William H.A. Willbond MSM, CD

OL’ BLACKROBE NUN

Nom du pere et du fis et du sank espree
Dat’s wat we say on bended knee
Je vous salut et plen de graws
Dat’s wat we say before dat cross

Dat bishop cum near end of June
Den we all get our furs commune
An every day we practise pray
En cee swat zeel dat’s wat we say

Big black robe nun in huge white bib
She frappe me wen I tol a fib
Mal ti gu don’t you dare cry
Wen you tol me a ball face lie

An my bes fren Aw bye Lasalle
Peek at ta soeur et matlot pal
He lick her like a bull to vache
Wen we peak o’er dat window sash

Wat dey do den I picture yet
Furs time I see un grande pissette
Wid out no clothes dey hug an kiss
It get real big his ting de piss

I learn a lotta tings you know
Wen I live up en Gatineau
Furs time I see un job de blow
Whilst standing on un bank de snow

I get a lotta fun an joy
Wen I was jus a liddle boy
Now me I’m old I’m Getting Grey
I Tink about dat far off day

I tink about old Black Robe nun
Unhappy her, she got no fun
I tink about Marie La Salle
Firm young breasts, tee tones Pas Mal!

Author’s Note (to a friend): Brian – I don’t normally share my “Jours de Lecole” poetry, however, your cloister joke brought back fond memories of a farm boy from the Gatineau hills learning about religion and sex – Mary Lasalle (not her real name) was about 25 when her sailor boyfriend returned from WW2 – her younger brother Albert (Aw bye) and I observed the happy reunion by standing on a snow bank and peeking in the window. I was one of the youngest voyeurs on the Gatineau! (chuckle).

In those days nuns were frustrated old maids who taught school and their salaries were retained by the bishop who always drove a new car whilst the nuns (who took vows of poverty) walked to school and soeur knew I lied about extra chores because, I had two twitching trout tails in my upper right overalls pocket. After getting the strap (two on each hand) I took the fish outside and fed them to my dog.

My grandfather was visiting over the weekend and he taught me how to fish for brook trout in the deep holes of the creek, (with manure worms on a small hook). Monday on the way to school, I forgot about the time and was late for prayers and therefore got the strap. The twitching tails is a true fish tale.

The Irish lumberjacks and logdrivers spoke patois Hinglish up on the Gatineau River. It is how Old Johnny Dunlop spoke with his old comrades like Paddy Dane: they were Irish but spoke patois Hinglish. As a kid I understood and spoke patois, but still don’t speak French except for my prayers. We lived on a dirt poor farm at Meech Lake in what is now the Gatineau Park.

Blessings
Billy