Bateese the Lucky Man

William Henry Drummond

 Next Poem          

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
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

Affer two hour by de reever I hear hees leetle
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
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
He can ketch de smartes' feesh is never
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'
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.

Next Poem 

 Back to William Henry Drummond