Said Joe, "I mus' go w'ere de win' she don' blow
For six mont' in de year, wit' its mout' full of snow:
W'ere t'ermom' at de door don' sink down to de floor,
Yes, to 40 degree below razo, or so.
"W'ere de breeze mak' you sneeze, an' de pump-handle freeze,
An' de snow she is go up above to you' knees,
Is no place for me Joe, so I'm t'ink I will go
Lak de Hun to de sun, wit' ma wife an' Louise.
"I got pos' car' today from Eugene, an' he say
To sell out on de farm, an' go down rat away
To Lowhell on de mill w'ere I earn de green bill,
An' de Merri-mac sing, tra la ling, all de day."

But Marie said, "Oui, I am not jus' agree
Wit' de plan dat you han' for dat gran' beeg movie;
If you start for de State jus' be sure not be late:
I will stay rat at home till you come, don' you see?

"So skedad," she is yell, "an' go down to Lowhell,
W'ere de snow she don' blow and no ice clog de well!
I will freeze if I please, or go sout' wit' de geese,
An' live 'long wit' ma niece in 'at ol' Lennoxvell."

"Yes, ma dear, I can hear, if you don' spik so clear,
An' break in lak a bomb on de drom of ma ear;
You may fly wit' you' niece an' go live wit' de geese,
If you promise to write in you' flight once a year.
"She is give me one glance an' at once I can see
It's more safer in France den at Lampton for me;
In her face it is war an' I notice, by gar,
It's more cold in her eye den de 60 degree!
"An' Marie, is she froit? Not to notice it yet!
For she scream till she steam an' she steam till she's wet;
An' I notice once more as she stamp on de floor:
She is build on de line of de fin' suffragette!
"Ah! So cold lak de pump, or de frost on de stump,
An' her beautiful back is rise up in de hump;
Quick I mak' up my min' w'en I look on dat sign,
It is jus' 'bout de tam for me Joe mak' a jomp!
"In de quarr'l of a fam' don' it sure beat de ban'
How de neighbors butt in, jus' lak one of de clan—
If ol' Liz' an' her phiz would kip out of my biz',
It is sure not be half de divorce in de lan'.
"Did I jomp? Well, I'm not geeve it secrets away
Dat's between man an' wife an' de pump any day,
But Marie w'en she's woun', tak's some tam to run down,
An' before she collapse she me raps in dis way:"

"I am born for to toil, I am tie to de soil,
An' you t'ink it's enough if for once in a while
I can ride to Shalbrooke, wit' cheval dat you took
From de crows in de spring, jus' to show it my style!
"Lak de queen I am feel wit' no grease on de wheel,
An' t'ree pigs in a box nottings lef' but de squeal!
Wit' his snout stick it out through de slat lake a spout—
An' his body come too but got knot on de tail!
"An' I know I am show lak de scare of de crow,
W'en down Wellington street to de market we go;
An' garson in bare feet—all de blaggard I meet
Mak' me squirm lak de worm from ma head to de toe.
"O ge whizz I am proud w'en we come on de crowd,
An' damfool out of school, he is laugh it out loud;
But de glory to God w'en I t'ink of de load
An' de boneyard dat carry it over de road,
An' de squeak of de gig, and de squeal of de pig,
I don' blame it for laugh w'en he look at de rig!
"'Ha! ha!' he is cry, 'hope to die, how you feel?
Ain't it tam to give pig in dat box some more meal?
You' horse it's too fat lak de edge of de slat;
Not 'nuff grease in de pig for to put on de wheel!
W'at you tak' it in cash for you' automosqueal?'"
"Dat's de cry dat I hear on de top of ma ear
W'en Marie, dat is me, an' her chariot appear.
An' as sure I'm rebel as you' name is Trudel
If it's not some improvement in movement nex' year."

"O, I know very well, ma cheval is poor breed,
But for trav' lak de dev' he is very fine steed;
It is true he is slim, but jus' look at his limb—
He is build lak de fly-machine—all for de speed!

"Yes, Marie, I agree dat ma rig is look tough,
So I'll spik it to Ingram, or else to Ren Clough:
I will horder cheval of de bes' in his stall,
An' nex' trip you'll be queen of de May, sure enough."

"You' sarcast' is not ask it is soun' lak de clown,
If you see you'se'f once as you look to de town
You would pull in you' horn jus' as sure you are born,
For you haven't got sense enough sure to go roun'.
"Yes, sir, ma dear Joe, you don't seem, for to know,
On las' trip to de town you was mos' of de show:
Wit' t'ree quart whiskey blanc dat you pour down you' craw—
O you bet you forget all 'bout 60 below!
"In Shalbrook on each trip you complain of de grippe,
Dr. Bum is soon come wit' a "nip" on de hip:
You get sick very quick jus' before de physic,
But de cure is work sure after tak' de firs' nip.

"Las' tam you was in you begin de ol' trick,
An' you' frien' soon atten' to tak' charge of de sick;
Soon you smug' a beeg jug to de stall of you' plug—
But Marie' dat is me, an' cheval mak' a kick.
"O dat 2-gallon stein of de jolly highwine,
In de provender mix, mak' a bully combine!
If it's good for a fool sure it's good for de mule,
An' dat is as true as twice four it is nine.
"I am t'ink if you drink till you' loaded for wreck,
I will geeve de ol' nag de sam' jag on de deck;
So I pour a few peck of de stuff down his neck
An' start in to smash record for trot in Kebec.
"Yes, I mix it de stuff, jus' de full of beeg pail—
Will he eat it or drink it? It's puzzle to tell:
But he gobble an' gobbed an' he slobber and slobbed
Until nottings was lef' of de stuff but de smell!
"Bam by it was sly in de eye dat was dull,
An' he sneeze an' he wheeze an' de halter he pull;
Pretty soon he is grow to ac' jus' lak ma Joe—
Yes a man an' cheval is de sam' w'en its full!

"Come hop on de wagon, it's ready for flight;
Load is leaving for Lampton, ol' Joseph sit tight.
Whoa, Boneyparte, whoa! An' Calamity Joe!
Kip still till you bid (hic) ol' Shalbrooke good night.
"An' de soun' of his feet as he dance on de street,
Seem to me lak de play of de drum w'en she's beat;
An' he rattle his bones on de pavement of stones
Till it mak' me feel sure I am winning de heat!
"Wen we pass it pell mell thru' on ol' Lennoxvell,
Peop' is t'ink dat de college is practice hees yell;
I am know it's disgrace on such educate place—
But it mak' leetle differ to Joseph Trudel.
"For, more loud as before he is roar on de spot,
Boneyparte is respon' an fly on lak de shot—
Frank Bogash is stan' still on de top of Sand Hill,
An' say, 'glory to God, he can beat me for trot!'
"An' his tail in de win' is fly up wit'out bend,
Jus' as straight lak de pole dat de trolley car send.
Yes, it stick up behin' lak de mos' of its kin',
An' I'm t'ink dat de spark is fly out at de end!
"He is wheeze on de breeze till I'm 'fraid he will bus',
An' ma Joe, de ol' fou, is yell 'Go it, you cuss!'
Jus' as soon as he yell Boney do as he tell,
An' de city of Cookshire we leave in de dus'.
"It's rat here I got scare, an' declare to him 'Hi!
Can't you steady you nerves an' come down from de sky?'
But I fin' it's no use, for de dev' is seem loose,
An' de more as I coax it de louder he cry!
"On de top of de slope w'ere dey bury de Pope
I say, 'Joe, you go slow through dis precinct I hope.'
But he yell for protection—'Hoorah for 'lection,
Free trade will be hang if it get some more rope!'
"An' I know rat away dat de dev' is to pay,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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