Tyrone had great men in the long long ago,
The pride of their country, and dread of their foes,
They all were true heroes, both hardy and tight,
As long as they stuck to the Broughdharag pipe.
But a new fangled craze has got them in its net,
And men, aye and women, all love cigarettes,
Their wrinkled appearance betokens their plight,
Since they bade an adieu to the Broughdharag pipe.
They built houses and fences a sight to be seen,
Likewise the Old Church that’s in Ballinascreen,
It’s an object to think of by day or by night,
The heroes who puffed at the Broughdharag pipe.
They were made by McGuigan, a man they call ‘Dan’,
In nice little kiln of the right size and plan,
Their colour when finished was more or less white,
And great was the fame of the Broughdharag pipe.
In Derry they made imitation ones too,
And stamped on the name when the pipes they were new,
Some said they were good and for smoking all right,
But never so grand as the Broughdharag pipe.
Some small ones, they say, have been made by the Danes,
And the fairies have smoked them again and again,
When they beat their wee drums upon Slievegallion brae,
They took their last smoke, and then threw them away.
Now the kiln it is closed, and the good men are gone,
And I sigh as I scribble my bit of a song,
The pipe and the elk have both finished their day,
And the fairies have wandered from Slievegallion brae.
Now, the boys and the girls to cities incline,
And the dolls have been flung out to toss with the wind,
And the last fairy colours are fading away,
Where they were discarded on Slievegallion brae.
(March 1955)
George Barnett 