I often smile in pensive mood, when I think of the spirit then,
The deserted village was the home of those hearty hurling men.
They gave their best when times were hard, emigration took its toll,
Loyal to the end, God fearing men, undaunted by storm or snow.
We can’t forget their neighbouring team, Kenmare, their ally proud,
Who beat Lixnaw in ’42, midst shouts and cheers and crowds.
Jer Mac, who dwells in Main Street,captained them with pride
Gus Maybury and his brother George adorned the Kenmare side.
Johnny Thady from beloved Cross roads and Tullig’s Michael Ned,
Were Roughty’s boys, who swung the ash,
Dick Aldwell, long since dead.
Sonny Palmer, O’Sullivan Flor, the Mountains,Denis and
Tadhg, Mick Lynch, Young Gaule from Kilkenny and
McCarthy from Shannon’s side,
Pat Dan Mick O’ Sullivan, and many another lad,
Brought fame to Inbhear Sceine ,making selector Ted Clifford glad.
Many the brilliant match we watched in Fr. Breen’s Park renowned,
Between the rivals of our vale, the Village and the Town,
They played like mighty swordsmen,
you could hear the clash of ash,
Years later, Tony Murphy and his team mates,
were surely upper class.
Then very shortly after that ,the rivals would unite,
The best of them were picked to play for Kerry, side by side,
I’ve often been to Croke Park and Pairc Ui Chaoimh in Cork,
But OH, for those dashing hurlers away in the distant past.
They played the game with might and pride,
with spirit and good cheer,
The leather sliotar and caman by Roughty’s gliding stream.
To all of them, who still survive, you gave of your very best,
And to those of you all gone above, may you lie in peace and rest. .
PS; In remembrance of the good old days, and in
grateful appreciation of all those hurlers,
living and dead, who brought such joy to my
ancestors and indeed to all my own generation,
who graced the Banks of the Roughty.
Fe choimirce De agus Muire go raibh siad uilig.
Ni bheidh a leitheid ann aris.
WHO?
Who comes to our homesteads,
When trouble haunts our lives?
When aged folks are dying,
Or the passing of a child.
Who pours the blessed water,
Baptising new born babes,
Offering holy Mass each morning.
Who takes the good Lord’s place?
Who lifts his hands in blessing,
With the angels all around,
Watched by our blessed Mother,
The Queen of Heaven crowned.
Who lives alone, all on his own
Away from friends and kin,
Yet always there to answer calls,
From local women and men.
Who sits each week in Confessional,
In Winter cold or Spring,
Consoling us, our troubled souls,
How many think of him?
He too is only human,
With aches like you and me,
He feels the pangs of loneliness,
But hides his pain and grief.
Yet ere we leave this world of clay,
Journeying towards Heaven’s land,
Let’s hope we see his welcome face,
And the touch of his blessed hand.
Who is this one so precious,
With a smile, he’ll always greet,
Who else but God’s own messengers,
Our own beloved priests.
Yet just because some of them stray,
Two percent or three,
Why should we blame, the rest who care,
Vengeance in word and deed.
If each one just remembered,
The Lord’s own word I’ll quote,
Let he, who is without a sin,
Aim to throw the very first stone,
Who helped our folks in former days,
By the Mass Rocks of our land,
Dying they, yet kept the faith,
Led on by a priestly hand.
And still to day in missions grey,
They toil from west to east.
Who else is there with spiritual care ,
Our Brothers, Nuns and Priests.
KILGARVAN BALLROOM OF ROMANCE,
’Twas in the dance hall in Kilgarvan,
the action all began,
A short walk from the graveyard,
and midnight’s hour at hand.
The Ladies gathered earlier,
some sat, some stood in rows,
Awaiting for the pubs to close,
as they powdered cheeks and nose.
And then the noisy entrance of
males both old and young,
Some unsteady on their feet,
all set for a good night’s fun. .
The strains of lovely music
entranced the lads and girls,
The Incheese Kellihers and their band,
like sounds from another world.
A line of girls stood stately,
along the grey-brown wall,
Being studied with cautious glances
by the men across the hall.
Ah the waltzes and the foxtrots
and a bit of Ceili too
Sent ripples through our heart strings
and brought sweat a pouring through.
Our partners pranced and danced with glee
till the early hours of morn
’Twas ofThen two or three o’clock,
at the crowing cocks we scorned,
How great it was to trip around
with a chap who could really dance,
With one’s head upon his shoulder
and the touch of his strong sound grasp.
But woe betide, misfortune,
’twas many another bloke Who jumped
right on our corns and nearly broke our toes.
“Will you do a whirl with me,”says he,
how right he said his words,
’Twas like being up in Carrantoole,
a sheltering from wild birds.
No need for massage parlours,
in those far of bygone years.
Because we got more pawing
as we danced midst shouts and cheers.
Quite often there, some met their fate,
in the good old plain dance halls,
Astanding there aglowing
they got their marriage call.
They courted in each glade and wood,
or by the station rails,
Some ventured to the graveyard
with its big dark iron gate,
Kilgaryan had some shops so nice,
well centred, clean and neat,
Then down the village we would roam,
our clans men true to meet.
We drank a soft red mineral,
it was orange or lemonade,
Or icecream mixed with lime juice,
ah, it was a welcome treat.
Those boys had no great riches,
but they were generous to the core,
They shared their menial earnings,
and came from happy homes.
The music was soft and lulling,
we had time to chat and talk,
As we danced to the glorious rhythm,
of the foxtrot and the waltz.
Songs 1 hear in memory’s ear,
haunt me clear and loud,
1 can hear the strains of “Sweet Sixteen”
or romantic “Now is the Hour.”
“Forever and forever,
as our partners politely bowed,
1 can almost hear the music dear of
“I wonder who’se kissing him Now,”
They came from Bantry and Kenmare
from Incheese and Cork’s Coolea,
From Bonane, and Tahilla, Templenoe,
Tuosist, and from across the waves,
Mangerton, Letter. Black valley,
Crossroads and Roughty Vale,
Cleady, Killowen and Tullig,
and Cork City on Drag hunt Day.
Ah some of them dressed in grandeur,
while others couldn’t care a damn,
They wore their Sunday caipins,
and the best suits that they had,
Few owned a car , or even a bike,
but they sauntered without a care,
They bid goodbye to the old dance hall,
and left for the U,S.A,
We sang them songs like “Noreen Ban,”
and wished them on their way,
Some returned once or twice
but others we ne’er saw again.
Their names are read at Mass time still,
when the good priest asks us to pray,
For John or Pat or Jim or Joe,
who has died in Americae.
1 feel the pain in my heart sometimes,
when 1 think of those good old days.
As we danced with joy, in peace and love,
in that dance hall white and grey,
1 ‘ve danced in Crystal Ballrooms,
in luscious clubs aglow,
But the very corner of my heart
is still with the long ago.
I think when heaven calls me
I hope it is like that hall,
Where we danced in childish innocence,
And fell in love with all.
The young folks of to- day , Alas.
Cannot hear their partners speak,
Because the music’s noisy,
and dancing is not what it used to be.
With our heads upon their shoulders,
we glided o’er the foor,
Our minds were filled with a peaceful mirth
That could not be bought for gold.
Och! I could go on forever
and drop a few salty tears,
Let’s hope we meet in heaven
and dance again cheek to cheek,
I can almost see the good Lord smile,
when he sees how easily pleased
We were in those far off days gone by,
when we danced in peace and ease.
WRITTEN IN 63, KERRYMOUNT RISE ON THE 20TH DEC 2008
Three weeks have passed
Since we laid you in cold clay,
I still see your snow-white hair,
And your welcome eyes closed in death,
I cry often, when I think of you,
Your welcome smile, gentle style,
But I feel a thought of hope,
You are still floating above me,
Watching my every move,
I even imagine you there,
If I almost slip and fall
A spirit hovering, still watching.
But the pain returns, I realize,
Your human frame gone,
This Christmas without you,
I gaze at your last card, which says,
In colourful words, which I believe,
“Mag, I love you, happy Christmas”
A line of xxxx,which live forever,
From last Christmas, until we meet in spirit,
In that land beyond the sky.
Where you and I
Will hold hands again,
Midst crowds of Angel friends.
On way to Cork in train to catch bus for Shannon, for wedding in
Lake Garda, Italy.
MEMORIES
On way to Cork in train,Oct. 3Rd, 09
My first trip away from you,
I feel alone midst crowds
Of smiling people.
The empty seat, near me
Says all.
Holding back tears
Make things worse.
My only desire
Wish you were here.
But deep inside
I know you are here.
I can’t see you but
I feel your spirit
Can’t keep away.
And never will
Until we both
Grace the spirit world
Whenever that may be
Keep your nearest seat for me.
Poems for All Occasions Page 11