How Much To Semelle My Hole

Imelda Arsenault went from Abram Village to Holman’s in Summerside to see the shoemaker. She needed some repairs but was unsure of what to ask the cobbler since her English was limited. When she asked her husband what she should say, he took the opportunity to play a bit of a trick on her. The word for sole (as in the sole of a shoe) in French is “semelle”. This song is based on that interaction between “Melda” and the poor shoemaker. The best Island stories are never just made up.

 How Much to Semelle my Hole

Elle a allée à Summerside

Elle portait her broken shoe

She had come to get it fixed

For her bottom had a trou trou trou

And the hole it went right through

But her English wasn’t good

So she was misunderstood

When inside the shop she stood

The shoemaker had no clue clue clue

Il comprennait pas de tout

How much to semelle my hole?

I have heard you do it well

And my bottom’s got a hole

You can see from Mont Carmel, mel, mel

But there’s something I must tell

There’s a fellow in Miscouche

Who would like to semelle it too

But he semelled it once before

And my hole is sticking through, through, through

C’est pourquoi I come to you

How much to semelle my hole?

Do you have a deal for me

Moi je voie the work you do

And I know it’s not for free, free, free

C’est comme ça tu gagnes  ta vie

But I’ve come so very loin

Payed beaucoup to take da train

Is the cost to semelle one hole

Less than semelling two or three, three, three

Sur le prix we should agree

See I have another hole

And it’s not so nice to feel

And I think it opened up

Digging in my neighbor’s field, field, field

For potatoes I could peel

And the wear and tear, it shows

Walking from St Chrysostome

Underneath a heavy load

You can see it when I kneel, kneel, kneel

For my hole is near my heel

The shoemaker was in shock

Why he couldn’t even speak

He could only shake his head

Staring down at his own feet feet feet

But her eyes he could not meet

So he stood there in a sweat

Such an awful sigh he let

When he lit a cigarette

Melda’s anger was complete, plete, plete

Elle disait quelque chose à lui

So you will not semelle my hole

Non monsieur le cordonnier

All the people they will laugh

When I walk through Egmont Bay, Bay, Bay

So to each of them I’ll say

You would semelle the English holes

I can see them on your bench

But you will not semelle my hole I think

Because my hole is French, French, French

Because my hole is French