson, please watch your girl--dat's bes' t'ing you can do.
Pass on de right an' tak' your place Mamzelle Des Trois Maisons
You're s'pose for dance on Paul Laberge, not Telesphore Gagnon.
Mon oncle Al-fred, he spik lak' dat--'cos he is boss de floor,
An' so we do our possibill an' den commence encore.
Dem crowd of boy an' girl I'm sure keep up until nex' day
If ole Bateese don't stop heseff, he come so fatigué.
An' affer dat, we eat some t'ing, tak' leetle drink also
An' de Curé, he's tole story of many year ago--
W'en Iroquois sauvage she's keel de Canayens an' steal deir hair,
An' say dat's only for Bon Dieu, we don't be here--he don't be dere.
But dat was mak' de girl feel scare--so all de cavalier
Was ax hees girl go home right off, an' place her on de sleigh,
An' w'en dey start, de Curé say, "Bonsoir et bon voyage
Menagez-vous--tak' care for you--prenez-garde pour les sauvages."
An' den I go meseff also, an' tak' ma belle Elmire--
She's nicer girl on whole Comté, an' jus' got eighteen year--
Black hair--black eye, an' chick rosée dat's lak wan fameuse on de fall
But don't spik much--not of dat kin', I can't say she love me at all.
Ma girl--she's fader beeg farmeur--leev 'noder side St. Flore
Got five-six honder acre--mebbe a leetle more--
Nice sugar bush--une belle maison--de bes' I never see--
So w'en I go for spark Elmire, I don't be mak' de foolish me--
Elmire!--she's pass t'ree year on school--Ste. Anne de la Perade
An' w'en she's tak' de firs' class prize, dat's mak' de ole man glad;
He say "Ba gosh--ma girl can wash--can keep de kitchen clean
Den change her dress--mak' politesse before God save de Queen."
Dey's many way for spark de girl, an' you know dat of course,
Some way dey might be better way, an' some dey might be worse
But I lak' sit some cole night wit' my girl on ole burleau
Wit' lot of hay keep our foot warm--an' plaintee buffalo--
Dat's geev good chances get acquaint--an' if burleau upset
An' t'row you out upon de snow--dat's better chances yet--
An' if you help de girl go home, if horse he ronne away
De girl she's not much use at all--don't geev you nice baiser!
Dat's very well for fun ma frien', but w'en you spark for keep
She's not sam t'ing an' mak' you feel so scare lak' leetle sheep
Some tam you get de fever--some tam you're lak snowball
An' all de tam you ack lak' fou--can't spik no t'ing at all.
Wall! dat's de way I feel meseff, wit Elmire on burleau,
Jus' lak' small dog try ketch hees tail--roun' roun' ma head she go
But bimeby I come more brave--an' tak' Elmire she's han'
"Laisse-moi tranquille" Elmire she say "You mus' be crazy man."
"Yass--yass," I say, "mebbe you t'ink I'm wan beeg loup garou,
Dat's forty t'ousand 'noder girl, I lef' dem all for you,
I s'pose you know Polique Gauthier your frien'on St. Cesaire
I ax her marry me nex' wick--she tak' me--I don't care."
Ba gosh; Elmire she don't lak dat--it mak' her feel so mad--
She commence cry, say "'Poleon you treat me very bad--
I don't lak see you t'row you'seff upon Polique Gauthier,
So if you say you love me sure--we mak' de mariée."--
Oh it was fine tam affer dat--Castor I t'ink he know,
We're not too busy for get home--he go so nice an' slow,
He's only upset t'ree--four tam--an' jus' about daylight
We pass upon de ole man's place--an' every t'ing's all right.
Wall! we leev happy on de farm for nearly fifty year,
Till wan day on de summer tam--she die--ma belle Elmire
I feel so lonesome lef' behin'--I tink 'twas bes' mebbe--
Dat w'en le Bon Dieu tak' ma famme--he should not forget me.
But dat is hees biz-nesse ma frien'--I know dat's all right dere
I'll wait till he call "'Poleon" den I will be prepare--
An' w'en he fin' me ready, for mak' de longue voyage
He guide me t'roo de wood hesef upon ma las' portage.
"DE PAPINEAU GUN."
AN INCIDENT OF THE CANADIAN REBELLION OF 1837.
Bon jour, M'sieu'--you want to know
'Bout dat ole gun--w'at good she's for?
W'y! Jean Bateese Bruneau--mon pere,
Fight wit' dat gun on Pap'neau War!
Long tam since den you say--C'est vrai,
An' me too young for 'member well,
But how de patriot fight an' die,
I offen hear de ole folk tell.
De English don't ack square dat tam,
Don't geev de habitants no show,
So 'long come Wolfred Nelson
Wit' Louis Joseph Papineau.
An' swear de peep mus' have deir right.
Wolfred he's write Victoriaw,
But she's no good, so den de war
Commence among de habitants.
Mon pere he leev to Grande Brulé
So smarter man you never see,
Was alway on de grande hooraw!
Plaintee w'at you call "Esprit!"
An' w'en dey form wan compagnie
All dress wit' tuque an' ceinture sash
Ma fader tak' hees gun wit' heem
An' marche away to Saint Eustache,
W'ere many patriots was camp
Wit' brave Chenier, deir Capitaine,
W'en 'long come English Generale,
An' more two t'ousan' sojer man.
De patriot dey go on church
An' feex her up deir possibill;
Dey fight deir bes', but soon fin' out
"Canon de bois" no good for kill.
An' den de church she come on fire,
An' burn almos' down to de groun',
So w'at you t'ink our man can do
Wit' all dem English armee roun'?
'Poleon, hees sojer never fight
More brave as dem poor habitants,
Chenier, he try for broke de rank
Chenier come dead immediatement.
He fall near w'ere de cross is stan'
Upon de ole church cimitiere,
Wit' Jean Poulin an' Laframboise
An' plaintee more young feller dere.
De gun dey rattle lak' tonnere
Jus' bang, bang, bang! dat's way she go,
An' wan by wan de brave man's fall
An' red blood's cover all de snow.
Ma fader shoot so long he can
An' den he's load hees gun some more,
Jomp on de ice behin' de church
An' pass heem on de 'noder shore.
Wall! he reach home fore very long
An' keep perdu for many day,
Till ev'ry t'ing she come tranquille,
An' sojer man all gone away.
An' affer dat we get our right,
De Canayens don't fight no more,
Ma fader's never shoot dat gun,
But place her up above de door.
An' Papineau, an' Nelson too
Dey're gone long tam, but we are free,
Le Bon Dieu have 'em 'way up dere.
Salut, Wolfred! Salut, Louis!
HOW BATEESE CAME HOME.
W'en I was young boy on de farm, dat's twenty year ago
I have wan frien' he's leev near me, call Jean Bateese Trudeau
An offen w'en we are alone, we lak for spik about
De tam w'en we was come beeg man, wit' moustache on our mout'.
Bateese is get it on hees head, he's too moche educate
For mak' de habitant farmerre--he better go on State--
An' so wan summer evening we're drivin' home de cow
He's tole me all de whole beez-nesse--jus' lak you hear me now.
"W'at's use mak' foolish on de farm? dere's no good chances lef'
An' all de tam you be poor man--you know dat's true you'se'f;
We never get no fun at all--don't never go on spree
Onless we pass on 'noder place, an' mak' it some monee.
"I go on Les Etats Unis, I go dere right away
An' den mebbe on ten-twelve year, I be riche man some day,
An' w'en I mak' de large fortune, I come back I s'pose
Wit' Yankee famme from off de State, an' monee on my clothes.
"I tole you somet'ing else also--mon cher Napoleon
I get de grande majorité, for go on parliament
Den buil' fine house on borde l'eau--near w'ere de church is stand
More finer dan de Presbytere, w'en I am come riche man!"
I say "For w'at you spik lak dat? you must be gone crazee
Dere's plaintee feller on de State, more smarter dan you be,
Beside she's not so healtee place, an' if you mak' l'argent,
You spen' it jus' lak Yankee man, an' not lak habitant.
"For me Bateese! I tole you dis: I'm very satisfy--
De bes' man don't leev too long tam, some day Ba Gosh! he die--
An' s'pose you got good trotter horse, an' nice famme Canadienne
Wit' plaintee on de house for eat--W'at more you want ma frien'?"
But Bateese have it all mak' up, I can't stop him at all
He's buy de seconde classe tiquette, for go on Central Fall--
An' wit' two-t'ree some more de boy,--w'at t'ink de sam' he do
Pass on de train de very nex' wick, was lef' Rivière du Loup.
* * * * *
Wall! mebbe fifteen year or more, since Bateese go away
I fin' mesef Rivière du Loup, wan cole, cole winter day
De quick express she come hooraw! but stop de soon she can
An' beeg swell feller jomp off car, dat's boss by nigger man.