Lullabies and Little Ones
My current work-in-progress, The Brooch, hearkens back to my first trilogy about the Cayles and Mackechnies in that the story is centered around a family with a number of small children. And so, it was, that one day I found myself searching for a lullaby for a bedtime scene. Of course, it had to be an old Acadian tune. It had to be simple.
And, it had to be a real, authentic song. (That's just how Donna rolls . . . lol . . .)
A quick search yielded a sweet, sweet result. It's called, simply, Acadian Lullaby. It's a very old tune. Supposedly, some of the words, when sung in French, still have their old and original Acadian flavor. The song can also accommodate stanza changes so that the baby can see different people or animals.
Dors, dors, le petit bibi,
C’est le beau p’tit bibi á maman.
Dors, dors, dors, dors, dors, le bibi á maman.
Demain s’y fait beau j’irons au grandpére;
Dors dors le p’tit bibi.
Dors, dors, dors, dors, dors, dors le bibi á mam
Sleep, my little one
Sleep, little beautiful baby of mine
Little baby of mine.
Tomorrow, if it's nice
We'll see your grandpa
Sleep, sleep, little one
Little baby of mine.
James already lay diagonally. Elizabeth grabbed his feet and shifted him to a vertical position. He stirred.
She crawled into the bed and underneath the quilt. The boy rolled over and grabbed at her waist. He nestled his nose into her side.
“Mother?” Joshua called from the other room. “Are you going to sing?”
Elizabeth pulled a quick breath into her lungs. “Dors, dors, p'tit bébé.” Sleep, my little one.
A movement on the stairs caught her attention. She slowed her words.
“C'est le beau p'tit bébé à maman.” Sleep, little beautiful baby of mine.
Laird sat to the top step. He twisted his face to the side and lowered his head to his knees.
The child may wish to sleep with his father, but he would not forego the night time ritual completely.
“Dors, dors, dors, dors. Dors, dors, p'tit bébé à maman.”
Sleep, little baby of mine.
James snuggled deeper into her side.
Elizabeth sang the second stanza, the Acadian French of her childhood falling past her lips in whispers.
“Tomorrow, if it’s nice,
We will see your grandpa,
Sleep, sleep, little one,
Sleep, sleep, little baby of mine.”
She sang three more refrains, each time changing the second verse to something the baby would see tomorrow. First, Tink the goat. Then, MooMoo the cow.
Finally, Scout the dog.
And then Laird, still on the stairs, sang softly to himself, “Dors, dors, dors, dors. Dors, dors . . .” He sighed. “Father.” The word choked in his throat.
He pulled himself to his feet and disappeared down the stairs.
Yea. I have a lullaby. And I have a story.
Stay tuned . . .