Newry News and Irish Fun
The last stalks of corn were cut an’ when they wur plaited they wur taken to the house. Then there wus singin’ and fun.
An’ all wud sing be ear but there wus one man cud do it be note. He wus called ‘Geordie Look-Up’ because of he’s way of walkin’ an’ all the neighbourin’ ladies wud be there till hear him.
Michael J. Murphy, writer and folklorist, was born in Eden Street, Liverpool , in June 1913 and died at Walterstown, Castlebellingham, Co. Louth, on May 18th 1996.
I was driving on the outskirts of Newtown’ one Sunday afternoon recently when for the first time I encountered a Bullets match.
The group of affable and enthusiastic young men were solicitous to direct my oncoming car safely through, but I quickly pulled in to the grass verge and got out, to signify my interest in the game in hand. With military regimen the contest resumed.
It may seem hard to believe nowadays, but in former times even the mattress on the bed was home-made.
Louth County Council is to be commended on its recent renovation work at this historic site. Lug Bhan Fada or “The Long Woman’s Grave” now has car parking space (unfortunately, as yet, loose stone) and the following legend on granite in tribute to the Spanish Lady.
Kevin McAllister was ‘hired out’ from the hiring fair at the top of North Street, where the Butter and Egg Market was then located. Later the hiring was done at the bottom of Mill Street.
The poem of John Hewitt reproduced below is particularly poignant for me, because my mother remembers the Christmas Rhymers at Sheetrim in the very same time period, that is, c.1941, and the fictional, often historical characters they played out. There will be more on the Mummers, as they also were called, later, and the script of their dramas.
For now, enough to congratulate Pat Maginn of Bessbrook who revived the custom and has a Rhymers Group, and the Armagh Rhymers, who are excellent and whose costumes are highly impressive – perhaps just a little too polished! Hewitt called his poem
The Christmas Rhymers, Ballynure, 1941: an old woman remembers
The Christmas Rhymers came again last year,
wee boys with blackened faces at the door,
not like those strapping lads that would appear,
dressed for the mummers’ parts in times before,
to act the old play on the kitchen floor;
at warwork now or fighting overseas,
my neighbours sons; there’s hardly one of these
that will be coming back here any more.
I gave them coppers, bid them turn and go;
and as I watched that rueful regiment
head for the road, I felt that with them went
those songs we sang, the rhymes we used to know,
heartsore imagining the years without
The Doctor, Darkie and Wee Divil Doubt.
!
In case you’re labouring under the misconception that there is no Ulster-Scots culture or tradition, let me inform you that John Hewitt is right there, to the forefront, and one of my favourite poets!
