“The Lakes of Pontchartrain,” despite its Irish folk music associations, actually originated in America during the mid-19th century. The song tells the story of an Irish immigrant or traveler who finds himself stranded near the Lakes of Pontchartrain in Louisiana, where he falls in love with a Creole or Cajun girl who offers him shelter. Its earliest documented appearances date to American Civil War era songbooks around the 1860s, suggesting it emerged from the cultural melting pot of Louisiana where Irish immigrants encountered diverse populations. The song remained relatively obscure until the Irish folk revival of the 1960s and 70s, when it was discovered and popularized by Irish musicians like Paul Brady, whose 1977 recording became definitive. Though not originally Irish, it has been thoroughly embraced by the Irish folk tradition and is now considered part of the Irish musical canon.
Lyrics
It was one bright March morning, I bid New Orleans adieu
And I took the road to Jackson town, my fortune to renew
I cursed all foreign money, no credit could I gain
Which filled my heart with longing for, the Lakes of Ponchartrain
I stepped on board of a railroad car, beneath the morning sun
And I rode the rods till evening till I lay me down again
All strangers there were no friends to me, till a dark girl towards me came
And I fell in love with a Creole girl, by the lakes of Ponchartrain
I said, “me pretty Creole girl, me money here’s no good
“And if it weren’t for the alligators, I’d sleep out in the wood”
“You’re welcome here kind stranger, our house is very plain
“And we never turn a stranger out, by the lakes of Ponchartrain”
She took me in to her mammy’s house, she treated me right well
The hair upon her shoulders in jet-black ringlets fell
To try to paint her beauty, I’m sure ‘twould be in vain
So handsome was my Creole girl, by the lakes of Ponchartain
I asked her if she’d marry me, she said this could never be
For she had got a lover, and he was far at sea
She said that she would wait for him, and true she would remain
Till he’d return to his Creole girl by the lakes of Ponchartrain
So fare thee well my bonny own girl, I never will see you more
But I’ll not forget your kindness, in the cottage by the shore
And at each social gathering, a flowing glass I’ll drain
And I’ll drink a health to my Creole girl, by the lakes of Ponchartrain
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