Month: April 1965

Around by Blackrock in the County Tyrone,
Are numbers of circles and big standing stones,
At Michael McMahon’s they stand by the score,
About his wee farm, around by Beaghmore.

The stones were set up before any peat grew,
And just have a look and you’ll find it is true,
The most of them’s neatly set up on their end,
And some people say, by the bold ‘Beaker-Men!.

There’s a man they call ‘May’ who comes down from Coleraine,
If he’s hunting for treasure, I fear it’s in vein,
He digs with a spade, and much time he does spend,
To look for a trace of the bold ‘Beaker-Men!.

Ceremonial occasions they often had there,
They knew every day, aye, and week in the year,
For fifty-two weeks they had stones in a ring,
Thirteen in a line for the time the call Spring.

The same for Summer, that time of great joy,
Twenty-six for the Autumn and Winter stands nigh,
Four stones that are bigger stand up in a line,
For midsummer sunrise and midwinter time.

One stone by the circle’s a day it appears,
Another convenient makes out the leap years,
You can soon make them out, if you look the place o’er,
Twixt the eastern circle and mighty big four.

There’s many more stones which are buried in peat,
Which can’t be made out ’till the diggings complete,
I’m thinking — although it may be but a craze,
That some are for months. the remainder for days.

But one thing I’ll say, and it isn’t to mock,
The set up their time by the very best clock,
It’s all sorted out by the sun or the moon,
And it can’t go astray to the last crack of doom.

O, hone, O hone, for Draperstown, for she has suffered ill,
She ne’er will be the same again, she has lost her Tonagh hill,
The ancient clock may tick and strike, upon the ancient Hall,
But gloom lies heavy on the place, and trouble over all.

For Council men came down our way and laid their mighty plans,
To take our glorious hill away, that made our village grand,
They little thought of shortening days, with winter storms their fill,
When mighty winds and snow and hail come roaming o’er the hills.

So mighty tools were brought along, to push, to dig, to swing,
No house or hedge could check their work, nor any other thing,
Paul Crilly’s hedge went with the rest, his heart is filled with woe,
For the road is high before his door and his house is standing low.

The little break where stood the well, is filled up good and high,
No sparkling water lies at hand, to gleam before your eyes,
A sweeping grade is all that’s left, to take the water’s place,
And the shine of cars as they pass by, all at their greatest pace.

So now goodbye to Tonagh hill, which broke the storms of old,
The young, the old may perish now, a-shivering in the cold,
While the wealthy folk can speed along, can speed along at will,
Upon a road that’s graded well, where stood our Tonagh hill.

The old town clock can tick away, but who the tale can tell,
Of all who strode down Tonagh hill, the market crowds to swell,
The Fair days too brought many in, to see where stock was sold,
By farmers rich to dealing men, for the gathering of the gold.

But now those days are past and gone, for all stock graded are,
They travel too along the road in big and weighty cars,
Gone is the day when dealing folk could treat their cattle ill.
And gone is, too, for evermore, our dear old Tonagh hill.

Grandpapa he was no fool,
When he fitted his home with ‘creepie’ stools,
They did quite well and seemed quite neat,
As they sat on the floor on their three feet.

But modern ways give me despair,
When ‘ere I use a four-legged chair,
They giggle about and soon break down,
To leave you stranded on the ground.

The ‘creepie’ does by fire or door,
And steady stands on any floor,
You can sit on one to take your tea,
Or drink your glass, if you’re on the ‘spree’.

They are made of any kind of wood,
Beech or ash are much approved,
Elm or oak stands any strain,
And fir would last for ever amen.

So I may go back to the old ways,
And use the ‘creepies’ of other days,
To sit by the fire and take my tea,
Or nurse my lassie on my knee.

For, Grandpapa he was no fool,
When he fitted his home with ‘creepie’ stools,
I’ll get the wood approved of yore,
And they yet may stand on my flagged floor.

The Sixtowns is a lovely glen amongst the mountains brown,
Where streams as clear as crystal, from the hills come tumbling down,
Where streams as clear as crystal are by gushing streams set free,
O, the Sixtowns is a grand old spot, the only spot for me.

It’s fields they are the greenest, of Irish fields so green,
There is no place in all the land, like lovely Ballinascreen,
Where flowers bloom so gaily and green shamrocks deck the lea,
O, the Sixtowns is a grand old spot, the only spot for me.

The girls there are beautiful as everybody knows,
More lovely than the daisy or a freshly blooming rose,
Their lips are like the cherries red, when ripe upon a tree,
O, the Sixtowns is a grand old spot, the only spot for me.

And Sixtowns men are kindly, the kindest that I know,
The stranger finds in them good friends, and never finds a foe,
The stranger finds in them good friends, as kind as kind can be,
O, the Sixtowns is a grand old spot, the only spot for me.

There may be lands that’s fairer, than this little glen so green,
There may be lands that’s richer, than this part of Ballinascreen,
But, O, my heart still warms to it, and there I love to be,
O, the Sixtowns is a grand old spot, the only spot for me.

O, Lissan is a lovely spot and very well it’s known,
It stands in Co. Derry and convenient to Tyrone,
Churchtown is lying near at hand and somewhat further o’er,
You may find that lovely village that the folk call “Moneymore”.

Now if you come down Lissan way, in need of drink or grub,
You had better call at Kelly’s, for he has a famous pub,
You will be sure to find it, for he keeps good drink galore,
And you’ll see the name of Kelly, just a bit above the door.

Now Kelly has a famous cow, a springer too the same,
And he was looking forward to the handling of the cream,
Till he found her down one morning, and was very much surprised,
To see her lying helpless, completely paralysed.

He grabbed her quickly by the tail and found that it was slack,
Thinks he, it’s “slip-tail” she has got, and working in the back,
I’ll send for brave McCully, he’s a very useful man,
But the case it was quite baffling, the cow she seemed so bad.

Now Kelly he bethought himself of an old time country cure,
And hurried off to the Sixtowns, the same for to secure,
He had to race about a bit, which made his heart feel sore,
Till at last he was directed to a place called Tobermore.

Soot, rue and garlic was the stuff, the stuff for which he came,
Saltpetre too and butter for the blending of the same,
Likewise a little salt as well and a handful of goose dung,
To make the plaster hold on fast, until the work was done.

The neighbours heard about the case, and came the cow to view,
They wanted to help Kelly for he was their neighbour too,
McCracken he was early there, likewise brave John Cahoon,
John Conlon too and Matthew, and all in the best of tune.

Now John Cahoon the plaster made, and that with a big knife,
The rest kept well away from him, being frightened of their lives,
And Kelly then took up the blade to give the tail a score,
And they tied the plaster on to stick, as if for evermore.

But the plaster quickly did its work, and the cow got on her feet,
And Kelly took them to the bar and gave them all a treat,
So they gave three cheers for Kelly sure I think I hear them now,
O, they gave three cheers for Kelly, aye, and likewise for the cow.

O, there is a village in which I take pride,
Fairer than any by the Foyle or Lagan’s side,
‘Tis in Moyola valley where the river hurries down,
And I’ll tell to you its name, it is called “Draperstown”.

Slievegallion lies south of it, I want you to know,
Like to the mountains by the clear winding Roe,
The Sperrins lie north-west of it, all heather clad and brown,
And they all lie convenient to my dear native town.

The Carntogher mountains, they are lovely and grand,
And just as fair as any in our dear native land,
They have grass upon their sides and with heather on the crown,
And they add a lovely charm to our dear native town.

But it is not the landscapes, though fair they may seem,
Which makes me love Draperstown, in dear old Ballinascreen,
‘Tis the lads and lasses and all who dwell around,
And O, boys, but I’m proud of my dear native town.

It was from this spot that the famous Henry came,
Whose rise as a lawyer brought him honour to his name,
And it’s girls are the finest you could find on any ground,
You could love all the girls in our dear native town.

It stands on a rise by Moyola’s green side,
In the bosom of a valley that is beautiful and wide,
With a road across the mountains for to bring the traffic down,
And success be yours for ever, O, my dear native town.

Its business is humming as a stranger could tell,
‘Tis on the route of buses and motor cars as well,
Its people are all happy and they never wear a frown.
And O, boys, But I’m proud of my dear native town.

Let Draperstown flourish in yon valley so green,
O, let Draperstown flourish at Ballinascreen,
Its workshops be filled, and its houses be grand,
And its people a credit to all Ireland.

Let factories arise with their chimneys on high,
And the noise of industry roll up to the sky,
Let its people be happy, both orange and green,
O, let Draperstown flourish at Ballinascreen.

Its boys they are brave and its maidens are gay,
And I’ll sing of my home town by night and by day,
There is nothing to beat it where’ere I have been,
O, let Draperstown flourish at Ballinascreen.

There are towns that are bigger and richer by far,
But I don’t care about them wherever they are,
For my hearts at that spot in yon valley so green,
O, let Draperstown flourish at Ballinascreen.

I would like it to grow, I would like it to spread,
As it stands in the valley, in which I was bred,
And I picture it oft by Moyola’s clear stream,
O, let Draperstown flourish at Ballinascreen.

There’s a beauty around it, which few can describe,
From the shores at Lough Fea, to the green fields at Glebe,
From the banks at Lough Ouske to the Tonagh fields green,
O, let Draperstown flourish at Ballinascreen.

There are roads all around it, and hedges and fields,
And the valley in season, a rich harvest yields,
And the dairies are filled up with good milk and cream,
O, let Draperstown flourish at Ballinascreen.

I am a little bachelor, I’m getting old and grey,
I own a bit land on the hillside at Owenreagh,
My house is big and empty, and in an awful plight,
As it’s green with moss and other things, where one time it was white,
But I’m not inclined to worry, as its built of stone and lime,
And if Hitler doesn’t level it, it might do me my time,
I haven’t got a woman, and wouldn’t let one in,
As I’m fit to do my cooking in my wee black tin,

O, I once had a pan, and could make a little fry,
But it’s in a hundred pieces in the garden over by,
But I still have a pot, to wash my underclothes,
And it’s wonderful the that the soap and ‘Rinso’ goes,
I can patch, I can darn, if there’s any wool around,
And I’m saving up my coupons for a day at Draperstown,
I haven’t got a worry, and no troubles am I in,
If the soot would keep from falling in my wee black tin.

O, there are mice at my place, and a great big bearded rat,
But I have a box of ‘Romor’ and it soon will settle that,
The neighbours talk about it, and keep up a mighty fuss,
That I should search the countryside, and try and get a puss,
But there’s two things that I’m hating, and I’m going to tell you what,
That is a scolding woman, and a sponging tabby cat.
The one creates destruction, and the other makes a din,
And would soon upset the cooking in my wee black tin.

O, the neighbours think I’m daft, but it’s little that they know,
‘Tis fate that does decree the way, which each of us must go,
I am not daft at all, as plainly may be seen,
As there’s many other bachelors, around the hills of ‘Screen,
‘Tis the Goverment which made us such, and kept us as we are,
As they ruined us completely, since the last big German war,
But now they’re giving subsidies, I’m guessing why its done,
It’s to try to keep us living ’till the present war is won.

O, there’s soot on my hearth, and there’s ashes on the floor,
Flu germs in their millions lying dead beside the door,
To kill the little beggars, you need neither hang nor shoot,
There’s nothing does the trick, like an overdose of soot,
So I’m not keen on sweeping, and I seldom use a brush,
It saves both time and labour, just the very thing I wish,
So with germs dead without, and soot enough within,
I’m happy when I’m cooking in my wee black tin.

Poor Mr. Johnstons rather sad, because of late he has been ‘had’,
By a vile raving herring-man, who would do any in the land,
He drove to town a smallish beast, which hauled a trap, which held a feast,
Of silvery herrings looking well, but neither fit to taste or smell.
He wore no smile, he wore no frown as he rode into Draperstown,
But took a good look at the place, and said, ‘This spot will suit my case,
I’ll face my beastie to the wind and soon rake in a handsome sum.’
He did the town from top to bottom, and sold his fish all stinking-rotten.
At every house that he passed by, ‘Fresh herrings’ was the strangers cry.
Poor Mr. Johnston was the first the wily herring man to trust,
For cash he did not give a rap but made a bee-line for the trap.
As he was doing wishful thinking, not knowing that the fish was stinking.
And so he bought a regular haul, misleading thus his neighbours all,
But when the time came round to fry, a gathering stench soon rolled on high,
And spread like wildfire o’er the land, and drove the cooks all from their pans.
The police sniffed, they’re always quick, and said, ‘This is some Hitler trick,
Put on your gas masks one and all, lest dire destruction on us fall,’
From the Town Hall to Burnside, a crowd of rats were soon espied,
All in a frenzied state, preparing to evacuate
Brave Bernard Gormley’s dogs got out, whene’er they found the rats about,
But sickened by the smell, they said, ‘Just let them go to h-l.’
And the town cats — a whiskered host– rushed up the trees and the lamp posts,
To catch a rat they did not pause, but raced aloft to wipe their jaws.
Poor Johnny Boyle was in despair; he said ‘This case will spoil the fair,
For how can strangers buy or sell, when all our cookings gone to hell?’
Poor Mr. Johnston’s heart is broken, by every sign, by every token,
As their good pans no more can fry and metal-ware so hard to buy.
Let’s hope the war will quickly end, and pans come in to save our friend.
Poor Mrs. Parkinson was shocked, when that vile smell rolled through her shop.
But soon her husband did surprise her, by fetching a deodoriser,
And soon the news spread through the place — ‘Its’s not so bad there’s one pan safe.’

Do you know Geordie Barnett, that silly old clown,
Who carries a hammer about the Sixtowns?,
He’s tried for uranium in every rock,
Till a finger of his got a terrible knock.

The blood it came rushing, not watery or thin,
And some folk were surprised there was any in him,
But it rushed out for hours, till his house was a sight,
In fact, the poor fellow was almost bled white.

So he went down the road to the Office nearby,
To get him a doctor, the Devlins did try,
And a fine lady doctor was there in a tick,
And rushed through the doorway with a bagful of tricks.

She sewed up the wounds, as tight as she could,
And powdered him well to dry up his blood,
Barbed wire she screwed up tremendously tight,
Then bandaged him left, aye, and bandaged him right.

She dabbed him all over, with needles galore,
And he ne’er gave a grin, though his flesh it was sore,
For he knew it was helpful to have the thing done,
And so he looked on it as only for fun.

Now, Geordie, she says ‘just you keep from the stones,
Till the skin grows again on your very dry bones’,
So go home he went then, through a drizzle of rain,
And straight away, started to hammer again.

So that is the way when your interest is up,
It’s hard for to leave off, it’s hard for to stop,
So he’ll keep at the same work, by night and by day,
Till he breaks his own neck, he will hammer away.