It’s to hell with the future and live on the past:
May the Lord in His mercy be kind to Belfast.
Then back we went, in our faraway talk, to Marshall, the Reverend, of Sixmilecross, recalling his epic in two poems about a tough old farmer by the name of Wee Robert:
SARAH ANN
I’ll change me way of goin’, for me head is gettin’ grey,
I’m tormented washin’ dishes, an’ makin’ dhraps o’ tay;
The kitchen’s like a midden, an’ the parlour like a sty,
There’s half a fut o’ clabber on the street outby:
I’ll go down agane the morra on me kailey to the Cross
For I’ll hif to get a wumman, or the place’ll go to loss.
I’ve fothered all the kettle, an’ there’s nothin’ afther that
But clockin’ roun’ the ashes wi’ an oul’ Tom cat;
Me very ears is bizzin’ from the time I light the lamp,
An’ the place is like a graveyard, bar the mare wud give a stamp,
So often I be thinkin’ an’ conthrivin’ for a plan
Of how to make the match agane with Robert’s Sarah Ann.
I used to make wee Robert’s of a Sunday afther prayers,
– Sarah Ann wud fetch the taypot to the parlour up the stairs;
An’ wance a week for sartin I’d be chappin’ at the dure,
There wosn’t wan wud open it but her, ye may be sure;
An’ then – for all wos goin’ well – I got a neighbour man
An’ tuk him down to spake for me, an’ ax for Sarah Ann.
Did ye iver know wee Robert? Well, he’s nothin’ but a wart,
A nearbegone oul’ divil with a wee black heart,
A crooked, crabbit crathur that bees nether well nor sick,
Girnin’ in the chimley corner, or goan happin’ on a stick;
Sure ye min’ the girl for hirin’ that went shoutin’ thro’ the fair,
‘I wunthered in wee Robert’s, I can summer anywhere.’
But all the same wee Robert has a shap an’ farm o’ lan’,
Ye’d think he’d do it dacent when it came to Sarah Ann,
She bid me axe a hundther’d, an’ we worked him up and down,
The deil a hate he’d give her but a cow an’ twenty poun’;
I pushed for twenty more forbye to help to build a byre,
But ye might as well be talkin’ to the stone behind the fire.
So says I till John, me neighbour, ‘Sure we’re only lossin’ time,
Jist let him keep his mollye, I can do without her prime,
Jist let him keep his daughter, the hungry-lukin’ nur,
There’s jist as chancy weemin, in the countryside as her.’
Man, he let a big thravalley, an’ sent us both – ye know,
But Sarah busted cryin’, for she seen we maned till go.
Ay she fell till the cryin’, for ye know she isn’t young,
She’s nearly past her market, but she’s civil with her tongue.
That’s half a year or thereaways, an’ here I’m sittin’ yit,
I’ll change me way of goin’, ay I’ll do it while I’m fit,
She’s a snug welldoin’ wumman, no better in Tyrone,
An’ down I’ll go the morra, for I’m far too long me lone.
The night the win’ is risin’ an’ it’s comin’ on to sleet,
It’s spittin’ down the chimley on the greeshig at me feet,
It’s whistlin’ at the windy, an’ it’s roarin’ roun’ the barn,
There’ll be piles of snow the morra on more than Mullagharn;
But I’m for tacklin’ Sarah Ann; no matter if the snow
Is iverywhere shebowin; when the morra comes I’ll go.
THE RUNAWAY
[A Sequel to ‘Sarah Ann’]
I towl yez afore about marryin’
How the notion come intil me head;
I wos livin’ in dhurt an’ amdasbut
I wos pushioned with tay an’ white bread.
I wos puddlin’ at shirts in a bucket,
I wos baffled with sarvints an’ fowl,
An’ wan night with me feet in the ashes
I rusted – I did, be my sowl.
Sarah Ann, sure yez heerd about her too,
But yez didn’t hear more nor the half;
She’s a fessend oul’ thing, but her father
Wee Robert he’s tarble well-aff.
But, boys, when I mentioned the fortune,
Ye’d a thought when the argymint riz
That he hadn’t the nails for to scratch with,
He’s as mane as get-out, so he is.
Well, he cooled in the skin he got hot in,
He got lave, the crookedoul’ cowlt,
No fault till his daughter, I left her
But I foun’ meself still in a howlt.
Sure the bread that I baked wos like concrete,
An’ the butther – now I wud consate,
The man that can ate his own butther
There’s nawthin’ that man cudn’t ate.
I’d a litther of pigs to sit up wi’,
An’ pigs is like Christians – man, dear,
Ye’d a thought they wor sthrivin’ to tell me
‘We’re lost for a wumman up here.’
Calves died on me, too, in the spring-time,
The kettle got foundered in rain,
Hens clocked, or they took the disordher,
An’ me heart warmed till Sarah agane.
So I went, an’ if Robert wos hasky,
Sarah Ann wos as nice as cud be,
She done well, for who wud she get now?
Deil a wan if she didn’t get me.
But her father had still lik a coolness,
Not wan word of welkim he dhrapt
Nor he nivir sayed what he wud give her,
He wos dotin’, she sayed – he wos apt!
I got full in the June fair of Carmin,
I rid home, an’ I met Sarah Ann,
– The thurf wos near ridy for clampin’
An’ a wumman can give a good han’ –
Sez I, ‘Wull ye come for a half-wan?
Ye’ll not. Well, listen to this.
Yon hirplin gazaybo, yir father,
He’ll say nether ay, naw nor yis.’
So sez I, I’ll not stan’ it no longer,
Ye can take me or lave me, an’ min’
Here’s the cowlt can take me in the seddle,
With you an’ yir bardhix behin’.
So come on now, or stan’ there for iver,
Come on now, quet scratchin’ your chin,
It’s a runaway, that’s what we’ll make it,
Till Tamson’s up there in Cloghfin.’
Sure I knowed she wud come, sure I knowed it.
Is it hir? Boys, she just made a bowlt,
Got a shawl an’ whusked it about her,
Got stredlegs behin’ on the cowlt.
Ay, stredlegs, for that’s the way weemin
Bees ridin’ the horses all now;
But heth, ’Twos an odd-lukin’ runaway,
For the cowlt had to walk like a cow.
Oul’ Tamson wos gled for to see us,
A‘dacent, he done what wos right,
He sent for the dhrink an’ the neighbours,
We had dancin’ an’ tay the whole night.
We got dhrunk, an’ we fell till the fightin’,
Be me sang oul’ John’s purty tyugh,
It wos prime how he leathered all roun’ him
An’ him jist as full as a shugh.
Big Jim ketched a howlt o’ me whuskers,
Sez I, ‘Ye can thry yirself, Jim,’
But me bowl Sarah Ann with a potstick
She soon lif her thrademark on him.
‘Ye unsignified ghost!’ sez his mother,
An’ with that jist before he cud wink
She ketched Sarah Ann be the t
hrapple
An’ whammeld her right in the sink.
When weemin gets wicked they’re tarra,
Ye’ll not intherfair if yir wise,
For ten townlans wudn’t settle
The birl that two weemin can rise.
It wos nearly been that up in Tamson’s,
We fought from the fire till the dure,
We fought – if ye’sdsay it wos fightin’,
We fought in a heap on the flure.
That an’ all we got grate afore mornin’,
We wor frens throughother ye see;
John yocked just afther wir brekwis,
An’ we stharted for Robert’s, iz three.
But we nivir thought what we wor in for,
Heth naw, we dhrive up at a throt,
But the welkim wos sharp, ’twos a pitchfork,
An’ that’s all the welkim we got.
Boys, ye nivir seen sichin a han’lin,
I wos thunnersthruck wathchin’ the birl,
The oul’ da limpin’ out wi’ the pitchfork,
An’ the frens makin’ glam for the girl,
They dhregged her out over the tailboord,
She screamed, but I darn’t intherfair,
An’ they sliped her – aw lominty father,
They sliped her right in to the stair.
The gowls of wee Robert wos tarra,
The veins riz like coards on his skull,
‘How dar ye? How dar ye? How dar ye?
I’ll take ye to coort, so I wull.’
He miscalled me for all the oul’ thurfmen,
All iver ye heerd he went through,
Sez I, ‘Ye may go till the bad place,
I’m as good jist as she is, or you.’
An’ sez I, ‘Me oul’ boy, yir as ignornt,
As a pig let loose in a fair,’
Oul’ Tamson broke in an’ he toul’ him
He cudn’t fetch guts till a bear.
Well, boys, he wos frothin’ with anger,
The spittles flew from him a parch,
But what good wos that? We wor done for,
We just had to lave him an’ march.
I come home. I sot down in the kitchen,
Thinks I, ‘I’ll go through with it now,’
So I riz an’ went back till oul’ Tamson’s
(He wos puttin’ a ring in the sow),
An’ sez I, ‘I’ve a five naggin bottle,
Put a coat on ye, John, it’s like rain,
Iz two’ll go up to Long Francey’s
An’ tell him I’ll take Liza Jane.’
Sez he, ‘Ye’ve no call to be hasty,’
Sez I, ‘Aw yis I hev call,
When the biz gets out through the country,
I’ll not get a wumman at all.’
Sez he, ‘Liza Jane – who wud she be?’
‘The fat wan,’ sez I, ‘she can plow,’
‘Be me sowl,’ sez oul’ John, ‘it’s a tarra,
But no matther, I’ll go with ye now.’
So that’s how I got me big wumman,
We settled it quick, so we did,
I’m content, she’s a brave civil crathur,
An’ quate, an’ diz what she’s bid.
Not hard to keep up, that’s a good thing
When times isn’t good on the lan’,
She’s young, but she’s settled, an’ more too,
She can work in the bog like a man.
She has no backspangs in her ether,
No harm in her more nor a hen,
If I take maybe wan or two half-wans
She nivir gets up on her en’.
Sarah Ann can now hannel a potstick,
If that’s any affset – a mane
Takin’ wan thing jist with the other
I’m thankful I picked Sarah Jane.
We talked then of our friend Michael J. Murphy, folklorist and storyteller, whose wonderful book At Slieve Gullion’s Foot (1941) told of old ways and happier days. And we sang an old ballad we had first heard from Michael, its words as rough and unhewn as the rocks of that mythological mountain:
THE BOYS OF MULLAGHBAWN
On a Monday morning early my wandering steps did lead me
Down by a farmer’s station, through meadows and green lawn,
Where I heard great lamentations the small birds they were making
Saying: ‘We’ll have no more engagements on the hills of Mullaghbawn.’
I beg your pardon ladies, and ask you as a favour,
I hope it is no treason now what I’m going to say.
I’m condoling late and early, my very heart is breaking
All for a noble lady that lives near Mullaghbawn.
Squire Jackson he is ranging for honour and for treasure,
He never did turn traitor nor betray the Rights of Man.
But now we are in danger by a wicked, deceiving stranger
Who has ordered transportation for the Boys of Mullaghbawn.
Far and near the seas were roaring, the billows they were flowing,
As those heroes crossed over I thought the sea would yawn.
The trout and salmon gaping, the cuckoo left her station,
Fare you well old Erin, and the Boys of Mullaghbawn.
These days, alas, there can be funny things going on around Mullaghbawn. But, far away in California, Bertie the Poet and myself had nothing but happy thoughts and we talked of that notable Ulsterman of music and balladry, David Hammond, who had once written out for me two special verses about Old Ardboe on the Loughshore:
You Gods assist my poor weary notion,
You Inspired Muses lend me your hand,
Till I exhort my quill without blot or blemish,
Till I set forth the praises of this lovely strand
That’s well situated in the North of Ireland,
Being all in the County of sweet Tyrone,
Joining the banks of Lough Neagh’s bright waters,
Is that ancient fabric they call Old Ardboe.
Now I stood in amazement to view the harbour
Where the purling streams they do gently flow,
Where the trout and salmon were nimbly sporting,
Which brings more order to you, Old Ardboe.
Now I’ve travelled Roosia and a part of Proosia,
I have travelled Spain and all along the Rhine,
But in all my rakings and undertakings
Ardboe your equal I never could find.
And to bring us close to the last Irish refuge of the Great Hugh O’Neill, in Glanconkyne, on the border of Derry and Tyrone, Davy Hammond had also written out for me the praises of Wild Slieve Gallen Brae:
Once I loved a damsel but, alas, she proved untrue,
I thought to climb those mountains her cottage to view
And whether it was magic or enchantment led the way
Till at length I reached the summit of wild Slieve Gallen Brae.
I thought to view her cottage, as Cupid led my heart,
Or whether ‘twould be better to rise up and to part
Or to walk around with pleasure and let fancy guide the way,
To view the works of Nature, on wild Slieve Gallen Brae.
I viewed the groves and valleys along its rugged side,
Likewise the stoney battery where timid rabbits hide,
And the moorcock he kept crowing, the pleasures of that day
All among the moss and heather on wild Slieve Gallen Brae.
As I sat down my limbs to rest, beyond yon pathless scar,
In view of many an object anear and afar,
The hills of County Antrim and the waters of Lough Neagh,
To me they shone like diamonds bright, from wild Slieve Gallen Brae.
Just over in the heather not very far away
I spied a lovely damsel fair a-stepping on her way,
Said I, ‘My comely damsel what brought you here this day
Among this lonely wilderness of wild Sliev
e Gallen Brae?’
With slow hesitation her tale she thus began
Saying, ‘Once I was deluded by a very false young man,
He promised he would marry me but he sailed across the say
And left me here to mourn and weep on wild Slieve Gallen Brae.’
*We have the Irish again.
II
From Ulster to Leinster
So you might say I had to go all the way to Pomona to begin to make my way out of Ulster, and then only to bring Ulster with me to an Ulster poet. So let us go south for a bit, and to go south we must cross the Boyne.
Sixty-six years ago, in the company of my father, I first made that crossing. As the train went over the great viaduct two decent men in our coach stood solemnly to attention. Afterwards my father explained to me that they did so in pious commemoration of another crossing upstream at Oldbridge. So in memory of those two men here are the words of the song as Halliday Sparling gave it in his Irish Minstrelsy, where he explains:
This version of the ‘Boyne Water’ is in universal use among the Orangemen of Ireland, and is the only one ever sung by them. But that it is not the original song, written nigh two centuries ago, is perfectly certain. Fragments of the old ‘Boyne Water’, as still remembered in the North, are next given.
July the first in Oldbridge town,
There was a grievous battle,
Where many a man lay on the ground,
By the cannons that did rattle.
King James he pitched his tents between
The lines for to retire;
But King William threw his bomb-balls in,
And set them all on fire.
Thereat engaged they vowed revenge
Upon King William’s forces,
And often vehemently cried
That they would stop their courses;
A bullet from the Irish came,
Which grazed King William’s arm,
As I Rode by Granard Moat Page 8