La vie et le sport sur la Côte Nord du Bas Saint-Laurent et du Golfe/40
Le Dr W. H. Drummond
N novembre 1897, il m’arriva de passer quelques
jours à Montréal où, soit dit en passant, je compte
beaucoup de bons amis. Un soir, pendant mon séjour,
j’eus l’honneur d’être l’hôte de M. George
Boulton, ancien président du Club de Tir de Montréal.
Ce fut chez lui que j’eus le plaisir de rencontrer le
Dr Drummond. Inutile de dire si nous passâmes
une agréable soirée. L’un des invités récita admirablement
quelques poésies du Docteur, entre autres,
Le Vieux Temps. Le Docteur était membre du
club de pêche au saumon Weymahegan, et, tout naturellement,
la conversation, entre autres sujets,
tomba sur la chasse et la pêche.
Quelque temps après, je recevais par notre courrier d’hiver, un exemplaire de The Habitant, avec tous les bons souhaits de l’auteur accompagnés de l’autographe qui suit :
« The Sirens of the Godbout’s shore
Must be a very différent species
To those who sang on Cretan cliffs
And played the devil with Ulysses,
For he, poor chap, instead of Heaven
Soon found himself Alas ! in Hades,
While you « O’Komo » seem to thrive
Amoung the Godbout’s rock-bound ladies ! »
W. H. Drummond.
Montréal, Nov. 26th, 1907.
Il avait mis en même temps sous pli, le manuscrit original d’un poème qui, je crois, n’a jamais été publié, et que j’insère ici pour le sauver de tout oubli possible.
Honneur à lui et à « Baptiste, mon frère ! »
The Pilgrin’s Tale
O Pilgrim from the Godbout’s shore
Where broad Atlantic billows roll
Speak ! hast thou seen the Commodore[1]
He whose unconquerable soul
A thirst for wilder, fiercer game
Than haunt the calm Laurentian streams
Burned to achieve a greater fame
And realize his fondest dreams.
Speak ! hast thou seen his grizzled looks
By Ocean’s vagrant breezes fann’d
Where Weymahegan’s[2] giant rocks
Keep watch and word o’er sea and land.
Hast seen him where the currents lave
Fair Mistassini’s[3]silver shore
On river — sea — by land or wave.
Speak ! hast thou seen the Commodore ?
The Pilgrim spoke, while down his cheek
The salt tears coursed grievously.
Good Sir, I feeble am and weak
Yet I my tale may tell to thee.
I saw the veteran’s wasted form,
That form we used to mark with pride,
Lie prostrate mid the wrack and storm
Of Weymahegan’s awful tide.
Small strength alack of wind or limb
Had he upon that fearful day,
But though his eagle eye was dim
Yet gazed he o’er the hills where lay
The Laurentides where he had spent
So many happy, happy hours
Safe from the storms of life, content
Amid the Pêches’[4] tranquil
Twas thus he spoke : "O why was I
By youthful traveller’s tale beguiled
To quit the pleasant Pêche and die
In this inhospitable wild ?
What lured me on to cast aside
The simple pleasures of my youth
Until I longed for Godbout’s tide
And cared no more for trout forsooth !
O rash vas I to lend an ear
To all those legends of the sea
To bring my faithful legion here
Does this reward their constancy ?
I cannot say, but this I know :
Should I behold the Pêche again
Could I but see its water flow
I’d be the humblest of the train
That worships there — no more l’d roam
In search of other piscine fields
Contented with my humble home
With all that old Laurentian yields
I’d gladly live and cheerful die."
But here his accents’ gan to sink
We thought his hour had come, till I
Administered a generous drink.
The veteran gasped but when the flask
He sawb — tho’ feedle as a child,
Bravely essayed the pleasent task
Of trying to empty it and smiled
Yes, though he had almost passed away
In one brief moment from our ken
Yet wondrous ’twas to see that day
His rapturous look as he smiled again
New strength came back to the wasted limbs.
The roses bloomed in his cheek once more
And the sound of our glad thanksgiving hymn
Rang out o’er Weymahegan’s shore.
He prayed us to pardon his misdeeds
He wept when the legion erambraced his neck
And swore by the sacred Laurentides
He’d never more venture below Quebec.
So gently we bore the repentant chief
Tenderly placed him that awful day
On board of the gallant ship "Relief"[5] (1)
And swiftly to the Westward sailed away.
The Pilgrim ceased, his mournful task
Was ended at last and all was well
Then raised to his lips the magie flask
And silently bade me a last farewell.
Joy ! Joy at the Pêche — let the Caribou dance
Let the fatted oxen at once be slain
Let the men get full and the bull moose prance
For the Commodore has come home again.