It was round by stoney Corrick, with its light and hungry sward,
That fodder it was always scarce, so winter time was hard,
But Erin’s sons are fit to toil, for them it was but fun,
So they brought out their reaping hooks, for the gathering of the whin.
The whins were quickly carried home, and chopped on wooden floors,
And melled upon their melling stones, and often turned o’er,
And so the stones were kept in use, ’till winter time was past,
And the gathering, and the melling, it was finished up at last.
The farmers would go far and near, for the best and youngest sprouts,
And their cattle they would milk a lot, and that without a doubt,
Their ponies they were fit for work, and could trot along with ease,
And soon pass the weaker ones, whatever time they pleased.
Now Tullybrick and Owenreagh too, both had their melling stones,
At every farm there was one, convenient to the home,
I often saw them used as such, and the mells brought into play,
And I sigh when’ere I do recall, the good men of my day.
There was Mickey Frank Gillespie and brave Thomas Murphy too,
And Mellon and Pat Deane as well, and Pat McWilliams true,
And the Lagans and the Flanagans and Geordie Barnett bold,
James Tam Gillespie, John McCann and brave Dan Gray of old.
The mells were hooped with iron, which rang out on the stones,
And the work it made the muscles, though it injured not the bones,
And the fragrance of the pounded whins was something of a treat,
And the horse which got his rightful share, was a horse you couldn’t beat.
But those days are all over, and, will ne’er return again,
The swift and hardy ponies, and the brave and gallant men,
Are Irish men now better off, or have they greater fun,
Than, when they sang their old-time songs, at the melling of the whins.
George Barnett 