The Aligot of Baptiste
Once upon a time Batistou le Cantalès du Camejane
One of the last true buronniers of Aubrac
In the middle of the pasture smelling good gentian
He would ride from morning to night to get his fourme from the bivouac
With the bédelièr, the pastre and the roll he shared his aligot
Accompanied with boiled bacon, pie and whey
Except on Sundays when a meager slice of ham came out of the pack
Well watered with a good pack of piquette, a party that deserved
The master cowherd prepared a large fire of beech wood
Putting on his tripod a large cauldron well pitted
Plunged into boiling potato water of the year
Which once well cooked had to be peeled
The bédelièr cut with his laguiole the rancid bacon that embalmed
To melt it in the black iron pan
The pastre delivered in fine slice the ready-to-spin volume
The roll turned the crank separating the cream from the whey
Armed with its pestle the bédelièr crushed the potatoes
The precious contents of the cauldron were restored to the embers
Armed with the stick of alisier, the shepherd touched the dough
Who slowly refined on contact with lard and cream
While the "petolejava" puree, the cantalès
Emptying the big dish of tomme by shouting "it's going to be ready"
Thanks to its chestnut arms and after a good sweat
Salt, pepper and garlic, the thick mixture began to spin
The acclamations of the guests were carried to heaven
To which the buronniers replied by their traditional aus
Recalling the powerful bellowing of the Aubrac bulls
All that remained was to stretch the white ribbon
Once the throat is refreshed with a good wine rinse
Beret thrown to the ground and sleeves largely turned up
Our laborers proudly put the cauldron on his tripod
It was the feast in the mazuc, under a burst of applause without end
At this solemn moment Batistou drew shooting truellées
While gauging the appetite of the man who stretched his gaping bowl
The exchanged glances told a lot about the quintessence
From the work of the land and the barbershops full of common sense
The song Lou Mazuc finished, our cantalès came out the fourme of the cellar
To the delight of the guests accompanying him with a slice of fouace
Watering the whole with a coffee of Paris and some fine spirits
The women looked sparkling and the party was in full swing.
Long live all the burrows who make the Fourme d'Aubrac
In the midst of their golden flock
Vive les roules and bédelières
And let the mazuces stand without crack
Cantalès: cowherd Bédelièr: head of the calves
Pastre: shepherd Roul: handyman
Mazuc: buron Pétoléjava: made bubbles
L’ARIÉ….JOIE