Bateese The Lucky Man

A poem by William Henry Drummond

He's alway ketchin' doré, an'he 's alway ketchin' trout
On de place w'ere no wan else can ketch at all
He 's alway ketchin' barbotte, dat 's w'at you call bull-pout,
An' he never miss de wil' duck on de fall.

O! de pa'tridge do some skippin' w'en she see heem on de swamp
For she know Bateese don't go for not'ing dere,
An' de rabbit if he 's comin' , wall! you ought to see heem jomp.
W'y he want to climb de tree he feel so scare.

Affer two hour by de reever I hear hees leetle song
Den I meet heem all hees pocket full of snipe,
An' me, I go de sam' place, an' I tramp de w'ole day long
An' I'm only shootin' two or t'ree, Ba Cripe!

I start about de sun-rise, an' I put out ma decoy,
An' before it 's comin' breakfas' , he 's holler on hees boy
For carry home two dozen duck or more.

An' I'm freezin' on de blin'-me- from four o'clock to nine
An' ev'ry duck she 's passin' up so high.
Dere 's blue-bill an' butter-ball, an' red-head, de fines' kin
An' I might as well go shootin' on de sky.

Don't see de noder feller lak Bateese was lucky man,
He can ketch de smartes' feesh is never sweem,
An' de bird he seldom miss dem, let dem try de hard dey can
W'y de eagle on de mountain can't fly away from heem.

But all de bird, an' fish too, is geev'up feelin' scare,
An' de rabbit he can stay at home in bed,
For he feesh an' shoot no longer, ole Jean Bateese Belair,
'Cos he 's dead.

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