The Corduroy Road

A poem by William Henry Drummond

De corduroy road go bompety bomp,
De corduroy road go jompety jomp,
An' he' s takin'beeg chances upset hees load
De horse dat 'll trot on de corduroy road.

Of course it's purty rough, but it's handy t'ing enough
An' dey mak' it wit' de log all jine togeder
W'en deystrek de swampy groun' w' ere de Water hang aroun'
Or passin'by some tough ole beaver medder.

But it' s not macadamize, so if you're only wise
You will tak' your tam an' never min' de worry
For de corduroy is bad, an' will mak' you plaintee mad
By de way de buggy jomp, in case you hurry.

An' I' m sure you don't expec' leetle Victorine Leveque
She was knowin' moche at all about dem places,
'Cos she's never dere before, till young Zephirin Madore
He was takin' her away for see de races.

O, I wish you see her den, dat's before she marry, w' en
She's de fines' on de lan' but no use talkin'
I can bet you w'at you lak, if you meet her you look back
Jus' to watch de fancy way dat girl is walkin'.

Yass de leetle Victorine was de nices' girl between
De town of Yamachiche an' Maskinongé,
But she's stuck up an' she's proud, an' you 'll never count de crowd
Of de boy she geev' it w'at dey call de congé.

Ah! De moder spoil her sure, for even Joe D'Amour
W'en he's ready nearly ev'ry t'ing to geev her
If she mak' de mariée, only say, "please go away"
An' he's riches habitant along de reever.

Zephirin he try it too, an' he's workin' some- t'ing new
For he's makin' de ole woman many presen'
Prize package on de train, umbrella for de rain
But she' s grompy all de tam, an' never pleasan'.

Wall, w'en he ax Ma-dame tak' de girl away dat tam
See dem races on Sorel wit' all de trotter
De moder say "All right if you bring her home to-night
Before de cow'smilk, I let go, ma daughter."

So Victorin she go wit' Zephirin her beau
On de yankee buggy mak' it on St. Bruno
An' w'en dey pass hotel on de middle of Sorel
Dey're puttin' on de beeges' style dat you know.

Wall! dey got some good horse dere, but Zephirin don't care
He's back it up hees own paroisse, ba golly,
An' he mak' it t'ree doll-arr w'en Maskinongé Star
On de two mile heat was beatin' Sorel Molly.

Victorin don't min' at all, till de "free for all" dey call
Dat's de las' race dey was run before de snow fly
Den she say "I t'ink de cow mus'be getting' home soon now
An' you know it's only clock ole woman go by.

An' if we're comin'late w'en de cow pass on de gate
You'll be sorry if you hear de way she talk dere,
So w'en I see de race on Sorel or any place
After dis, you may be sure I got to walk dere."


Den he laugh dat Zephirin, an' he say "Your poor mama
I know de pile she t'ink about her daughter
So we'll tak' de sshort road back on de cor- duroy race track
Don't matter if we got to sweem de water."

No wonder he is smile till you hear heem half a mile
For dat morning he was tole hees leetle broder
Let de cattle out de gate, so he know it's purty late
By de tam dem cow was findin' out each oder.

So along de corduroy de young girl an' de boy
Dey was kipin' up a joggin' nice an' steady
It is n't heavy load, an' Guillaume he know de road
For many tam he's been dat way already.

But de girl she fin' it slow, so she ax de boy to go
Somet'ing better dan a mile on fifteen minute
An' he's touch heem up Guillaume; so dat horse he lay for home
an' de nex' t'ing Victorine she know she's in it.

"O, pull him in, "she yell, "for even on Sorel
I am sure I never see de quicker racer,"
But it's leetle bit too late, for de horse is get hees gait
an' de worse of all ba gosh! Guillaume's a pacer.

See hees tail upon de air, no wonder she was scare
But she hang on lak de winter on T'ree Reever
Cryin' out- "please hol' me tight, or I'm comin'dead to-night
An' ma poor ole moder dear, I got to leave her."

Wit'her arm aroun' hees wais': she was doin' it in case
She bus'her head, or keel herse'f, it's not so easy sayin'
Dey was comin' on de jomp t'roo dat dam ole beaver swamp
An' meet de crowd is lookin' for dem cow was go a-stayin'.

Den she's cryin', Victorine, for she's knowin' w'at it mean
De parish dey was talkin' firse chances dey be gettin',
But no sooner dat young man stop de horse, he tak' her han'
An' w'isper "never min', ma chere, won't do no good a-frettin'."

Non! she is n't cryin' long, for he tole her it was wrong
She 's sure he save her life too, or she was moche mistaken,
An' de ole Ma-dame Leveque also kiss heem, on de neck
An'quickly affer dat Hooraw! de man an' wife dey're makin'.