An Anthology of Poetry and Songs of Trim and South Meath
Compiled by Noel French
Wander with words Poetry Parade — Litcrawl – path of poetry
- Song of Dermot and the Earl – Author unknown
- King John’s Castle – Thomas Kinsella
- Inspired by Anne Crinion
- The Old Ivied Cottage Near Trim – Author unknown
- The Trim Giant School – Paul Farrell
- The Yellow Steeple – Tommy Murray
- The Small Towns of Ireland – John Betjeman
- From the Wellington Monument – Frank Murphy
- Stained Glass St. Patrick’s Church Trim – Michael Farry
- Morning on the New Bridge at Trim – Tommy Murray
- Newtown Abbey – Philip E. Daly
- Our Lady of Trim – Patsy Farrell
- The Echo Gate – Michael Longley
- He Sees the Infant Skeleton – Michael Farry
- Stella’s Cottage – Tommy Murray
- A True And Faithful Inventory Of The Goods Belonging To Dr. Swift, Vicar of Laracor. Upon Lending His House to the Bishop Of Meath, Until His Own Was Built – Jonathan Swift
- On Seeing Swift in Laracor – Brinsley Mac Namara
- Father and Son – F.R. Higgins
- Trimblestown Graveyard – Frank Kelly
- The Parish of Boardsmill – Paul Farrell
- Morgan’s Well – Maureen Connolly
- Sweet Summerhill Memories – J.J.A.C.
- The Wild Kildalkey Boy – Eugene Kearney
- June – F.R. Higgins
- Goodnight Ballivor- John Quinn
- Tobertynan Wood – Tommy Murray
- Longwood – Val Vousden
- The Shamrock Hotel – Patrick Cullen
- The Ballad of John Doorley – Tony Leonard
- Longwood – Oliver Slevin
- Ribbontail – John Hopkins
- The Haunting shoes – Joseph Patrick Stenson
- The Bridge – M. Gilsenan
- The Tenants of Rathcore
- The Old Bog Road – Teresa Brayton
Song of Dermot and the Earl
Then the king summoned
Hugh de Lacy, first of all,
And his earls and his vassals
And his free-born barons.
The rich king then gave
The custody of the city of Dublin
And of the castle and the keep
To the baron Hugh de Lacy
….
Before that, at this juncture,
The king left Dublin,
To Hugh de Lacy he granted
All Meath in fee
Meath the warrior granted
For fifty knights
Whose service the baron should let him have
Whenever he should have need of it.
…..
And Hugh de Lacy, who was so bold,
In order to plant his lands,
Set out to Meath
With many a renowned vassal.
Of this Hugh I will say no more,
…
Concerning the noble earl I shall here leave off,
Of Hugh de Lacy I shall tell you,
How he enfeoffed his barons,
Knights, serjeants, and retainers.
…
Then Hugh de Lacy
Fortified a house at Trim,
And threw a trench around it,
And then enclosed it with a stockade.
Within the house he then placed
Brave knights of great worth;
Then he entrusted the castle
To the wardenship of Hugh Tyrrel;
Author: unknown
The Song of Dermot and the Earl is a Hiberno-French chanson de geste which was composed in Ireland and survives only in a later thirteenth-century medieval copy, London, Lambeth Palace Library, Carew MS 596. The Song is a key historical source for the history of Ireland in the twelfth century, and presents a heroic narrative recounting the story of the 1169 English invasion of Ireland.
King John’s Castle
Not an epic, being not loosely architecture,
but with epic force, setting the head spinning,
with the taut flight earthward of its bulk, King John’s
Castle rams fast down the county of Meath.
This in its heavy ruin. New, a brute bright plateau,
it held speechless under its cold a whole province of Meath.
Now the man-rot of passages and broken window-casements,
vertical drops chuting though three storeys of masonry,
Draughty spiral stairways loosening in the depths,
are a labyrinth in the medieval dark. Intriguers
Who prowled here once into the waiting arms
of their own monster, revisit the blowing dust.
Life, a vestigial chill, sighs along the tunnels
through the stone face. The great collapsed rooms, the mind
of the huge head, are dead. Views open inward
on empty silence; a chapel-shelf, moss-grown, unreachable.
Kind John directs at the river a grey stare, who once
viewed the land in a spirit of moderation and massacre.
Contemplatives, tiny as mice moving over the green
mounds below, might take pleasure in the well
of quiet there, the dark foundations near at hand.
Up here where the wind sweeps bleakly, as though in remembrance
against our own tombstones, the brave and great might gather.
For the rest, this is not their fortress.
Thomas Kinsella
From Another September, The Dolmen Press, 1958.
Inspired
I walked in the footsteps of a saint
I know because I trudged the same river
I caught minnows there at the ford
I climbed the elder trees
I made ink with their berries
I know he arrived at that spot in 432
I read he left Loman there to replace him
I will remember Him on the 17th March.
Anne Crinion.
The Old Ivied Cottage Near Trim.
I’m lonely tonight and my poor heart is breaking,
To think I must roam from my dear happy home,
And long ere the green vales at morning awaken,
Far away from the dear ones in Trim I must roam.
Dear home of my childhood where-ever I wander,
Though my life’s cup with sadness be filled to the brim,
In darkness or sorrow my heart shall grow fonder.
And cling to that old ivied cottage Trim.
Now fill up your glasses my lads and my lasses,
Fill up those old glasses ’til they flow to the brim,
Wher’er you be toast green Erin for ever,
And a toast to the old ivied cottage near Trim.
Oh never again at a race fair or meeting
Shall I join with the boys for a real Irish spree,
To while the gay hours with music and dancing,
Our light hearts o’erflowing with innocent glee.
Never again over Porchy’s green meadows,
Shall I roam with my colleen so fair by my side,
Where King John’s hoary castle throws forth its broad shadows,
And darkness the sheen of the Boyne’s silvery tide.
When at last my poor sad heart in deathless devotion
When at last I am sleeping in death cold and grim,
Shall my soul wing its flight o’er the broad bounding ocean,
Way back to that old ivied cottage near Trim.
The location of the cottage was on the banks of the Boyne opposite the present Garda Siochana Barracks and close to King John’s Castle.
The Trim Giant School
(Life in an Industrial Boarding Hotel, 1900)
Oh, we have got an institution
In the neighbourhood of Trim
Sam Kelly is the Master and two others under him
There’s Jim Robinson and Daly
Who are loath to spare the rule
In that college of all knowledge called Trim Giant School.
Chorus
O’ the Trim giant school
Oh the Trim giant school
There is knowledge in that college
In the Trim giant school
We arise every morning at the hour of seven o’clock
When we have on our garments to the dining hall we flock
Where they sit us down to buttermilk and stirrabout like gruel
for our breakfast
Every morning in the Trim Giant School
When the bell is rung for dinner
We all hasten in a group
To spuds and greasy water – you might hardly call it soup
For supper bread and water to keep our young blood cool
And to make us strong and healthy in the Trim giant school.
We’ve a tailor stitching garments
And a baker baking bread
And a wonderful shoemaker, who could hardly wax a thread
There’s the carpenter – with his compass, square and rule,
Who will never get a tradesman in the Trim giant school.
Now the gardener is in the orchard house
He is rounding up the bees
And the maid s are in the doss house
Sure they are scourging all the fleas
For the bees suck the pollen
From the honesuckle path
And the fleas they suck the watery blood
From poor young urchins’ backs.
For the Queen may want for soldiers and enough of them she’ll get
For we have them in the Giant school who will join her army yet
For whosoever saw a schoolboy
Who could handle well a tool
From the botching institution
Like Trim giant school
Paul Farrell, Summerhill Road, Trim.
The Gaol at Trim only operated until about 1870 and then in 1890 it was transformed into an industrial school for pauper children. Known as the Trim Joint School it was often mis-named Trim Giant School. The school was established to prevent children being brought up as paupers in the workhouses and giving them a good trade. The unions of Drogheda, Trim, Kells, Navan came together to form the school. On 12 February 1912 John Kelly, an assistant teacher in the Trim Joint School, was killed in the schoolyard by a group of boys who were armed with brushes and sticks.
The Yellow Steeple
“Why yellow” I asked myself
Why not something less subtle
Grey or blue, perhaps
Something To match the sky
High above
The string courses and Staircases
Where crows pay
Homage to hyssop
And brown robed Monks
Stand sculptured
In stone stained with
The blood of martyrs
Could it be that ochreous glow
That touches the west
Wing on evenings
When the sun Bombards the battlements
With fire and brimstone
Tommy Murray
Beneath The Yellow Steeple
A glittering of footpath
paves the below Celsius
January morning
when the Yellow Steeple’s
Sheep Gate facing wall
is citrine as never before
with sunrise. From what latent
coals, what grated earth, what
amber, honey, dreaming spring
should such joyous light emerge?
Ah snowdrops I await the dance
in anticipation, lament
the closure of Dalgan woodland,
where always the same drooping
delicate, faint belles
are to be found by the icicle river.
COVID you are an geimhreadh
to restrictmovement beyond
a paltry 5 kilometres
in these liminal days
when it is not safe to pass
closely in parks. No breath.
Shush. Somewhere a suspiration.
No touch. No touch. A stirring.
Lo, how the ice melts,
and oft quoted Heaney
of the worst of the Troubles
and of shivering farm cattle –
“If we winter this one out,
we can summer anywhere.”
Orla Fay
St. Mary’s Abbey in Trim, Ireland is a former house of Augustinian canons dedicated to the Blessed Virgin. Little remains of the abbey except for the Yellow Steeple, the ruin of the abbey bell tower named for the yellow colour reflected by the stonework in the setting sun, and Talbot’s Castle, an abbey building converted to a manor house.
An geimhreadh (the winter)
The Small Towns of Ireland
The small towns of Ireland by bards are neglected,
They stand there, all lonesome, on hilltop and plain.
The Protestant glebe house by beech trees protected
Sits close to the gates of his Lordship’s demesne.
But where is his Lordship, who once in a phaeton
Drove out twixt his lodges and into the town?
Oh his tragic misfortunes I will not dilate on;
His mansion’s a ruin, his woods are cut down.
His impoverished descendant is living in Ealing,
His daughters must type for their bread and their board,
O’er the graves of his forebears the nettle is stealing
And few will remember the sad Irish Lord.
Yet still stands the Mall where his agent resided,
The doctor, attorney and such class of men.
The elegant fanlights and windows provided
A Dublin-like look for the town’s Upper Ten.
‘Twas bravely they stood by the Protestant steeple
As over the town rose their roof-trees afar.
Let us slowly descend to the part where the people
Do mingle their ass-carts by Finnegan’s bar.
I hear it once more, the soft sound of those voices,
When fair day is filling with farmer’s the Square,
And the heart in my bosom delights and rejoices
To think of the dealing and drinking done there.
I see thy grim granite, O grim House of Sessions!
I think of the judges who sat there in state
And my mind travels back to our monster processions
To honour the heroes of brave Ninety-Eight.
The barracks are burned where the Redcoats oppressed us,
The gaol is broke open, our people are free.
Though Cromwell once cursed us, Saint Patrick has blessed us –
The merciless English have fled o’er the sea.
Look out where you cabins grow smaller and smallest,
Straw-thatched and one-storey and soon to come down,
To the prominent steeple, the newest and tallest,
Of Saint Malachy’s Catholic Church in our town.
The fine architécture, the wealth of mosaic,
The various marbles on altars within –
To attempt a description were merely prosaic,
So, asking your pardon, I will not begin.
O my small town of Ireland, the raindrops caress you,
The sun sparkles bright on your field and your Square
As here on your bridge I salute you and bless you,
Your murmuring waters and turf-scented air.
‘John Betjeman, Collected Poems’, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 2006, pp. 251-253.
Sir John Betjeman wrote of his poem “My ballad has been illustrated with photographs of Trim in County Meath. It does not directly refer to Trim which must be one of the most romantic small towns in Britain but it tries give a view of those too little regarded places.” He provided an annotated version for his English readers so they could understand the references to Ireland and used Trim as the example.
From the Wellington Monument
The parish church
Bells ringing out
The measure of the day
A Mass perhaps
The Angelus
Or someone
Passed away
And everything
About his place
The steady hand
The measured pace.
Impatient
Waiting to be off
The columns turned
The moments
Passed
Dressed, for
The Phoenix Park
And a good cigar
The woods laid out
The town below.
And eyed it all
The shadows cast
Cold colours
And the world
Away.
Frank Murphy.
Stained Glass St. Patrick’s Church Trim
Crucifixion
The Roman centurion stands with the few mourners
Staring up at death forever, his confidence in classic
certainties unsettled by the last awesome hours
He cogitates over mysteries he had dismissed
as ridiculous, waits in wonder for what happens next.
St. Patrick on Tara
Druids plot on the margins to ensure their eternal
survival, festival flames await the king’s verdict,
a country’s history in the balance. The king
knowing the people’s fickle faith, pretends to pause
on the verge of surrender to the latest foreign zealots.
St. Brigid
She radiates calm power in her statuesque silence
among oak saplings, brazen crozier in her left hand
an unexpected testimony, flame bright and warm
in her right hand. Her abiding stare challenges us,
our blind catechisms of bland history and memory.
St. Oliver Plunkett
The seventeenth century hangman pauses, noose
cocked, sensing in the holiday of a heretic’s execution
years of dragged-out discord, the tables turned,
criminal sainted, his head honoured in high church.
Here, aghast at consequences, he hesitates forever.
Last year when these windows were removed
for restoration, replaced by sheets of clear glass,
I heard someone proclaim that it was better that way
to let light into our darker spaces, that coloured glass
trinkets had no place in our twenty first century.
I disagreed. Replaced, they glow as in the beginning
In the light flickering through I pace up and down
demand to know how they survive, what they wait for.
They have no answers beyond coloured silence
of all their storied pieces, leaded together, eternal,
the work of human hands – Mayer, Hardman, Earley.
Michael Farry
Morning on the New Bridge at Trim
Aluminium and steel gleaming in the
Early autumn ‘morn
Sparkling sings untouched by time or vandal
Welcome, urge and warn
Crumbling castles cast caustic eyes on this
This bloated bridle path and wait for
Sunset when
In awe inspiring silhouette they
Will dominate again.
Approaching Austin flanked by silvery standards
Sends a score of scolding sparrows
Towards the ever brightening sky
As a whistling cyclist and a Hiace van
Make their contribution to the
Morning rush.
By an uninviting seat two forlorn commuters
Wait while with sweaty singlet clinging to
Overlapping flesh a jogger pants across
With ponderous gait.
And downstream dislocated by technology
And speed the swan in search of solace
Lingers underneath the reed ,MORE? Tommy Murray in Something beginning with Spring (1989)
By Newtown Abbey, Trim
‘Aurora Musis amica’
he says down corridor
grey after matins
fading.
Where once Sext rang
the dead are grave
all ghosts mingling
in the cold air.
The horses that graze
show the mystery of the ages
in their eyes,
humble, cast to the grasses.
About the ruins they walk
raising clumps of clay as
visitors lay flowers
by headstones.
Orla Fay
*Aurora Musis amica, dawn is friend to the muses
Newtown Abbey
My thoughts rush back to the olden days,
As I muse on the bridge-head here,
When bard and piper piped their lays
Of Newtown’s bright career;
And the Cloister stood with majestic pride
In the rays of Freedom’s glow –
Ere savage bands with unhallowed hands
Laid Newton Abbey low!
In fancy, my dew-dimmed eyes review
The scenes of the precious past;
And with fancy’s eyes I again renew
The Abbey’s pristine cast;
I dwell ‘mid a brief but glorious age,
As my mental visions show –
Ere savage bands with unhallowed hands
Laid Newton Abbey low!
I hear or seem to hear, the sound
Of the matin bell for prayer;
I can picture the hooded monks around
With saintly mien, repair
To chant the Psalms, at the altar’s step
’Twas a custom always so-
Ere savage bands with unhallowed hands
Laid Newton Abbey low!
I hear the hum of the busy mill,
Borne sweetly on the gale;
And the ringing notes of the anvil shrill,
And the strokes of the sturdy flail,
Commingled with many a sound of trade
That flourished long ago-
Ere savage bands with unhallowed hands
Laid Newton Abbey low!
I see the boats sail up the tide
Of the Boyne’s broad expanse
With human freight of the sons of pride
From Germany, Spain and France,
To study here in Learning’s Hall,
And the spoils of Truth to know –
Ere savage bands with unhallowed hands
Laid Newton Abbey low!
‘Twas then the fame of our saintly sons
Re-echoed from pole to pole
And foreign chiefs from dyes and duns
Found Erin a worthy goal
To equip their minds with civilized arts,
That supplanted a barbarous show-
Ere savage bands with unhallowed hands
Laid Newton Abbey low!
And kings discoursed in those halcyon days
At the boards of festive cheer,
And enraptured heard the tales and lays
From poet, sage and seer;
For savants then were a cherished train,
As the bardic annals show-
Ere savage bands with unhallowed hands
Laid Newton Abbey low!
But the scene has changed, and again I view
The ruins of the present age;
The broken walls and somber yew
Tell the tales of an envious rage-
When savage hordes, with hearts of guile,
Caused crimson streams to flow-
Ere hooded bands with beads in hands
Surrendered to the foe!
A Nation small that has struggled on,
And never ceased to fight ,
Tho’ crushed, misruled and tramped upon
Shall soon see Freedom’s light.
And Peace and Plenty shall ensue,
With gifts of long ago-
Ere savage bands with unhallowed hands
Laid Newton Abbey low!
Philip E. Daly from the Poems of Philip E. Daly
Our Lady of Trim
If you seek a real awareness
Of Mary free from sin,
Stand by the wall
When shadows fall,
On the eastern side of Trim.
While standing thereJusat say a prayer
Make sure it’s from within
To the Queen of all the universe
Our Lady Queen of Trim
Patsy Farrell from Life in the Fields (1993)
The Echo Gate
I stand between the pillars of the gate
A skull between two ears that reconstructs
Broken voices, broken stones, history
And the first words that come into my head
Echoing back from the monastery wall
To measure these fields at the speed of sound
Michael Longley from The Echo Gate 1975 -1979, Secker & Warburg, 1979.
In Search of the Fisherman
I chased you through the springtime
When the fields were wet with dew.
And as a small boy I hurried eagerly
To try and keep up with you,
Up past the Sally’s and the Round-Wood
In the perfumed morning air,
When the primrose and the hawthorn
They blossomed everywhere.
At the back of Mitchell’s Orchard
Where the banks were wet and soft,
You put me on your shoulders
And you carried me aloft.
When the sun shone down on Tay-Lane
Together we would stroll
Around by Canty’s Bottoms
To your favourite fishing hole,
As the damsel and the midges
They danced beneath the trees
And birds sang out their glories
On the summer evening breeze,
You crouched beside the waters
And with steel blue eagle eyes
You measured every fish
As he came rising for a fly!
Then the world it changed its colours
To her robes of red and gold
And in the innocence of childhood
I couldn’t see that you were growing old.
As you wrapped your coat around me,
To keep me from the chill
As the autumn mists came falling,
That evening we were fishing
In the shadow of the Mill!
And when winter’s icy reaper
Took you across that great divide,
You left the ones who loved you
Standing on the other side.
But each time that I go fishing
Or along the river Boyne I stray
Its rippling waters echo back
The words that you might say,
And I search to find you fishing
Behind every tree and bush
And I still can see you crouched there
In every clump of rush,
For I know when life is over
And I’m past all earthly care,
We will fish again in that stream
That flows by the throne of Heaven
For I know I’ll find you fishing there.
James Peppard.
He Sees the Infant Skeleton
I stopped and stared
at the two American students,
kneeling in the priory chancel,
absorbed in the task, silence essential.
Their wooden skewers loosened packed earth,
their brushes reverently scratched soil
from around a skull
as they uncovered the skeleton.
Stains marked the nails
of his or her small coffin.
I measured by eye,
guessed the age at less than one,
wondered what grief-stricken couple
ensured a burial in the holiest place
for their untimely corpse.
I asked nothing, scared of disturbing
their concentration but each, I’m sure,
chose a Christian name for the dead one.
It was gone the next day,
taken in a plastic bag for interrogation,
the answers to be noted
in an academic publication
adding to the sum of our knowledge
of burial, belief
and the uncertainties of childhood.
Only the name will escape them.
I called him Christopher.
Michael Farry at the Blackfriary Dig.
Blackfriary 1970
Dedicated to Rose Connor and the Gang
We called it Johnny Taafe’s Field and it was big, wild and green.
Near its ancient walls there flowed a stream,
Few knew and sight unseen.
The Friesian cows, like mass goers standing in groups,
Grazing on grass where bumblebees dart.
This stream unseen is known to childhood friends and me;
We’re told its where Lepers cleansed themselves for free.
That you’ll get sick if you should go too near
But we were just kids and knew no fear.
This stream was full of frogs you see;
They croak and hop with quickening speed,
The spawn they leave, we know for sure
Are tadpoles waiting to mature!
The tadpoles they would whirl and spin,
While we knelt with jam jars and big grins.
We’d fill the jars right to the brim
Then take them home the evening
Closing in.
“Let’s go to war “there’d come a shout,
“Now get your guns and cowboy hats out”
We’d race together to the Rock,
Geronimo’s hiding with his Injun Braves,” “they’re shot”.
This Rock is old, older than you or me;
It was part of a Monastery once you see,
The Monks said prayers by candlelight
And tilled this field to whet their appetites.
Its story, all us children know
For we were told by our elders long ago.
That Blackfriary from its ancient Tower,
The tolling of its bells sounding the hour, would rouse the Trim folk from their sleep,
Then Athboy Gate would be opened wide
Near De Lacy’s Keep.
From what is known and what I was told
It was the Town Corporation who stole the stones.
The Friary sadly now’s no more,
Save for the Rock with its ancient folklore.
Childhood friends have passed away,
The Rock still stands proudly, still grey,
Blackfriary is well known today,
But childhood memories remain,
And with old friend we oft recall
The stories of those summer games!
Rambles in Eirinn
(A poem)
Past the Courthouse they said
Turn left
And then out by Kilmessan
Across the Boyne
The drovers herding stock,
Hillsides sloping
Through the hedgerows
Empty tracts.
The trips down memory
Lanes.
And stopping at half-doors
Ask of the road,
The naggin of sheebeen whiskey
Woodbines…
A Penny-Farthing
Gathering dust.
The one for the road!
Ruin, rath and woodland
Milestones.
Crowding out
To coal black porter
Murmurings
Of the promised
Land.
Frank Murphy
* A poem about William Bulfin’s journey from Ballivor through Trim and on to Kilmessan and his search for Tara.
Stella’s Cottage
Stella’s cottage
Smothered in autumn now
Its shrunken was still fighting off the fields
As youngsters we used to sack potatoes there
On damp days under tiner dry thatch
Hunkered and cramped
As we rummaged around the gaunt growths
For pinks and banners
And the odd golden wonder
Rubbing shoulders with the riffraff.
And where ‘tis said
Forbidden fruit once flourished
And angels strayed in from the straight and narrow
We slung poreens through the rough door
Without as much as a thought for the ghost
That stood on the step
Stella’s cottage
Struggling with September
What ghost stands there now?
My sack is full, youth
A crumpled pile in the corner
The thatch has given way
To bramble, sprig and sky
And by the rough door potatoes pose
For puzzled passers by
So what ghost stands there now?
What spirit lurks
In this skipful of briars by the roadside
Tommy Murray in Counting Stained Glass Windows (2009)
A True And Faithful Inventory Of The Goods Belonging To Dr. Swift, Vicar Of Laracor. Upon Lending His House To The Bishop Of Meath, Until His Own Was Built
An oaken broken elbow-chair;
A caudle cup without an ear;
A batter’d, shatter’d ash bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-sword poker, without point;
A pot that’s crack’d across, around,
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;
A wig, with hanging, grown quite grey;
A curtain, worn to half a stripe;
A pair of bellows, without pipe;
A dish, which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle-bottom, wooden-platter
One is for meal, and one for water;
There likewise is a copper skillet,
Which runs as fast out as you fill it;
A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all,
And thus his household goods you have all.
These, to your lordship, as a friend,
‘Till you have built, I freely lend:
They’ll serve your lordship for a shift;
Why not as well as Doctor Swift?
Jonathan Swift
On Seeing Swift in Laracor
I saw them walk that lane again
and watch the midges cloud a pool,
laughing at something in the brain –
the Dean and Patrick Brell the fool.
Like Lear he kept his fool with him
long into Dublin’s afterglow,
until the wits in him grew dim
and Patrick sold him for a show.
Here were the days before Night came,
when Stella and the other – “slut”,
Vanessa, called by him – that flame
when Laracor became Lilliput!
And here, by walking up and down
he made a man called Gulliver,
while bits of lads came out of town
to have a squint at him and her.
Still, was it Stella that they saw
or else some lassie of their own?
for in his story, that’s the flaw,
the secret no one since has known.
Was it some wench among the corn
has set him from the other two
some tenderness that he had torn,
some lovely blossom that he knew?
For when Vanessa died of love,
and Stella learned to keep her place,
his Dublin soon the story wove
that steeped them in the Dean’s disgrace.
They did not know, ‘twas he could tell!
the reason of his wildest rages,
the story kept by Patrick Brell,
the thing that put him with the ages.
Now when they mention of the Dean
some silence holds them as they talk;
some things there are unsaid, unseen,
that drive me to this lonely walk,
to meet the mighty man again,
and yet no comfort comes to me.
Although sometimes I see him plain,
that silence holds the Hill of Bree.
For, though I think I’d know her well
I’ve never seen her on his arm,
laughing with him, not heard her tell
she had forgiven all that harm.
And yet I’d like to know ‘twere true,
that here at last in Laracor,
here in the memory of the few,
there was this rest for him and her.
Brinsley Mac Namara from Poems of Ireland, The Irish Times, 1944.
Father and Son
Only last week, walking the hushed fields
Of our most lovely Meath, now thinned by November
I came to shere the road from Laracor leads
To the Boyne river – that seemed more lake than river
Stretched in uneasy light and stript of reeds.
And walking longside an old weir
Of my people’s, where nothing stirs – only the shadowed
Leaden flight of a heron up the lean air –
I went unmanly with grief, knowing how my father,
Happy though captive in years, walked last with me there.
Yes, happy in Meath with me for a day
He walked, taking stocks of herds hid in their own breathing;
And naming colts, gusty as wind, once steered by his hand
Lightnings winked in the eye that were half shy in greeting
Old friends – the wild blades, when he gallivanted the land.
For that proud, wayward man now my heart breaks –
Breaks for that man whose mind was a secret eyrie,
Whose kind hand was sole signet of his race,
Who curbed me, scorned my green ways, yet
increasingly loved me
Till Death drew its grey blind down his face.
And yet I am pleased that even my reckless ways
Are living shades of his rich calms and passions –
Witnesses for him and for those faint namesakes
With whom now he is the one, under yew branches,
Yes. One in a graven silence no birds breaks.
F.R. Higgins
Trimblestown Graveyard
Oh Trimblestown, I hear you sigh
From far beyond the grave
Your lonely castle high and dry
Looks far beyond the pale.
The Athboy river flows slowly by
Along its weary way
To join the Boyne at Kilnagross
To wait the break of day
The roll of the drum
And the bugle sound
Are well now in the past
To remind us of the times gone by
Of our long and warlike past
Your lord and ladies we no longer see
We only sing their praise
Of mighty deeds on the battlefield
That brought men to their grave
The castle too a lonesome sight
Her walls are crumbling down.
She stood the test of Cromwell’s might
Cannon, flood and rain.
A sentinel now she stands alone
You can see her for miles around.
Against the background of the thunder clouds
The lightening and the rain
In the old graveyard not far away
Lie those who rest in peace.
The Barnwalls in their table tombs
Lie here side by side
They were mighty men so history tells
They stood the test of time
But now they lie in Trimblestown
To wait the bugle sound
The autumn moon shines brightly down
And casts her shadows long
On the high grey walls
Of a castle proud
That once was Trimblestown
On the final day
When Gabriel blows
That long and lonesome wail
We will pray we will all be there
To greet poor Trimblestown.
Frank Kelly, Kildalkey
The Parish of Boardsmill
Sure ‘tis many a year ago to-day
I left my native home
To wander far across the sea to that
Grand old U.S.A.,
My mind it sometimes rambles
Back to a spot so far away
To Ireland and the Co. Meath and
a spot called sweet Boardsmill.
Now it’s four and forty years to-day
on that morning long ago,
I said goodbye to all my friends
round my Boyneside cottage
home,
I closed the door in old Fearmore
As tears bedimmed my eyes,
Then I sailed away for Massachusetts
bay three thousand miles away.
Our ship she lay at anchor by the
side of Boston Quay
A lonely exile on the shore in a
strange and foreign soil,
Then Uncle Sam, he beckoned me
for to pick the great highways
Far, far away from the Co. Meath
and the parish of Boardsmill.
I’ve worked the mighty freeways
from Quincy to Rockland,
And down around New Hampshire
Too, I’ve laboured on the land
I’ve tramped the open high road
From Pittsfield to Cape Cod,
Far, far away from Granuaile and the
parish of Boardsmill.
No more at race or meeting on the
hill of Dalystown
Or strolling through the green
groves of dear old Scariff wood,
Or tripping o’er the Sheehan hills,
those small twin mountains
high,
All in the tranquil scenery round
the parish of Boardsmill.
From the shady roads of Castle-
town to Kilmurray’s grassy
plains,
From Roristown along the Boyne
to Drinadaly bridge,
In dreams I see sweet Carey’s Cross
and that school of Batterstown
Where in bygone days as children
played in the parish of
Boardsmill.
And when I make the last journey
across the Atlantic foam
Take me to that wayside church
from where the trout stream
flows,
Then lay me down in Brannocks
town beneath that old oak tree,
And I’ll sleep a peaceful perfect
sleep in the parish of Boardsmill.
Paul Farrell, Summerhill Road, Trim.
(Air – The Felons of Our Land)
Morgan’s Well
Sometimes when I think of Brannockstown
The place where we used to dwell
I recall the delights
Of those moonlights
When we went to Morgan’s Well.
I can clearly see
You, Puxty, and me,
As down the road we ran
Singing at the top of our voices
And our drum was the big tin can.
The moon seemed to smile
As we danced on the road,
The frost lay white on the ground,
And except for the racket that we made
There wasn’t another sound
We carried the water between us,
Although it was mostly me,
And stood with our load
In the middle of the road
And sang the “Rose of Tralee.”
But Brannockstown has changed now
Since progress came to stay,
And cars race up and down that road
Every minute night and day.
And the water gushes through the taps
In that place where we used to dwell,
So workmen took their shovels
And filled in Morgan’s Well.
So whenever I think of Brannockstown
I think of you and me
And the simple things that pleased us
In those days that used to be.
The kids today their pleasure find
In “groups” that scream and yell
They’ve never know the fun we had
Just going to the well.
Maureen Connolly, London (Puxty was the family’s cat)
The Wild Kildalkey Boy
Got old folk to tell you a funny tale
of the men of days gone by,
But the one whose picture now I hail
oft passed before my eye,
Many an ancient father may keep
a memory that was a joy,
But had he heard, he’d smile in his sleep
of the wild Kildlakey boy.
In that hamlet’s repose of peace
‘neath tale and stately trees,
Laughter can never forbear to cease
but with music fans its ease.
For that figure of fun will wander by
And all cares of life destroy,
They see the merriment in the eye
of the wild Kildalkey boy.
To cover his curls he wears a hat,
at which the wind often leers
It might have served as a doormat
for at least a dozen years
With his every step it goes up and down
like the waves with a harbour buoy.
And dares you over to cast a frown
at the wild Kildlakey boy.
The mantle outlining his stalwart mion
claims no colour of its own,
As though a dictator the tailor had been
it takes every hue on loan,
While patterns deck it numbers odd
as the men at the siege of Troy
Or the daisies that bloom on the native
sod of the wild Kildalkey boy.
Cupid for him had created a form
as lovely as she is rare,
Her eyes of blue with love were warm
and gold shone in her hair.
But he threw to the winds that treasure
of his, that sweet magic he did destroy.
“I have no time for love and bliss”
said the wild Kildalkey boy.
In every shadow his face is seen
at every corner his shoulder leans
He can listen to the crooning stream
and tell you what it means
Oft at his touch did music rise,
in all her charms so coy,
And a softness he shed in many eyes
The wild Kildalkey boy.
As he took himself by with distinctive
gait, and your eyes half curious followed him on
You ask yourself why you had noticed
so late that character quaint, when the figure was gone
The aroma of even, the shadow of night,
made fragrant that memory no time can annoy,
As I last saw passing out of my sight
the Wild Kildalkey boy.
Eugene Kearney. Written about 1940.
Sweet Summerhill Memories
Methinks that when Almighty God
Created Father Adam
He said “I fear he’ll lonely be
So I’ll create a madam.”
He looked around at Eden, fair
All beautiful and bright.
And after that the sun went down
Poor Adam gasped “’Tis night!”
Now God was pleased and next day said:
‘Tis well for now I will
Create a second Eden and shall name it Summerhill.”
And now its in its beauty passed
The fairest of fair Meath,
With trees and shrubs, with cows
And calves and little lambs to bleat
With daffodils, forget-me-nots,
With asters, columbine
With roses smelling sweetly
As ivy creeps to climb
The stately trees of Springvalley
Where roars the rippling rill,
Now rushes on to meet the Boyne
Not far from Summerhill.
You may have come from ol’ Kilcock
You’re halfway on for Trim
She’s sitting there, this lady old
So proper and so prim
The castle of royal King John
Hardby the Yellow Steeple
And you’ll not find where e’er
You go a warmer-hearted people.
For they have learnt this virtue fair
By word and deed in still
From neighours wandering in
Adays from Sweet Ol’ Summerhill.
Go east to Tara’s raths and mounds
Bemuse there on its Kings;
Its banquet hall, where Patrick stood
And preached on sacred things;
Where druids picked the lyric lyre,
Whilst softly sonnets sing,
To please His Majesty Laoighaire,
A tall and fearsome King,
Or take by the Bullring to the east
To pretty church at Kill,
Returning by the Agher road
Again to Summerhill.
Go east, go west, go north, go south
Around the world wind,
Where can you if you seek throughout
A people half so kind
They’re not in Dublin’s smelly streets
In Galway or Mayo.
They’re not in London, Paris, Rome;
No matter where you go.
And when you’ve gone the world o’er
Return then to swill
The welcome there awaits you
In Sweet Ol’ Summerhill
J.J. A.C. 1955
June
The Eel-fisher:
‘She gathers wet strawberries down in Ballivor
For so I was told by a man on the Boyne,
Who pushed his old raft through a crush of bulrushes
And laughed when I told him I loved her.
Come, Playboy, now this is the day for Ballivor;
I’ll go there and leave you alone with your hounds –
While young squirrels dive here among the dark branches
And the Boyne is alive with blue salmon.”
The Fox-catcher:
‘Then, lover, O why should you go to Ballivor
To stain your proud lips with a strawberry kiss?
If she cools her red mouth with waves of the river
May the Boyne bring you that berry!’
F.R. Higgins fromFather and Son Selected Poems.
Goodnight Ballivor
In Joe McLaughlin’s General Stores
Or, as the signboard said General Joe McLaughlin Stores –
They sold Indian meal and women drawers,
Rat-traps, rashers and six-inch nails
Pints of porter, stout and ales.
Oh goodnight Ballivor. I’ll sleep in Trim.
Master Conway held sway in the village school
He taught us to rhyme and he taught us to rule
We froze in our desks as to Algebra we aspired
But we thawed out again as we read by the fire.
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
And the little townlands all around
I sing the music of their sound
Muchwood, Shanco, the Hill of Down
Portlester, Glack and Crossanstown.
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
The law as enforced by Sergeant Quinn
For whom unlighted bikes were the greatest sin
The people’s crimes kept his notebook full
Of uncut thistles and unlicensed bulls
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
We cut turf in coolronan bog, Spread it, footed it – an awful slog
But ‘twas a day off school,
so there was no hurry
As we rode home in style in Jim Rickard’s lorry.
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
In his forge the genial blacksmith Bill Kelly
Crouched beneath a horse’s belly
Amid sparks and steam and smut and smoke
He hammered and turned and shaped – a joke.
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
And do you remember the September of ‘49
When we brought home “Sam” for the very first time
Oh Cavan’s Mick Higgins never tried his tricks on
When faced by Stonewall Dixon.
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
At endless Mass on Easter morning
Father Farrell intoned the dues with warning
“One shilling each the following – Thomas Dunne Moyfeigher”
While Michael Leddy de-waxed his ears.
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
And once there came out of the sky
A mysterious German spy
He came not to plunder or to pillage
But said on seeing our sleepy village
Oh gute nacht, Ballivor, ich will in Trim schlafen.
To Sherrock’s Garage we trudged through the snow
To see Sikey dunne’s great Picture Show
And frozen to oil-pocked seat
We basked in James Cagney’s Heat.
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
On fair day for a few bob we minded cattle
And looked important with ash-plant and prattle
A deal was done with slapping of hands
And we bought Peggy’s Leg from McGovern’s van.
Oh goodnight Ballivor…
And when I come to the end of my days
Be it natural causes or nuclear haze!
Whatever waits in eternity – My last words will surely be
(Even if I am the sole survivor)
OH GOODNIGHT WORLD, I’LL SLEEP IN BALLIVOR…
John Quinn
Tobertynan Wood
I had expected to find trees
Ivy clad overhanging
the sort that flash past
Between towns
But the world stopped that day
In Tobertynan Wood as I rummaged
Among the cascades
And avalanches of early May
For something to rhyme with blue
And emerald, Lilac, faded Primrose too
I tried gorgeous
And grand was hardly a word
That one would associate
With the progress of a bumble bee
In a horse chestnut, or
The scaly bark of a sky scraping pine
It would have to be something special, I figured
An adjective perhaps
With vowels broad enough
To cover an acre of bluebells
Embrace the biggest oak
Consonants as slender as hazel
sound something like birdsong
The play of raindrops on beech leaves
The creak of ageing ash overhead.
Tommy Murray in Counting Stained Glass Windows (2009)
Longwood
I wandered back here after long years of touring
Across the broad world thro’ the queer ways of men
And I thought of the days when I first saw sweet Longwood
Though the years since my visit be two score and ten
I only came here like a young wandering minstrel
And the days when all life was a beautiful dream
And much water since has flowed under
The bridge that is over the Blackwater stream
Historic the memories, they came all a haunting
And the pike men of Meath showed the foe they were brave
And grand is the landmark for all to be scanning
The boast of good Longwood, the proud Croppy’s grave
And thus we are reminded that reverence is living
For those of the past who had liberty’s gleam
Now those were the thoughts friends, that came wishing onwards
On the bridge that is over the Blackwater stream.
I watched the calm flowing as it sped its way onward
To greet the Boyne water where King James went in flight
I saw on his white horse, the orange King Billy
Urging his myrmidons on to the fight
The vision of sorrow and bitter strife brooding
The hate and rancour, since then was its’ theme
And I wondered if ever ,we’d all be united
As I sat on the bridge of the Blackwater stream
I followed the stream on its various ways mending
Through the sally, the elm the oak and the pine
Till I felt I was nearing a ground that was sacred
And I knelt with devotion before a great shrine
The memory of Tyburn and the cruel death given
To the saintly good Prelate – then the sun shot a beam
And I felt it was a glance from the great Saint Oliver
As I sat on the bridge o’re the Blackwater stream
I minded the time when this Royal Meath was famous
For hurling and football were much to the fore
When the King up at Tara had summoned hurlers
And bards with their music, their rhyme and their lore
I thought of a rumour I heard on that morning
That Longwood was thriving, and had a good team
And I hoped that the standard would be up to my thinking
As I sat on the Bridge of the Blackwater stream
“Longwood’s hard laws beat the stranger” they’re saying
But I’ll not believe it, for I don’t think it’s true
I can vouch for their kindness to actors though strangers
In the whole of all Ireland to compare there are few
So thus I am singing this “come all ye” to please them
Tho’ crude in its making and quite senseless may seem
So fare thee well Longwood for I must be going
From the bridge that is over the Blackwater stream.
Val Vousden (1885-1951)
Val Vousden (Bill MacNevin) was an Irish actor, poet, and playwright. He was a well known entertainer and appeared on the Walton’s Sponsored Radio programme. He served in the British army as a young man and again during World War 1. He was part of a drama troupe which toured Ireland and England.
The Shamrock Hotel
Come you true sons of Erin
that want a repose.
Just step into Longwood and
you’ll get a fine dose,
Call into Montgomerys
They will treat you right well
In the grand lodging house
called the Shamrock Hotel.
It’s for ages of years this mansion has held up its name.
For indulging the blind and for helping the lame,
While Mary gets the coppers
And Mick rings the bell
And them all keeping time
In the Shamrock Hotel.
From all parts of Ireland
They come here to sleep
The cooper, the hooper, the tinker, the sweep.
There’s Kennedy and Irwin
Tint Pole and Mad Nell.
and they all flocks like crows,
To the Shamrock Hotel.
On the last ship that landed
There sailed home a yank.
A well-to-do tradesman with money in bank
At the last fair of Longwood
he cut a great swell,
With batterfaced Mag from the Shamrock Hotel.
There is Mrs Gough she got a terrible fright.
She met a big tramp in the dead of the night.
To make matters worse he was stripped in his pelt,
And he following a bug that ran off with his belt.
When the soldiers and peelers they came to the scene.
They ordered the beds to be thrown on the green.
Mag fell a fainting and Mick roared like hell
Saying we lost all we’ve made in the Shamrock Hotel.
This beautiful mansion it is going to be sold.
To the Princess of Wales in ten guineas in gold.
The haggard, the stables and the boglands as well.
They are all going in with the Shamrock Hotel.
Composed by Patrick Cullen, Clondalee, Hill of Down. “Shamrock Hotel” was a lodging house in Longwood.
The Ballad of John Doorley
Come gather round me people
And a story I will tell
About a brave United Irishman
We should remember well.
John Doorley came from Lullymore
In the heart of old Kildare
And ‘twas in the Bog of Allen
That he first drew God’s clean air.
John Doorley loved his farmstead home
But freedom twice as well
And for the sake of Ireland
At Rathangan fought so well.
When the Black Horse they rode up the street
With a show of arms and might
It was the man from Lullymore
That put them all to flight.
And on the Hill of Ovidstown
John Doorley bravely stood,
Against that foe – as well we know
Were craving rebel blood.
But in Athy where he did fly,
To raise the standard green,
John Doorley found himself alone –
No comrades could be seen.
Those Yeomen knaves – the hireling slaves,
Searched far and wide the land,
Till they came down to Longwood town
That craven, ruffian band.
And by Blackwater’s banks they found
John Doorley ‘neath a bush,
With swords upraised and eyes half crazed,
They knocked him with a rush.
Oh, they marched him far to Mullingar,
On the gallows his life he gave
And for Old Ireland’s noble cause
He found a felon’s grave.
His broken –hearted mother
From Lullymore had come
To claim the battered body
Of her darling, loving son.
But home she went with an aching heart
For the Yeoman answered “No”
That cruel band will sure be damned
Eternally, below.
God rest your soul, John Doorley,
And may Heaven be your bed;
And may the sons of Erin ne’er forget
That for Freedom’s cause you bled.
Tony Leonard.
Longwood
Longwood you are my Tir na nOg
Where we played on the green when we went to school
Cycled down Ribbontail on sunny days.
Swam and fished while daylight burned.
Black and Tans have left the street; they are part of history
Courthouse long closed down, no law to beat the stranger
No bobby in the Station to patrol and make the old feel safe.
The fairs are gone forever where the tangler tricked the farmer
Forefathers spilt their blood in Flanders and against Hitler’s folly wars.
Travelled to England for work, for Ireland was rural then.
Oh Longwood you have changed since I was a kid
A football Club where the young can make new friends
Three times more people, three times less in Church
No missionaries to shout and rant.
“Many are called but few are chosen”
Could park my Cortina at any spot along the kerb;’
Now three rows, cruisers and Pajeros and fancy cars,
Three pubs to wet our thirst
Still no chemist or butcher’s stall
But I love you dearly, like love long ago.
Oliver Slevin
Ribbontail
A balmy spring day dawns – a time to rejoice
Surrender our senses to nature’s sweet bounty
Eco Friendly
Down the boreen again we ramble
Picking blackberries on our way.
The big one’s, oh! So tempting
Lots go from hand to lips
Our jam jars take some time to fill.
Insects Pollinate Our World
Onward we go looking forward to our day
Ribbontail delightful
Young and old flock here throughout time
My thoughts rest with them awhile
Our space of wonder
Handed on from father to son.
Consider Bio-diversity
Ribbontail – the pride of the Royal Canal
We are drawn by her charm
Beneath the bridge we learn to swim;
about the banks we spread the towels.
Picnic fair is spread around.
Appearing in silence,
an elegant sight of proud swans parade their cygnets
Nature thrives given a chance.
Wild flowers, trees and hedgerows flourish.
Colourful butterflies on the wing.
Fishermen’s eyes only for their floats.
A waiting game – landing nets at the ready.
Botany is our Saviour
Hush. Listen will ye, she is coming.
We all clamber up the bridge.
Spellbinding is a train.
Spirits soar, as she clatters down the line.
Those aboard look to the bridge.
Ahh! … the lambs jump for joy, as she whistles her farewell.
Bumble Bees – A Good Indicator
Ribbontail you are the pride of the Royal Canal
Strolling along the bank is a couple hand in hand
We can tell by the way they look,
As he whispers in her ear, it won’t be long
‘till they show a diamond on her finger.
Honey Bees for Our Pleasure
Ribbontail we love you; you’re never far away,
As we lie down in bed at night
It is the train we hear go by,
sending us all to sleep.
Looking forward to the morn,
When no doubt we will be on the trail
To our lovely Ribbontail.
John Hopkins
The Haunting Shoes
Who were you, left starving shoes, among our evening shadows
For the annals would conspire to catch your sad and burdened bare-toes
When you passed this way, be it March or May, however did you quip
No shoe, no scarf, not moneys due, would you need aboard that coffin ship
You came from west, unknown the rest, that’s all is said for sure
But how could you while, so far a mile, and make such a troubled tour
In stocking feet, your soul was beat, fled from darkest dungeon
Wasn’t it hunger, that drove you yonder, like lash from devil’s truncheon
So why this place, to toughen your race, did you cast your shoes aside
Did you know, at some river show, they would be immortalised
Weren’t sorrows aplenty, with stomachs empty, and a dreaded road ahead
Yet with sorry strife, and hungered life, they would never be buried, broken, lost nor dead
Were they shoes, that danced to tunes, of the old song-writers wild
Did they chance to marry, and see you carry, that special, new-born gift of child
Or had they hurt, and lost their worth, as you still went on and on
Maybe they were left, in fear of theft, for someone following beyond
Your shoes are passed by many and such, a tourist traveller today
But few who pass that bronze are seen, to bow their head and pray
And some sure trace, the same old race, as you did upon this quay
But all should view, upon your shoes and never, ever look the other way
Me, I hope that someone found you, before you made those city docks
And they gave to you, some saving shoes all along with comfort socks
But it’s sad to say, that in those days, worst outcome feared I do
The coffin ship set sail for sure, and within its holds were you
This you should know, there’s a robin below, that resides now in this place
She appears to me, for company, and perches on your lace
She guards your shoes, with trills as blue, over you so long ago lost
Least she seems well fed, with gifts of bread…
And I think that she’s your ghost
Joseph Patrick Stenson ©
The National Famine Way commences at the National Famine Museum at Strokestown Park and finishes at the Jeanie Johnston Famine Ship and EPIC Irish Emigration Museum in Dublin. Commemorating the poignant ill-fated journey of 1,490 famine emigrants in 1847 this 165 km cross country trail follows the Royal Canal. The trail is way marked with thirty plinths and pairs of nineteenth century bronze shoe sculptures and a story has been written for each of these sculptures. There are bronze shoes along this portion of the Royal Canal at Hill of Down Harbour, Longwood Harbour, Enfield Harbour, Moyvalley Bridge and stories associated with each pair can be found on www.nationalfamineway.ie.
The Bridge
The bridge at the Hill of Down
Stumbles across the Royal Canal
And the railway tot eh west,
An awkward, narrow bridge,
A menace to motorists
But a vantage point to overlook
Three neighbouring counties.
To the right is Westmeath,
Stretching out past the lakes
Around Mullingar
And away out over the lush grass
As far as the Shannon
Rippling under the Bridge of Athlone.
Straight out ahead is Offaly,
Around the Grand Canal,
Through Edenderry, the home of the Berminghams,
Past Tullamore of the ancient dew
Till it, too, reaches the Shannon
At Clonmacnoise of the ancient kings.
Over to the left is Kildare,
The rich land God-given to Brigid,
The flat acres of the Curragh
Bringing sportsmen from the ends of the earth
To take part in racing
And maybe buy the finest of bloodstock.
But turning my back
On the threefold wealth
Of history, geography and sport
I face north
To the royal County
To Meath of Saints and Kings.
Close by is the site of the ancient monastery
Of St. Fenian of old,
And keeping beside the river Boyne,
I come to Trim
Built around the huge castle
Of notorious King John.
Onward still to Navan town
Where the Boyne joins the Blackwater
Coming down from Kells
Wehre Colmcille wrote his famous book
Still one of the world’s great treasures
Around past Slane
Whose glorious rooms
Are now reduce to ashes.
And then I thread the fields
Where Stone age men
Built Newgrange, Knowth and Dowth.
Still the river flows along
Till Drogheda comes into view,
Where Cromwell’s name
is linked with cruelty and arson
But Oliver, our own Meath saint,
Triumphed over terror.
The sea, at last, the wide sea,
The river spreads and glides along
Into its destiny.
M.Gilsenan.
The Tenants of Rathcore.
Come all ye loving Christians of every class and creed,
For Dyas is preparing to sow clover and hayseed
Where our forefathers lived two hundred years or more
He brought death and desolation on the people of Rathcore.
He gave them notice for to quit, the land being out of lease
And said you must be ready and provide some other place
They wanted him to renew their lease at £l an acre more
But he said he had his mind made up to drive them from Rathcore.
With their fathers and the mothers and their children young and small
Knows not the say or hour the sheriff he will call
To drive them from their houses and the land they did adore,
For they had full and plenty on the lands around Rathcore.
Now I mean to let the public know of Dyas from Athboy
He paid Reynolds, the Petty Sessions Clerk those people to annoy
And Reynoldsd said ye’s must go out, he will not let you’se in
But he was repulsed and driven back by Nugent, Byrne and Flynn.
I am employed by Mr. Dyas and his orders I’ll obey
I’ll be here in splendour when you’se are far away
So now give up possession, it’s long ago, ye should,
For we will never surrender to the Fenian Brotherhood.
When he spoke about the ‘Fenians’ , young Fowler of Templemore
Shot Reynolds in his parlour in December ’64
No one to recognise him the night being cold and dark
And he went back to Tipperary when he took down his mark.
This gallant bold offender went straight into the stack
He shook hay around the walls for fear he might be tracked
No one to recognize him the being cold and damp
And he went back to Templemore when he blew out the lamp.
Early the next morning when Dyas got the news it grieved his heart sore
He said he wouldn’t leave a Papist on the lands around Rathcore
No matter a priest or layman he’d never mind their talk
He’d level all before him and make a dark sheep walk.
His death was left on a gunshot the day of his inquest
The police on suspicion young Flynn they did arrest.
At Longwood Petty Sessions for him they take no bail
He had to stand trial and thank God with no avail.
Councillor Curan to get him out that day done all he could
It’s for our member McEvoy he was of little good
He and his fellow magistrate this hero sent to Trim
It’s at the next elections we’ll remember him.
Now Dyas you know you are the man left Reynolds in his clay
You know not the day or hour you may be called away
For there’s men in Tipperary who’d shoot you just for fun
And I hope they will go meet you and pay you for what you done
For that’s their country’s fashion, to fight a good cause
To shoot landlords and bad agents that’s the Tipperary laws.
Now to conclude and finish let young and old implore
The Lord may grant them patience on the lands around Rathcore
Since this exterminator he won’t renew the lease
When young Fowler he does meet him, we’ll all remain in peace.
(Thank you to Michael “Stoney” Burke for the words of this.)
The Old Bog Road
My feet are here on Broadway this blessed harvest morn.
But O’ the ache that’s in them for the sod where I was born:
My weary hands are blistered from toil in cold and heat.
And ‘tis O’, to swing a scythe today through fields of Irish wheat.
Had I my choice to journey back or own a king’s abode
‘Tis soon I’d see the hawthorn tree by the old bog road.
When I was young and innocent my mind was ill at ease
Through dreamin’ of America and gold beyant the seas.
Ouh sorrow take their money but ‘tis hard to get that same
And what’s the whole world to a man when no one speaks his name
I’ve had my day and here I am with buildin’ bricks for load.
A long three thousand miles away from the old bog road.
My mother died last springtime when Ireland’s fields were green.
The neighbours said her wakin’ was the finest ever seen
There were snowdrops and primroses piled up around her bed
And Ferns Church was crowded when her funeral Mass said
And here was I on Broadway with buildin’ bricks for load
When they carried out her coffin from the old bog road.
There was a dacent girl at home who used to walk with me
Her eyes were soft and sorrowful like moonbeams on the sea
Her name was Mary Dwyer – but that is long ago,
And the ways of god are wiser than the things a man may know
She died the year I left her, but buildin’ bricks for load
I’d best forget the times we met on the old bog road.
Och, life’s a weary puzzle, past findin’ out by man,
I take the day for what it’s worth and do the best I can
Since no one cares a rush for me what need to make a moan
I go my way and draw my pay and smoke my pipe alone
Each human must know its grief though bitter be the load
So God be with old Ireland and the old bog road.
From Teresa Brayton’s first book of poems published by P.J. Kennedy and Son, New York, 1913: Songs of the Dawn and Irish Ditties.