I don’t think it’s cheating, or laziness, to post something I’d put up several years ago if it’s special. Because not everyone who is reading my blog now was reading then. And it really is special.
It’s an old poem from the 1930s, when Aurele Joliat zig-zagged around the ice with lightning speed, sometimes with a toque on his head, creating magic with his friend and linemate Howie Morenz. Joliat was a hero and huge star in days of old, and I was lucky enough to have a couple of beers with him at the Prescott Hotel in Ottawa in the mid-1980s. I also drove him home afterwards.
The poem was studied in schools during the Dirty Thirties, and when I posted this the first time in early 2009, some folks of a certain age were delighted to see it.
Like these folks:
April 6th, 2009
I have looked for this poem for years now, even writing Red Fisher to no avail. I remember reading it in school growing up in Lachine, and wanted to pass it on to my own son. Thanks!!
Monsieur Joliat by Wilson MacDonald
Boston she ‘ave good ‘ockey team;
Dose Maple Leafs ees nice.
But Les Canadiens ees bes’
Dat hever skate de hice.
Morenz ‘e go lak’ one beeg storm;
Syl Mantha’s strong and fat.
Dere all ver’ good, but none ees quite
So good as Joliat.
I know heem well; ‘e ees ma frien’;
I doan know heem himsel’;
But I know man dat know a man
Who know heem very well.
Enfant! Dat Joliat ees full
Of hevery kind of treek.
He talk heem ‘ockey all de day
And sleep heem wit’ hees stick.
He’s small but ‘e ees bothersome
Lak’ ceender in de heye.
Maroons all yell: “Go get som’ Flit’
And keel dat leetle fly.”
Garcon ‘e’s slippery; oui, oui-
Lak’ leetle piece of soap.
I tink nex’ time I watch dat boy
I use a telescope.
He’s good on poke-heem-check, he is;
He’s better on attack.
He run against beeg Conacher
And trow heem on hees back.
He weegle jus’ lak’ fish-worm do
Wen eet ees on a hook;
An’ wen he pass de beeg defence
Dey have one seely look.
He weigh one hundred feefty pound.
Eef he were seex feet tall
He’d score one hundred goal so queek
Dere’d be no game at all.
Wen I am tired of travail-trop
I put on coat of coon
And go to see Canadiens
Mak’ meence-meat of Maroon.
When Joliat skate out I yell
Unteel I have a pain.
I trow my ‘at up in de hair
And shout, “Harrah,” again.
“Shut up, Pea Soup,” an Henglishman
Sarcastic say to me;
So I turn round to heem and yell,
“Shut up, you Cup of Tea.”
Dat was a ver’ exciting game;
De score it was a tie;
An’ den dat leetle Joliat
Get hanger een hees eye.
He tak’ a poock at hodder goal
An’ skate heem down so fas’
De rest of players seem dormir
As he was going pas’.
He was so queek he mak’ dem look
Jus lak’ a lot of clown.
An’ wen he shoot, de wind from her
Eet knock de hompire down.
Dat was de winning goal, hurrah;
De game she come to hend.
I yell, “Bravo for Joliat,
You hear he ees’ ma friend.”
De Henglishman he say, “Pardon,”
An’ he tak’ off hees hat.
“De Breetish Hempire steel ees safe
Wen men can shoot lak’ dat.”
An’ den he say, “Bravo,” as hard
As Henglishman can whoop.
“I tink to-night I’ll change from tea
To bally ole pea-soup.”