You remember old Peggy that used have the cart
With the sweets and the jib and the wee apple tarts
Bananas and oranges and pears in a keg
The grapes and the buns and the brown ‘Peggy’s Leg’
For Carmel!
Poems
Old Woman of the Roads
O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped-up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph
Speckled with white and blue and brown!
Emigrant’s Farewell
Farewell to every hawthorn hedge, from Killeen to Belleeks
And every pool of sticklebacks and every shady creek
To sloping fields, the lofty rocks where ash and willow grew
Killeavey Old Church yew tree, to friends of youth I knew.
Though forty years since last I saw, I see them shining still
The Lough that cuts us North from South, the view from Fathom Hill
Adieu to Camlough’s crooked lake, to ‘Cross and ‘Blaney fair
To Gullion’s Ring, to everything of childhood days we shared.
From Carlingford beneath Slieve Foye and dark Mournes’ brooding slopes
I sailed away to foreign shore with pockets full of hope
In Durham Town where I’m bed-bound, each day is long and drear
The doctors offer little time, some weeks, a month, a year…
But I can fly on fairies’ wings to fields of dry-stone walls
To flax-holes in the meadow where the lonely corncrake calls
I stroll past Jack the Farrier’s place, to ringing metal blows
Of hammers struck on anvil’s plate to forge the Shire horse shoes.
When neighbours call to ask a hand to save the summer’s hay
I volunteer like e’er before and labour all the day
We ceili of an evening, or at the crossroads dance
To the fiddle and the squeeze-box, on rough boards wheel and prance.
In mind’s eye still I wander, in lanes of twisted thorn
And stray with my first sweetheart through fields of golden corn
The Mummers call at Christmastide, with many a loaded rhyme
In thatch, and mask, and costume dressed, in couplets fair they chime.
Do You Remember?
A bucket on the stove boiling all the whites
The big tin bath on Saturday nights
An old glass washboard, an outside loo
Distemper on the walls, cardboard in your shoe?
Lino on the floor, a scullery out the back
A coin in the meter, coalbrick, coke and slack?
Keys in the lock, door on the latch
Long, hot summers, ponies and traps?
Blackleaded range, mansion red tiles
Rag men, bone men and men who sharpened knives?
Ardglass herrings, buttermilk and snuff
Sore heads, stomach aches, tripe and onion stuff.
Sennapods, virol, castor oil and malt
A poultice for sore throats made of hot salt
A half-moon waterwark like a front-door mat
Soda farls, wheaten farls, cooling on the rack.
Sheets made from flour bags, winding-up clocks,
Suspenders for men, holding up their socks.
Crombie hats, paddyhats, corner shop small
Horse-drawn hearses with black plumes tall.
Gas mantles, lamplighters, billycans of tae
Walking home from dances, courting on the way.
Fish an’ chips in newspapers, a pennyworth of jam
A pound of broken biscuits, a trolleybus and tram.
Donkey’s hoof, pinade, crocks and beetles too
Rinso, Vim and soapflakes, newspaper in the loo.
Carbolic soap, Brylcreem, seven o’clock blades
Sugar and water potion making permanent waves.
Ale plants growing in a big sweet jar
Food safe with wire mesh in every back yard.
Hotspur and Rover, Dandy, Beano too
A 3d matinee or a jampot in lieu.
A refund on bottle, brown paper bags
Five Willie Woodbine or sharing a fag.
Hoops and cleeks and guiders, parries, whips and all
Skipping songs, marble, pitch and toss, handball.
Top 20 from Luxembourg, Desert Island Discs
Henry Hall’s guest night, rock ‘n’roll and twist.
Billy Cotton’s Band Show, a book at bedtime too
The list is never-ending – but who was ‘skiboo’?
Where The Lark’s Still In Song
Oh Grandpa, I’m taking this pen in my hand
To tell of the changes that’s happened this land
In big, swanky houses we’re living in style
But they’ve wrecked and they’ve poisoned this Emerald Isle.
Remember the corncrake in the meadow would call
Well, the nearest you’ll find one is West Donegal
It was grand when Granny would bring us the tae
When you done the pitching and I built the hay.
Some people sit silent half the day and all night
Sure I’m thankful eventually when they put out the light
Of that box in the corner – it’s pictures they watch
From garbled conversing, the odd word ye might catch.
You know how the neighbours from the wee house’d call
An’ they’d tell all their stories, the big and the small
Ah ’twas grand when our Granny would get up to say
‘There’s new griddle bread for a wee drop of tae.’
You’ll mind the wee planting where the wild woodcock lay
How the larks in the springtime make their nests in the hay
Well, now they cut silage, foul slurry they spread
The larks’ nests are ruined, the woodcock is dead.
And sometimes you taught me in the brook to catch trout
With a twist of your hand you could scoop the fish out
Och ’twas grand when the sun made the pure water gleam
Now the farmers and factories have poisoned the stream.
I can still feel my feet catch the new stubbled sod
When you scythed the corn and I held the rod
The long-snedded scythe o’er your shoulder you’d heel
The stone made sweet music as you honed the fine steel.
But now there’s big combines in the fields all around
That in ten dusty minutes cut an acre of ground
But for all their great power, they blight my new dawn
For the scythe, like you Granda, is buried and gone.
Each evening you’d loose out the horse to be fed
And I rode on his back as you walked at his head
And although I’m near sixty I still feel his sweat
And my heart it feels heavy, and my eyes they are wet.
For I still see his collar where it hung on the jamb
And the pig that we killed for the bacon and ham
How you walked from your work and I sat on your head
And the sweet air was scented with Granny’s baked bread.
As you sat at the milking, on the cow’s side you’d lean
Now the cows are all joined to a milking machine
Even they now have their parlours, like the toffs in your day
And we open a bottle to milk our wee cup of tae.
But my life is near over, why should I complain?
As I sit and look out at the bleak acid rain
But I’m sad for the children as I watch them at play
They’ve dumped their foul waste and polluted the say.
So goodbye to you, Granda, though I still could go on
About things that are past, about days that are gone
But it’s well to be you that has had your long day
When we worked with the horse; with a fork made the hay.
And we kept the best straw for to mend the old thatch
Whereas now on our trousers you’d ne’er see a patch
Och it’s now that I’m thinking I’ll see you ere long
Where’s there’s fish in the streams and the lark’s still in song.
Poem for a Farmer
This poem is written for Mrs. Margaret Dolan in memory of her late father, Thomas McCreesh (McGinnis) of Tullyogallaghan, Belleeks, Co. Armagh. It is submitted by Rosemary Dolan of Guestbook. Newry Journal is honoured to reproduce it here!
A great, a grand outstanding man,
Whose goal was ever high;
Who to whate’er he put his hand
Found not in vain the try.
He lab’red well and managed good
The land he did possess;
Few farmers of his neighborhood
Were more of a success.
His homestead, so well kept and neat,
Of care and taste spoke out;
It certainly was up-to-date,
None better thereabout.
At fair and market he was keen,
A master of retort;
But never from a spirit mean
Would he one’s feelings hurt.
His knowledge of livestock was wide,
No guesswork judge was he;
Time-tested methods were his guide,
And could not bettered be.
For miles around he was well known,
And held in high repute;
Upon this point there sure were none
Who’d venture to dispute.
By grand example and advice
He upheld honour’s way;
And pointed to the heavy price
Transgressors have to pay.
All those within his reach and care
Most ably did he lead;
Their erring ways he did not spare,
Nor aught to them concede.
To church and clergy always he
Full strictly did adhere;
He in them did Christ’s guidance see,
And felt his presence near.
Good hearted and responsive too,
He of times did befriend
Those neighbours who, he well, well knew
Life’s trial weights did bend.
The drawbacks of the times could not
His staunch persistence blight;
He still held on to goals he sought,
And kept an outlook bright.
Discipline with him carried weight,
He strongly did it stress;
The reason why, he’d tell you straight,
He knew its usefulness.
And so this man his whole life through
Improvements round him wrought;
His record fine accents the true,
The high aims to be sought.
He showed the faltering weak ones how
From struggle, strength to wrest;
How not to human frailty bow,
But live up to one’s best.
The Clink of Rhyme
A student here, from Ballintoy
A laughing fair-haired country boy
Felt now and then fit to employ
His Sunday leisure
In turning verses to enjoy
Poetic pleasure.
I showed him how with little cost
His thoughts were better far engrossed
In the blank verse of Robert Frost
And as a duck
Takes to the burn in which it’s tossed
He tried his luck.
The lines came supple, steady, clear
True to the country atmosphere.
There was no flowery discourse here
But honest phrasing;
And half a dozen times that year
He sought my praising.
But once he read his verses o’er
To some oul’ caillaigh at her door
Who had a name in three or four
Townlands for rhyming
That he might hear how much he’d score
By her skilled timing.
Awhile she listened to him, dumb
With not so much as haw or hum
Then, sucking at her toothless gum
She said, ‘I think
I’d rather hae the thochts that come
In lines that clink’.
By John Hewitt from ‘Loose Ends’ Blackstaff 1983.
I just LOVE this! The wonderful Brother Barney Liston taught us a love of poetry some 57 years ago at the Abbey Grammar (long before Hewitt wrote this!).
The young are reared on simple rhymes (nursery, to begin with) and doggerel – or trite pop lyrics. It takes time, tuition, practice and loving guidance to progress – in any enterprise.
I was initially dumb-founded that ‘prose’ – to me, i.e. non-rhyming poetry – could be counted in that exclusive company.
Hewitt, I suspect, is nodding in the direction of blank verse, but subliminally showing a personal preference for rhyme. He is also extolling his own roots (in the Ulster-Scots tradition) and his admiration for those who champion that – and local poetry – doggerel, if you like.
The cailliagh here (I think of our own Alice Kelly of Rostrevor – apologies Alice – I know you have your own teeth, and physically do not fit the bill – but you are an inspiration for the youthful budding poets amidst us!) ) is counter-arguing with the tutor, Hewitt. Like her, I prefer ‘lines that clink!’
I also like a laugh! This poem never fails to bring a smile to my wrinkled old face!
Ballad of William Bloat
Ballad of William Bloat
In a mean abode, on the Shankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat
He had a wife, the curse of his life
Who continually ‘got his goat’
Till one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He cut her bleedin’ throat!
With a razor gash, he settled her hash
Oh never was crime so quick
But the drip, drip, drip, on the pillowslip
Of her life blood – made him sick.
And the pool of gore, on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.
And still he was glad he’d done what he had
When she lay there stiff and still
But a sudden awe of the vengeful law
Struck his heart with an icy chill.
So to finish the fun – so well begun
He resolved – himself, to kill.
He took the sheet from his wife’s coul’ feet
And twisted it to a rope
And he hanged himself, from the pantry shelf
‘Twas an easy end, let’s hope!
In the face of death – with his dying breath
He solemnly – cursed the Pope!
But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning
He went to Hell, but his wife got well
And she’s still alive – and sinning!
For the razor blade, was foreign made
But the sheet -was Belfast Linen.
[by Raymond Calvert]
Berry Ballad
Come all yous loyal brethren, I hope yous will draw near
It’s of a cruel murder boys, as ever you did hear
A woeful lamentation I mean to let you know
I had to die for Chambre and I never struck a blow.
Francis Berry is my name and my age is twenty three
I am a Roman Catholic, was reared in Drumintee
I am my mother’s only son, the truth I’ll ne’er deny
I left her broken-hearted in the townland of Adavoyle.
It happened in the year of eighteen and fifty two
For little I knew of the dangers great, I had for to come through
At nine o’clock on Tuesday night, my house they did surround
And I was taken prisoner and handcuffed on the ground.
They marched me off to Newry town, for me they’d take no bail
I was sworn by that a’cursed Singleton and forced to Armagh jail
He swore that I presented, a pistol and a ball
And God he is my witness, on Him I now will call.
I never fired at any man, God witness to the same
It’s in yer blood, cursed Chambre but, my hands I ne’er did stain
And God will say to Chambre, upon his dying day
Depart from me cursed Chambre, you did my child betray.
Depart from me Chambre, you caused his wounds to bleed,
Depart from me cursed Chambre, to thee I’ll give no heed
On the day of my execution, it was a shocking sight
To see the trembling victim, as he was dressed in white.
And standing in the jailhouse door, to view the gallows tree
It put me in mind of our Saviour who died on Mount Calvary
And standing on that woeful trap, praying to God on high
For to have mercy on my soul, for innocent I must die.
Come all my loyal brethren, my race is nearly run
And I will be an angel bright unto Thy Kingdom come
I’ll be governed by one clergy, its church is on a rock
Christ is our foundation and St Peter guides his flock.
Here’s to my loyal mother, I send these locks of hair
And also to my sister, in hopes that she’ll get care
And in Killeavy Churchyard, my body will remain
And against the Day of Judgement, I’ll see yous all again.