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Away off back on de mountain-side,Not easy t'ing fin' de spot,W'ere de lake below is long an' wide,A nice leetle place I got,Mebbe ten foot deep by twenty-two,An' if you see it, I betYou 'll not be surprise w'en I tole to youI chrissen dat place Charmette.
Dat 's purty beeg word, Charmette, for goOn poor leetle house so small,Wit' only wan chimley, a winder or so,An' no galerie at all—But I want beeg word, so de worl' will knowW'at dat place it was mean to me,An' dere on de book of Jean Jacques Rousseau,Charmette is de nam' I see.
O ma dear Charmette! an' de stove is dere,(Good stove) an' de wood-pile too.An' stretch out your finger mos' anyw'ere,Dere 's plaintee for comfort you—You 're hongry? wall! you got pork an' bean,Mak' you feel lak Edouard de King—You 're torsty? Jus' look dere behin' de screen,An' mebbe you fin' somet'ing—
Ha! Ha! you got it. Ma dear Charmette.Dere 's many fine place, dat 's true,If you travel aroun' de worl', but yetW'ere is de place lak you?Open de door, don't kip it close—W'at 's air of de mornin' for?Would you fassen de door on de win' dat blowsOver God's own boulevard?
You see dat lake? Wall! I alway hateTo brag—but she 's full of trout,So full dey can't jump togeder, but waitAn' tak' deir chance, turn about—An' if you be campin' up dere above,De mountain would be so high,Very offen de camp you 'd have to move,Or how can de moon pass by?
It 's wonderful place for sure, Charmette,An' ev'ry wan say to me—I got all de pleasure de man can get'Cept de wife an' de familee—But somebody else can marry ma wife,Have de familee too also,W'at more do I want, so long ma lifeWas spare to me here below?
For we can't be happier dan we beenOver twenty year, no siree!An' if ever de stranger come betweenDe leetle Charmette an' me,Den all I can say is, kip out de way,For dynamite sure I 'll get,An' affer dat you can hunt all dayFor me an' ma dear Charmette.
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Talk about lakes! dere 's none dat lies inLaurentide mountain or near de sea,W'en de star 's gone off an' de sun is risin',Can touch w'at dey call it Lac Souci,Restin' dere wit' de woods behin' her,Sleepin' dere t'roo de summer night—But watch her affer de mornin's fin' her,An' over de hill-top shine de light.
See w'ere de shadder sweep de water,Pine tree an' cloud, how dey come an' go;Careful now, an' you 'll see de otterSlidin' into de pool below—Look at de loon w'en de breeze is ketch heemShakin' hese'f as he cock de eye!Takes a nice leetle win' to fetch heem,So he 's gettin' a chance to fly.
Every bird dey mus' kip behin' heemW'en he 's only jus' flap de wing,Ah! dere he 's goin'—but never min' heem,For lissen de robin begin to sing—Trout 's comin' up too!—dat 's beeg rise dere,Four of dem! Golly! it 's purty hard case,No rod here, an' dey 're all good size dere!Don't ax me not'ing about de place.
No use nobody goin' murderT'ree an' four pounder lak dat, siree!Wall! if you promise it won't go furderI 'll tole you nex' summer—bimeby—mebbe—W'at is dat movin' among de spruce dere?Sure as I 'm livin' dere 's 'noder wan too—Offen enough I 'm gettin' a moose dere,Non!—it 's only a couple of caribou.
Black duck so early? See how dey all come,Wan leetle family roun' de ben'—Let dem enjoy it, wait till de fall come,Dey won't be feelin' so happy den!Smoke on de mountain? Yass, I can smell her—Who is it now, Jean Bateese Boucher?Geev' me some tam, an' I 'll feex dat fellerShootin' de moose on de summer day.
W'at do you t'ink of a sapree beaverHittin' hees tail on de lake dat way?Ought to be home wit' hees wife—not leave herWorkin' away on de house all day—Funny t'ing, too, how he alway fin' meSailin' along on de ole canoe,Lookin' for sign—den bang! behin' meAn' down on de water—dat's w'at he do.
Otter feeshin' an' bob cat cryin'—Up on de sky de beeg black hawk—Down on de swamp w'ere a dead log 's lyin',Pa'tridge doin' hees own cake-walk!If you never was see dem, hear dem—Tak' leetle tour on de Lac Souci,An' w'enever you 're comin' near dem,You 're goin' crazy de sam' as me.
Talk about lakes of every nation,Talk about water of any kin',Don't matter you go over all creation—De Lac Souci she can beat dem blin'.Happy to leev an' happy to die dere—But Heaven itself won't satisfy me,Till I fin' leetle hole off on de sky dereW'ere I can be lookin' on Lac Souci!
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"W'at's dat? de ole man gone, you say?Wall! Wall! he mus' be sick,For w'en he pass de oder day,He walk along widout de stick,Lak twenty year or so—Fine healt'y man, ole Telesphore,I never see heem sick before,Some rheumateez, but not'ing more—Please tell me how he go."
You 're right, no common t'ing for sureIs kill heem lak de res';No sir! de man was voyageurUpon de Grande Nor' Wes'Until he settle hereIs not de feller 's goin' dieBefore he 's ready by an' bye,So if you want de reason w'yI 'll tell you, never fear.
You know how moche he lak to spikAn' tole us ev'ryt'ing aboutDe way de French can alway lickAn' pull de w'ole worl' inside out,Poor Telesphore Cadotte!He 's knowin' all de victory,An' braves' t'ing was never be,To hear heem talk, it 's easy seeHe 's firse-class patriot.
Hees leetle shoe store ev'ry nightCan hardly hol' de crowd of folkDat come to lissen on de fight,An' w'en you see de pile of smokeAn' hear ole TelesphoreHammer de boot upon hees knee,You t'ink of course of Chateauguay,An' feel dat 's two, t'ree enemyDon't bodder us no more.
But oh! dat evening w'en he sen'De call aroun' for come en masse,An' den he say, "Ma dear ole frien',Dere 's somet'ing funny come to pass,I lak you all to hear—You know dat Waterloo affair?H-s-s-h! don't get excite, you was n't dere—All quiet? Wall! I 'll mak' it square,So lissen on your ear.
"I 'm readin' on de book to-day(Some book, dey say, was guarantee),An' half a dollar too I pay,But cheap, because it 's tellin' meDe t'ing I 'm glad to know—Of course de w'ole worl' understan'Napoleon fight de bes' he can,But he 's not French at all, dat man,But leetle small Da-go.
"Anoder t'ing was mak' it showDere 's not'ing new below de sun,Is w'en I 'm findin' as I go—Dat feller dey call Welling-ton,He 's English? No siree!But only maudit Irlandais!(Dat 's right! dey 're alway in de way,Dem Irish folk), an' so I sayI 'm satisfy for me.
"It 's not our fault, dat 's all explain—Dere 's no use talk of Waterloo,Not our affair—" an' off againHe hammer, hammer on de shoe,An' don't say not'ing more,But w'issle "Madame Isabeau,"Good news lak dat is cheer heem so—Den tak' a drink before we go,De poor ole Telesphore!
An' now he 's gone! Wall! I dunno,Can't say—he 's better off meb-be,Don't work so hard on w'ere he go—Dat 's wan t'ing sure I 'm t'inkin'—me—Unless he los' hees track.But w'en dat boy come runnin' inDe leetle shop, an' start beginOn Poirier's rooster, how he win—I lak to break hees back.
Poor Telesphore was tellin' howJoe Monferrand can't go to sleep,Until he 's kickin' up de row,Den pile dem nearly ten foot deep,Dem English sojer man—Can't blame de crowd dey all hooraw,For bes' man on de Ottawaw,An' geev' t'ree cheer for Canadaw,De very bes' dey can.
An' Telesphore again he startFor tell de story leetle more,Anoder wan before we part,W'en bang! a small boy t'roo de doorOn w'at you call "full pelt,"Is yellin' till it reach de skies,"Poirier's rooster got de prize,Poirier's rooster got de prize,An' win de Champion belt!"
An' sure enough, he beat dem all,Joe Poirier's leetle red game bird,On beeges' show dey have dis fall,—De Yankee rooster only t'irdAn' Irish number two—We hear a jump, an' Telesphore—I never see de lak before—He flap hees wing upon de floorAn' cock a doodle doo!
Dat 's finish heem, he 's gone at las',An' never come aroun' again—We 'll miss heem w'en we 're goin' pas',An' see no light upon de pane—But pleasure we have got,We 'll kip it on de memory yet,An' dough of course we 'll offen fret,Dere 's wan t'ing sure, we 'll not forgetPoor Telesphore Cadotte!
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You dunno ma leetle boy Dominique?Never see heem runnin' roun' about de place?'Cos I want to get advice how to kip heem lookin' nice,So he won't be alway dirty on de face—Now dat leetle boy of mine, Dominique,If you wash heem an' you sen' heem off to school,But instead of goin' dere, he was playin' fox an' hare—Can you tell me how to stop de leetle fool?
"I 'd tak' dat leetle feller Dominique,An' I 'd put heem on de cellar ev'ry day,An' for workin' out a cure, bread an' water 's very sure,You can bet he mak' de promise not to play!"
Dat 's very well to say, but ma leetle DominiqueW'en de jacket we put on heem 's only new,An' he 's goin' travel roun' on de medder up an' down,Wit' de strawberry on hees pocket runnin' t'roo,An' w'en he climb de fence, see de hole upon hees pant,No wonder hees poor moder 's feelin' mad!So if you ketch heem den, w'at you want to do, ma frien'?Tell me quickly an' before he get too bad.
"I 'd lick your leetle boy Dominique,I 'd lick heem till he 's cryin' purty hard,An' for fear he 's gettin' spile, I 'd geev' heem castor ile,An' I would n't let heem play outside de yard."
If you see ma leetle boy DominiqueHangin' on to poor ole "Billy" by de tail,W'en dat horse is feelin' gay, lak I see heem yesterday,I s'pose you t'ink he 's safer on de jail?W'en I 'm lightin' up de pipe on de evenin' affer work,An' de powder dat young rascal's puttin' in,It was makin' such a pouf, nearly blow me t'roo de roof—W'at 's de way you got of showin' 't was a sin?
"Wall! I put heem on de jail right away,You may bet de wan is got de beeges' wall!A honder foot or so, w'ere dey never let heem go,Non! I would n't kip a boy lak dat at all."
Dat 's good advice for sure, very good,On de cellar, bread an' water—it 'll do,De nice sweet castor ile geev' heem ev'ry leetle w'ile,An' de jail to finish up wit' w'en he 's t'roo!Ah! ma frien', you never see Dominique,W'en he 's lyin' dere asleep upon de bed,If you do, you say to me, "W'at an angel he mus' be,An' dere can't be not'ing bad upon hees head."
Many t'ank for your advice, an' it may be good for some,But de reason you was geev' it is n't very hard to seek—Yass! it 's easy seein' now w'en de talk is over, howYou dunno ma leetle boy Dominique?
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"Oh! Mother the bells are ringing as never they rang before,And banners aloft are flying, and open is every door,While down in the streets are thousands of men I have never seen—But friendly are all the faces—oh! Mother, what can it mean?"
"My little one," said the mother, "for many long, weary years—Thro' days that the sunshine mocked at, and nightsthat were wet with tears,I have waited and watched in silence, too proud to speak, and nowThe pulse of my heart is leaping, for the children have kept the vow.
"And there they are coming, coming, the brothers you never knew,But, sightless, my ears would know them, so steady and firm and trueIs the tramp of men whose fathers trod where the wind blows free,Over the heights of Queenston, and willows of Chateaugay.
"For whether it be a thousand, or whether a single man—In the calm of peace, or battle, since ever the race began,No human eye has seen it—'t is an undiscovered clime,Where the feet of my children's fathers have not steppedand beaten time.
"The enemy at my threshold had boasted and jeered and cried—'The pledge of your offsprings' birthright your childrenhave swept aside—They cumber the land of strangers, they dwell in the alien's tentTill "home" is a word forgotten, and "love" but a bow unbent.
"'Planners and builders of cities (were ever such men as these?),Counsellors, guides, and moulders of the strangers' destinies—Conquerors, yet are they conquered, and this is the word and sign,You boast of their wise seed-sowing, but the harvest they reap is mine.'
"Ah! little the stranger knew me—this mocking but friendly foe,The youngest mother of nations! how could the stranger knowThe faith of the old grey mother,—her sorrows and hopes and fears?Let her speak when her sons are tested, like mine,for a thousand years!
"Afar in the dim savanna when the dawn of the spring is near,What is it wakes the wild goose, calling him loud and clear?What is it brings him homeward, battered and tempest-torn?Are they weaker than birds of passage, the children whom I have borne?
"Nay! the streets of the city tremble with the treadthat shakes the world,When the sons of the blood foregather, andthe mother flag flies unfurled—Brothers are welcoming brothers, and the voices that pierce the blueAnswer the enemy's taunting—and the children of York are true!
"Wanderers may be, traitors never! By the scrollof their fathers' lives!The faith of the land that bore them, and the honour of their wives!We may lose them, our own strong children, blossom and root and stem—But the cradle will be remembered, and home is aye home to them!"
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When our fathers crossed the oceanIn the glorious days gone by,They breathed their deep emotionIn many a tear and sigh—Tho' a brighter lay before themThan the old, old land that bore themAnd all the wide world knows nowThat land was Canada.
So line up and try us,Whoever would deny usThe freedom of our birthrightAnd they 'll find us like a wall—For we are Canadian—Canadian forever,Canadian forever—Canadian over all.
Our fathers came to win usThis land beyond recall—And the same blood flows within usOf Briton, Celt, and Gaul—Keep alive each glowing emberOf our sireland, but rememberOur country is CanadianWhatever may befall.
So line up and try us,Whoever would deny usThe freedom of our birthrightAnd they 'll find us like a wall—For we are Canadian, Canadian forever,Canadian forever—-Canadian over all.
Who can blame them, who can blame usIf we tell ourselves with prideHow a thousand years to tame usThe foe has often tried—And should e'er the Empire need us,She'll require no chains to lead us,For we are Empire's children—But Canadian over all.
Then line up and try us,Whoever would deny usThe freedom of our birthrightAnd they 'll find us like a wall—For we are Canadian, Canadian forever,Canadian forever—Canadian over all!
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I congratulate ye, Francis,And more power to yer wife—An' from Montreal to Kansas,I could safely bet my lifeYe wor proud enough, I hould ye—Runnin' with the safety pinsWhin ould Mrs. Dolan tould ye,"Milia murther! she has twins!"
Ye might kill me without warnin'—Lay me out there on the shelf—For a sight of ye that mornin',Throwin' bookays at yerself!Faix! ye thought ye had a cinch there,An' begob! so well ye might,For not even with the Frinch there,Twins like thim come every night!
Francis, aisy now an' listenTo yer mother's brother James—Whin the twins ye go to christen,Don't ye give thim fancy names—Irene—Edith—Gladys—Mavis—Cecil Rhodes an' Percival—If it 's names like that, Lord save us!Don't live close to the canal!
Michael Whalen of St. LambertHad a boy some years ago—Called him Clarence Montizambert—Where he got it I dunno—Monty used to have a brother(Hewas Marmaduke Fitzjames),Killed himself some way or otherThryin' to pronounce his names!
Bet was three times in a minute,An' he thrained hard for the same,But the lad was never in it—Tho' they tell me he died game!Well, sir!—Monty grew the height ofFin McCool or Brian Boru—Truth I 'm tellin', but in spite ofEv'rything poor Mike could do—
Divil a dacint situationMonty got, but dhrive a hack,At the Bonaventure station—'T was the name that kept him back—Till his friend, John Reilly, tould him,"Change the haythen name for Pat—"Pathrick Joseph—now behould himWalkin' dillygate! think o' that!So be careful, Master Francis,An' ye 'll bless yer uncle James—Don't be takin' any chancesWith thim God-forsaken names!
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No smarter man you can never knowW'en I was a boy, dan Pierre Nadeau,An' quiet he 's too, very seldom talk,But got an eye lak de mountain hawk,See all aroun' heem mos' ev'ryw'ere,An' not many folk is foolin' Pierre.
Offen I use to be t'inkin'—me—How on de worl' it was come to beHe know so moche, w'en he never goOn college or school, ole Pierre Nadeau,Feesh on de reever de summer t'roo,An' trap on de winter—dat 's all he do.
"Hi! boy—Hi! put your book away,An' come wit' your uncle Pierre to-day,Ketch hol' of de line an' hang on tight,An' see if your moder won't cook to-nightSome nice fresh feesh for de familee,"Many a tam he was say to me—
An' den I 'm quiet, too scare to spik,Wile Pierre he paddle me down de crick,Easy an' nice he mak' her goClose to de shore w'ere de bulrush grow,W'ere de pike an' de beeg feesh lak to feed,Deir nose stickin' out w'ere you see de weed—
"Lissen, ma boy," say Pierre Nadeau,"To some of de t'ing you ought to know:Kip a lookout on de hook an' line,In case dey 're gettin' too far behin';For it 's purty hard job know w'at to do,If de reever weed 's ketchin' hol' of you.
"But if you want feesh, you mus' kip leetle close,For dat 's w'ere de beeg feller come de mos',Not on de middle w'ere water 's bare,But near to de rushes over dere,'Cos dat was de spot dey alway feed—All de sam' you got to look out for weed.
"Ho! Ho! a strike! let heem have it now—Gosh! ain't he a'kickin' heem up de row,Pullin' so hard, never min', ma son,W'en he go lak dat he was nearly done,But he 's all right now, so don't be afraid,Jus' hit heem again wit' de paddle blade.
"Yass! over an' over, it 's good advice,An' me, I know, for I pay de priceOn w'at you call compoun' interes' too,For larnin' de lesson I geev' to you,Close as you lak, but, ma boy, tak' heedYou don't run into de beeg long weed.
"An' by an' by w'en you 're growin' up,An' mebbe drink of de black, black cupOf trouble an' bodder an' dunno w'at,You 'll say to you'se'f, 'Wall! I forgotDe lesson ole Pierre he know I need,'W'en he say to me, 'Boy, look out for weed'—
"For de worl 's de sam' as de reever dere,Plaintee of weed lyin' ev'ryw'ere,But work aroun' or your life is gone,An' tak' some chance or you won't get on,For if you don't feesh w'ere de weed is grow,You 'll only ketch small leetle wan or so—
"Dere 's no use sayin', 'I 'll wait an' seeIf some of dem feesh don't come to me,I 'll stay outside, for it 's pleasan' here,W'ere de water 's lookin' so nice an' clear,'Dat 's way you 'll never get w'at you need—Keep feeshin' away, but look out for weed."
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Dat was de lesson ole Pierre NadeauTell to me offen, so long ago—Poor ole Pierre! an' I 'm tryin' too,Tak' hees advice, for I know it 's true,But far as it goes we 're all de same breed,An' it 's not so easy kip out de weed.
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Dey call it de Holy Islan'W'ere de lighthouse stan' alone,Lookin' across w'ere de breaker toss,Over de beeg grey stone;Dey call it de Holy Islan,'For wance, on de day gone by,A holy man from a far-off lan'Is leevin' dere, till he die.
Down from de ole, ole people,Scatter upon de shore,De story come of Fader Jerome,De pries' of SalvadorMakin' hees leetle house dere,Wit' only hees own two han',Workin' along, an' singin' de songNobody understan'.
"All for de ship an' sailorOut on de stormy sea,I mak' ma home," say Fader Jerome,"W'ere de rock an' de beeg wave beDe good God up on de HeavenIs answer me on de prayer,An' bring me here, so I 'll never fear,But foller heem ev'ryw'ere!"
Lonely it was, dat islan',Seven league from de coas',An' only de cry, so loud an' high,Of de poor drown sailors' ghos'You hear, wit' de screamin' sea gull;But de man of God he goAn' anchor dere, an' say hees prayerFor ev'rywan here below.
Night on de ocean 's fallin',Deep is de fog, an' black,As on dey come, to deir islan' home,De sea-bird hurryin' back;W'at is it mak' dem doubleAn' stop for a minute dere,As if in fear of a soun' dey hear,Meetin' dem on de air?
Sweeter dey never lissen,Magic it seem to be,Hangin' aroun', dat wonderful soun',Callin' across de sea;Music of bell 's widin it,An' foller it on dey goHigh on de air, till de islan' dereOf Salvador lie below.
Dat 's w'ere de bell 's a-ringin'Over de ocean track,Troo fog an' rain an' hurricane,An' w'enever de night is black;Kipin' de vow he 's makin',Dat 's w'at he 's workin' for,Ringin de bell, an' he do it well,De Fader of Salvador!
An' de years go by, an' quickly,An' many a sailor's wifeShe 's prayin' long, an' she 's prayin' strongDat God he will spare de lifeOf de good, de holy Fader,Off w'ere de breakers roar,Only de sea for hees companie,Alone on Salvador.
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Summer upon de islan',Quiet de sea an' air,But no bell ring, an' de small bird sing,For summer is ev'ryw'ere;A ship comin' in, an' on itDe wickedes' capitaineWas never sail on de storm, or gale,From here to de worl's en'!
"Geev' me dat bell a-ringin'For not'ing at all, mon père;Can't sleep at night, w'en de moon is bright,For noise she was makin' dere.I'm sure she was never chrissen,An' we want no heretic bell;W'ere is de book? For you mus' lookAn' see if I chrissen it well!"
Leevin' heem broken-hearted,For Fader Jerome is done,He sail away wit' de bell dat day,Capitaine Malcouronne;An' down w'ere dead man 's lyin',Down on de ocean deep,He sink it dere, w'ile he curse an' swear,An' tole it to go to sleep.
An' t'ree more year is passin',An' now it 's a winter night:Poor Salvador, so bles' before,Is sittin' among de fightOf breaker, an' sea-bird yellin',An' noise of a tousan' gun,W'en troo de fog, lak a dreefin' log,Come Capitaine Malcouronne!
Gropin' along de sea dere,Wonderin' w'ere he be,Prayin' out loud, before all de crowdOf sailor man on hees knee;Callin' upon de devil,"Help! or I 'm gone!" he shout;"Dat bell it go to you down below,So now you can ring me out
"To de open sea, an' afferI promise you w'at I do,Yass, ev'ry day I 'll alway prayTo you, an' to only you—Kip me in here no longer,Or de shore I won't see again!"T'ink of de prayer he 's makin' dere,Dat wicked ole capitaine!
An' bell it commence a-ringin',Quiet at firse, an' denLak tonder crash, de ship go smash,An' w'ere is de capitaine?An' de bell kip ringin', ringin',Drownin' de breakers' roar,An' dere she lie, w'ile de sea-birds cry,On de rock of Salvador.
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I see de many reever on de State an' ev'ryw'ere,From Maine to California, New York to Michigan,An' wan way an' de oder, I tell you I don't care;I travel far upon dem as moche as any man—But all de t'ousan' reever I was never pass along,For w'at dey call de beauty, from de mountain to de sea,Dere 's wan dat I be t'inkin,' de wan w'ere I belong,Can beat dem all, an' easy, too, de Rivière des Prairies!
Jus' tak' de Hudson Reever, an' de Mississippi too,Missouri, an' de res' of dem, an' oders I can't t'ink,Dey 're all beeg, dirty places, wit' de steamboat gruntin' troo,An' de water runnin' in dem is black as any ink,An' de noises of dem reever never stoppin' night or day,An' de row along de shore, too, enough to mak' you scare;Not a feesh is wort' de eatin', 'less you 're starvin by de way,An' you 're feeling purty t'orsty if you drink de water dere!
So ketch de han' I geev' you w'ile I 'm on de humor now,An' I bet you won't be sorry w'en you go along wit' me,For I show you all aroun' dere, until you 're knowin' howI come so moche to brag—me—on de Rivière des Prairies.It 's a cole October mornin', an' de maple leaf is changeEv'ry color you can t'ink of, from de purple to de green;On de shore de crowd of blackbird, an' de crow begin' arrangeFor de journey dey be takin' w'en de nort' win's blowin' keen.
Quick! down among de bushes!—don't you hear de wil' goose cryAn' de honk de great beeg gander he was makin' up above?On de lake dey call Two Mountain is de place dey 're goin' fly,But only spen' de night-tam, for dey 're alway on de move;Jus' see de shadder dancin' up an' down, up an' down,You t'ink dem geese was passin' in an' out between de treeW'en de branch is bendin' over on de water all aroun'Now you see de place I 'm talkin', dat 's de Rivière des Prairies!
Missouri! Mississippi! better wait till you go back—No tam for talk about dem w'en dis reever you can see,But watch de cloud a-sailin' lak a racer on de track,An' lissen to de music of de Rivière des Prairies—An' up along de shore dere, don't you envy Bord à Plouffe?Oh! dat's de place is lucky, have de reever come so near—I 'm knowin' all de people, ev'ry chimley, ev'ry roof,For Bord à Plouffe she never change on over feefty year!
St. Martin's bell is ringin', can't you hear it easy now?Dey 're marryin' or buryin' some good ole frien' of me,I wonder who it can be, don't matter anyhow,So long as we 're a-lookin' on de Rivière des Prairies.Only notice how de sun shine w'en he's comin' out to peep,I 'm sure he 's leetle brighter dan anyw'ere you see,An' w'en de fall is over, an' de reever 's gone to sleep,De w'ites' snow is fallin' on de Rivière des Prairies!
I love you, dear ole reever, more dan ev'ry Yankee wan;An' if I get de money, you will see me on de train,Wit' couple o' t'ousan' dollar, den hooraw! it 's goodbye, John!You can kill me if you ketch me leavin' Bord à Plouffe again.But sometam it 'll happen dat a feller 's gettin' stopBecause he's comin' busy wit' de wife an' familee—No matter, if de good God he won't forget to drop,Ev'ry day an' night, hees blessin' on de Rivière des Prairies!