An issue of Punch magazine from 1892 contains an account of an Island tour, including a snatch of the song "The Island of Jersey" which was used to entertain tourists and drum up business for the charabanc tours. We have two versions of this song in Jèrriais.
G[reen]. the G[uide]. The soil of Jersey is remarkably productive; if you plant a sixpence, it will come up a shilling in no time. The cabbages on this island grow to an extraordinary height, frequently attaining twenty feet—(outcry)—yes, if you measure up one side, and down the other. (They pass a couple of sheep on a slope.) The finest flock of sheep in the island. The dark one is not black, only a little sunburnt. The house you see on that hill over there was formerly slept in by CHARLES THE SECOND. He left a pair of slippers behind him—which have since grown into top-boots. There you see the only windmill in this part of the island—there used to be three, but it was found there was not enough wind for them all. From here you have a clear view of the coast of France; and, when the wind is blowing in this direction, you have an excellent opportunity of acquiring the French accent in all its purity. (This string of somewhat hoary chestnuts meets with a success beyond their intrinsic merits, the Morose Man being as much entertained as anybody.)
(...)
Many thanks. Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of myself and the Coachman, and to express my sense of your generosity, I will sing you the great Jersey National Song, composed by myself, before leaving. (He sings a ditty with the following spirited Chorus):—
There the streets are paved with granite. So neat and clean
And lots of pretty, witty girls, are always to be seen!
With the brave old Mi-litia, Our foes to defy!
And there they grow the Cabba-ges—Ten feet high!
(All together, Gentlemen, please!) Yes, there they grow the Cabbages, there they grow the Cabbages, there they grow the Cabbages—Ten feet high!
Thank you, Gentlemen, I've sung that song a number of times, and I never remember hearing the chorus better sung. If you don't believe me, ask the Coachman.
Coachman. I've never 'eard it better sung, Ladies and Gentlemen, I assure you.
Aniet, j'avons modèrnîsé eune vèrsion d'la chanson pouor faithe sèrvi dans l's êcoles. La v'chîn:
Today, we've been modernising spelling and punctuation of one of the Jèrriais versions for use in schools. Here it is:
L'Île dé Jèrri
Il existe un p'tit coin èrnommé partout l'monde,
Où'est qu'les Rouais d'Angliétèrre ont attèrri.
I' n'y a autchun pays tchi peut fourni s'n êga,
Car dans tout l'unnivèrs n'y'a qu'un Jèrri;
Ch'n'est pas êtonnant si not' pétite île
Fait envie à tout êtrangi,
Qué ché sait la campangne ou not' mangnifique Ville,
Janmais jé n'cêssons dé les louangi.
Nos maîsons sont bâties auvec du bieau grannit,
Et ch'est ichîn qu'à longs jours lé solé lit.
Quant à des belles èrcoltes, i' faut aller dans nos clios,
Si ch'est qu'ou voulez vaie des chours dgiêx pids d'haut.
Dgiêx pids d'haut, mes garçons, dgiêx pids d'haut...
N'y a qu'nous tchi pouvons craît' des chours dgiêx pids d'haut!
Jé sommes èrnommés pour la bieauté d'nos fil'yes,
Ah, tch'est qu'ôs'sait prétend' qué ch'est l'contraithe?
Eune rangie d'belles maîsons sus la route de chîn milles,
Sans pâler d's alentours dé La Corbiéthe,
Et châque saîson les vîsiteurs veinnent
Pouor pâsser lus vacanches parmi nous;
I' s'exposent au solé pouor sé rôti la couenne,
Et s'promènent quâsi nus comme des Zoulous.
Not' bouonne soupe d'andgulle et nos fanmeuses mèrvelles
Sont louangies par les cheins tch'en ont gouôté,
Car nulle part ailleurs ou n'en trouv'thez d'itelles;
Nou peut dithe la même chose dé not' pâté.
J'faîsons des danmplinnes et des bourdélots,
D'la gâche à crétons pouor la maîson,
Des galettes à vrai pouor les hommes dans les clios
Quand i' sont à la tchéthue dans la saîson.
Pouor les gens d'Angliétèrre j'fournissons des patates
Bein miyeuthes qu'i' n'peuvent trouver par ailleurs,
Du supèrbe vèrjus et eune mâsse dé tonmates,
Des frits dé toutes sortes et des tas d'flieurs.
S'ou voulez pêtchi un fricot d'paîsson,
Ous en trouv'thez tout pliein à bâsse-ieau,
Des crabes, des honmards, des baînis, du lanchon,
D'la chèrvette et du vra et des manchots.
Et né v'chîn l'originna en Angliais:
And here's the original in English (words and music by George Ware):
The Island of Jersey
There's a dear little spot we all know well
And it's not on the banks of the Mersey.
The name of the place I now will tell:
They call it the Island of Jersey.
'Tis a rich bright gem in the English crown
And the pride of the British Nation,
And St. Helier's a town of great renown
By her sons held in veneration.
For the streets are paved with granite so neat and clean,
Lots of pretty, witty girls there may be seen!
A brave bold Militia, our foes to defy!
'Tis here we grow the cabbages ten feet high!
Ten feet high, my boys, ten feet high...
'Tis here we grow the cabbages ten feet high!
We have fine walks and railroads that run each way -
They're a credit to the Island.
The thrifty farmers for many a day
Will cart up vraic to the dry land.
Look at the congers we catch round here:
A real good dinner for a dozen.
And then, what a treat! Nearly all that you meet
Is your aunt, your uncle, or your cousin.
We've a market for fish, we've a market for meat,
We've a market for fruit, greens, and flowers.
We have nice pleasant rides, with nice pleasant guides,
Then look at our Martello towers.
We've jewellery of granite in silver and gold,
Cheap brandy, cigars, port and sherry;
No tax on our tea; we can bathe in the sea.
If we're not, well, we ought to be merry.
The early potatoes, we raise them here,
And for pears we can beat creation.
The Jersey cow, I think anyhow,
Is the best little cow in the nation.
You may search the world from east to west,
From the mouth of the Nile to the Mersey,
And when you've done, along with the best,
You'll always find the true songs of Jersey.
- L'Île De Jêrri
- Not' Île dé Jèrri - Cabbages ten feet tall
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