And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red:
Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
This Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air
By sporting children's breath,
Who chase it everywhere
Bon jour, M'sieu'--you want to know
'Bout dat ole gun--w'at good she's for?
SWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs:
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.
Dat's very cole an' stormy night on Village St. Mathieu,
W'en ev'ry wan he's go couché, an' dog was quiet, too--
O spirit of the mountain that speaks to us to-night,
Your voice is sad, yet still recalls past visions of delight,
I've told you many a tale, my child, of the
old heroic days
Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablaze
LIKE the Idalian queen,
Her hair about her eyne,
With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen,
At first glance of the morn
Doth then the world go thus? doth all thus move?
Is this the justice which on earth we find?
Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
Are these your influences, Powers above?
Wan morning de walkim boss say 'Damase,
I t'ink you're good man on canoe d'ecorce,