Phil-o-rum's
Canoe
and
Madeleine
Vercheres
Two Poems by
William
Henry
Drummond
Author of "The
Habitant," etc.
Illustrated by
Frederick
Simpson
Coburn
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1898
COPYRIGHT, 1898
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
PHIL-O-RUM'S CANOE.
"O ma ole canoe, wat 's matter wit' you,an' w'y was you be so slow?Don't I work hard enough on de paddle, an'still you don't seem to go--No win' at all on de fronte side, an' currentshe don't be strong,Den w'y are you lak' lazy feller, too sleepy formove along?"I 'member de tam, w'en you jomp de sam'as deer wit' de wolf behin',An' brochet on de top de water, you scareheem mos' off hees min':But fish don't care for you now at all, only jus'mebbe wink de eye,For he know it 's easy git out de way, w'enyou was a-passin' by"----I 'm spikin' dis way, jus' de oder day, w'en I 'mout wit' de ole canoeCrossin' de point w'ere I see, las' fall, wan verybeeg caribou,Wen somebody say, "Phil-o-rum, mon vieux,wat 's matter wit' you youse'f?"An' who do you s'pose was talkin'? W'y depoor ole canoe shese'f.O yass, I 'm scare w'en I 'm sittin' dere, an'she 's callin' ma nam' dat way."Phil-o-rum Juneau, w'y you spik so moche,you 're off on de head to-day:Can't be you forget, ole feller, you an' mewe're not too young,An' if I 'm lookin' so ole lak' you, I t'ink Iwill close ma tongue."You should feel ashame, for you 're alwayblame, w'en it is n't ma fault at all,For I 'm tryin' to do bes' I can for you onsummer-tam, spring, an' fall.How offen you drown on de reever, if I 'mnot lookin' out for youW'en you 're takin' too moche on de w'isky,some night comin' down de Soo."De firse tam we go on de Wessoneau, nofeller can beat us denFor you 're purty strong man wit' de paddle,but dat 's long ago, ma frien',An' win' she can blow off de mountain, an'tonder an' rain may come,But camp see us bote on de evening--youknow dat was true, Phil-o-rum."An' who 's your horse, too, but your olecanoe, an' w'en you feel cole an' wet,Who was your house w'en I 'm upside down,an' onder de roof you get,Wit' rain ronnin' down ma back, Baptême! tillI 'm gettin' de rheumateez,An' I never say not'ing at all moi-meme, butlet you do jus' you please?"You t'ink it was right, kip me out all nighton reever side down below,An' even 'bon soir' you was never say, butoff on de camp you go,Leffin' your poor ole canoe behin', lyin' dereon de groun',Watchin' de moon on de water, an' de batflyin' all aroun'?"Oh, dat's lonesome t'ing hear de grey owlsing up on de beeg pine tree!An' many long night she kip me awake till sunon de Eas' I see,An' den you come down on de morning forstart on some more voyage,An' only t'ing decen' you do all day, is carryme on portage."Dat 's way, Phil-o-rum, rheumateez shecome, wit' pain ronnin' troo' ma side,Wan leetle hole here, 'noder beeg wan dere,dat not'ing can never hide,Don't do any good feex me up agen, no matterhow moche you try,For w'en we come ole an' our work she 'sdone, bote man an' canoe mus' die."Wall, she talk dat way mebbe mos' de day tillwe 're passin' some beaver dam,An' wan de young beaver, he 's mak' hees tailcome down on de water Flam!I never see de canoe so scare, she jomp nearlytwo, t'ree feet,I t'ink she was goin' for ronne away, an' sheshut up de mout' toute suite.It mak' me feel queer, de strange t'ing I hear,an' I 'm glad she don't spik no more,But soon as we fin' ourse'f arrive over dere onde 'noder shoreI tak' dat canoe lak' de lady, an' carry her offwit' me,For I 'm sorry de way I 'm treat her, an' sheknow more dan me, sapree!Yass, dat 's smart canoe, an' I know it 's true,w'at she 's spikin' wit' me dat day,I 'm not de young feller I use to be, w'en workshe was only play,An' I know I was comin' closer on place w'ereI mus' tak' care,W'ere de mos' worse current 's de las' wan too,de current of Dead Riviere.You can only steer, an' if rock be near, wit'wave dashin' all aroun',Better mak' leetle prayer, for on Dead Riviere,some very smart man get drown;But if you be locky an' watch youse'f, mebbereever won't seem so wide,An' firse t'ing you know you 'll ronne ashore,safe on de 'noder side.
MADELEINE VERCHERES.
I've told you many a tale, my child, of theold heroic days,Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablazeWith savage torch, from Ville Marie to theMission of Trois Rivieres;But never have I told you yet of Madeleine Vercheres.Summer had come with its blossoms, and gailythe robin sang,And deep in the forest arches, the axe of thewoodman rang;Again in the waving meadows, the sun-brownedfarmers metAnd out on the green St. Lawrence, the fishermanspread his net.And so through the pleasant season, till thedays of October cameWhen children wrought with their parents, andeven the old and lameWith tottering frames and footsteps, theirfeeble labors lentAt the gathering of the harvest le bon Dieuhimself had sent.For news there was none of battle, from theforts on the RichelieuTo the gates of the ancient city, where the flagof King Louis flew;All peaceful the skies hung over the seigneurieof Vercheres,Like the calm that so often cometh ere thehurricane rends the air.And never a thought of danger had the Seigneur,sailing awayTo join the soldiers of Carignan, where downat Quebec they lay,But smiled on his little daughter, the maidenMadeleine,And a necklet of jewels promised her, whenhome he should come again.And ever the days passed swiftly, and carelessthe workmen grew,For the months they seemed a hundred sincethe last war-bugle blew.Ah, little they dreamt on their pillows thefarmers of Vercheres,That the wolves of the southern forest hadscented the harvest fair.Like ravens they quickly gather, like tigersthey watch their prey.Poor people! with hearts so happy, they sangas they toiled away!Till the murderous eyeballs glistened, and thetomahawk leaped outAnd the banks of the green St. Lawrenceechoed the savage shout.
"O mother of Christ, have pity!" shrieked thewomen in despair;"This is no time for praying," cried the youngMadeleine Vercheres;"Aux armes! aux armes! les Iroquois! quickto your arms and guns,Fight for your God and country, and the livesof the innocent ones."And she sped like a deer of the mountain, whenbeagles press close behind,And the feet that would follow after must beswift as the prairie wind.Alas! for the men and women and little onesthat day,For the road it was long and weary, and thefort it was far away.But the fawn had outstripped the hunters, andthe palisades drew near,And soon from the inner gateway the war-buglerang out clear,Gallant and clear it sounded, with never a noteof despair--'T was a soldier of France's challenge, fromthe young Madeleine Vercheres!"And this is my little garrison, my brothersLouis and Paul?With soldiers two, and a cripple? may theVirgin pray for us all!But we 've powder and guns in plenty, andwe 'll fight to the latest breath,And if need be, for God and country, die abrave soldier's death."Load all the carabines quickly, and wheneveryou sight the foeFire from the upper turret and loopholes down below,Keep up the fire, brave soldiers, though thefight may be fierce and long,And they 'll think our little garrison is morethan a hundred strong."So spake the maiden Madeleine, and she rousedthe Norman bloodThat seemed for a moment sleeping, and sentit like a floodThrough every heart around her, and theyfought the red IroquoisAs fought in the old-time battles the soldiersof Carignan.And they say the black clouds gathered, and atempest swept the sky,And the roar of the thunder mingled with theforest tiger's cry,But still the garrison fought on, while the lightning'sjagged spearTore a hole in the night's dark curtain, andshowed them a foeman near.And the sun rose up in the morning, and thecolor of blood was he,Gazing down from the heavens on the littlecompany"Behold, my friends," cried the maiden,"'t is a warning lest we forget,Though the night saw us do our duty, ourwork is not finished yet."And six days followed each other, and feebleher limbs becameYet the maid never sought her pillow, and theflash of the carabine's flameIllumined the powder-smoked faces, aye, evenwhen hope seemed gone,And she only smiled on her comrades, and toldthem to fight, fight on.And she blew a blast on the bugle, and lo!from the forest black.Merrily, merrily ringing, an answer camepealing back.Oh, pleasant and sweet it sounded, borne onthe morning air,For it heralded fifty soldiers, with gallant Dela Monnière.
And when he beheld the maiden, the soldier ofCarignan,And looked on the little garrison that foughtthe red IroquoisAnd held their own in the battle, for six longweary days,He stood for a moment speechless, and marvelledat woman's ways.Then he beckoned the men behind him, andsteadily they advanceAnd with carabines uplifted the veterans ofFranceSaluted the brave young Captain so timidlystanding there,And they fired a volley in honor of MadeleineVercheres.And this, my dear, is the story of the maidenMadeleine.God grant that we in Canada may never seeagainSuch cruel wars and massacre, in waking or indream,As our fathers and mothers saw, my child, inthe days of the old régime!