As in the haunting songs about the region:
Si tu voudrais mon cher bébé, reviens avec mon
Reviens avec mon à Bayou LaFourche
Mon j'irais pour te chercher là-bas éou t'as été
Pour rester dans mes bras pour toujours
Mon j'croyais que tu m'aimais mais ton coeur a tout changé
J'sus tout seule après pleurer à Bayou Lafourche
Quo'faire toi, tu t'en reviens pas et rester dans mes bras
Pour finir nos jours ensemble à Bayou Lafourche
And:
De bonne heure tous les matins,
J’peux voir les bons cadiens,
Partir (z)à la pêche dessus la mer.
Dessus le Bayou Lafourche,
On va tous les dimanche
A l’église du bon dieu pour prier.
Y en a pas qu’est si riche,
Y en a pas qu’est si pauvre,
De ces bons acadiens pour faire une vie.
Moi je m’en va chère chérie,
Un de ces jours,
Sur l’écore du beau Bayou Lafourche.
I’m Creole from south Louisiana, my family is mostly from Acadia parish and most had the French beat out of them, literally. My grandparents were native Creole speakers and were whipped un grade school for speaking French. They refused to teach their children French because they thought it would hold them back.
Thanks GoldStateGOP.
I hadn’t heard about this until now.
Begins with Gorebull Warming crappola
Goodbye Joe
Me gotta go
Me-o my-o
I am part French Canadian from my mother’s side, via nothern Maine. Very interesting article.
Interesting story, but I’m not not sure I’m buying the “football field of land” “ “disappearing” every hour.
https://youtu.be/te7KW4K-00E
Acadian Driftwood”
The war was over and the spirit was broken
The hills were smokin’ as the men withdrew
We stood on the cliffs
Oh, and watched the ships
Slowly sinking to their rendezvous
They signed a treaty and our homes were taken
Loved ones forsaken
They didn’t give a damn
Try’n’ to raise a family
End up the enemy
Over what went down on the plains of Abraham
Acadian driftwood
Gypsy tail wind
They call my home the land of snow
Canadian cold front movin’ in
What a way to ride
Oh, what a way to go
Then some returned to the motherland
The high command had them cast away
And some stayed on to finish what they started
They never parted
They’re just built that way
We had kin livin’ south of the border
They’re a little older and they’ve been around
They wrote a letter life is a whole lot better
So pull up your stakes, children and come on down
Fifteen under zero when the day became a threat
My clothes were wet and I was drenched to the bone
Been out ice fishing, too much repetition
Make a man wanna leave the only home he’s known
Sailed out of the gulf headin’ for Saint Pierre
Nothin’ to declare
All we had was gone
Broke down along the coast
But what hurt the most
When the people there said
“You better keep movin’ on”
Everlasting summer filled with ill-content
This government had us walkin’ in chains
This isn’t my turf
This ain’t my season
Can’t think of one good reason to remain
We worked in the sugar fields up from New Orleans
It was ever green up until the floods
You could call it an omen
Points ya where you’re goin’
Set my compass north
I got winter in my blood
Acadian driftwood
Gypsy tail wind
They call my home the land of snow
Canadian cold front movin’ in
What a way to ride
Ah, what a way to go
Another thing ‘white’, dying at the hands of Obama.
We lived in Houma for a few years while I worked with a designer of offshore oil rig service vessels. The French influence is unique throughout Southern Louisiana and we sure loved the cuisine but the French language radio stations and publications testified to the backwardness of a lot of people across that region who without benefit of the oil and gas business would be dirt poor and miserable in their refusal to leave the 16th century mindset of their ancestors.