As I Rode by Granard Moat (9 page)

I am the mountainy singer –

The voice of the peasant’s dream,

The cry of the wind on the wooded hill,

The leap of the fish in the stream.

Quiet and love I sing –

The carn on the mountain crest,

The cailín in her lover’s arms,

The child at its mother’s breast.

Beauty and peace I sing –

The fire on the open hearth,

The cailleach spinning at her wheel,

The plough in the broken earth.

Travail and pain I sing –

The bride on the childing bed,

The dark man labouring at his rhymes,

The ewe in the lambing shed.

Sorrow and death I sing –

The canker come on the corn,

The fisher lost on the mountain loch,

The cry at the mouth of morn.

No other life I sing,

For I am sprung of the stock

That broke the hilly land for bread,

And built the nest in the rock!

Red brick in the suburbs, white horse on the wall,

Eyetalian marbles in the City Hall:

O stranger from England, why stand so aghast?

May the Lord in His mercy be kind to Belfast.

This jewel that houses our hopes and our fears

Was knocked up from the swamp in the last hundred years;

But the last shall be first and the first shall be last:

May the Lord in His mercy be kind to Belfast.

We swore by King William there’d never be seen

An All-Irish Parliament at College Green,

So at Stormont we’re nailing the flag to the mast:

May the Lord in His mercy be kind to Belfast.

O the bricks they will bleed and the rain it will weep,

And the damp Lagan fog lull the city to sleep;

It’s to hell with the future and live on the past:

May the Lord in His mercy be kind to Belfast.

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.

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 thrapple

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.

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.