Month: April 1965

I’ve often heard great clergy preach in days long since gone by,
And pictured wondrous angel hosts, which seemed to dwell on high,
But though I’ve searched the starry skies for many’s the weary year,
I never saw an angle there, amongst the starry spheres.

But trouble reached my home at last, and grief and pain I felt,
‘Til in the District Hospital I lay at Magherafelt,
But grief gave place to hope at last, and banished was despair,
When I beheld before my eyes a lot of angels there.

They had white veils upon their heads, with dresses of the same,
Which differed somewhat in degree, strict order to maintain,
But there was an angelic look upon each smiling face,
As they brought hope through every ward to many’s the doubtful case.

They soothed the ill, they helped the weak, and eased the ones in pain,
And all who look to them for aid, do never seek in vain,
For each has an appointed task, the high ones and the low,
And each performs their duty well, as through the wards they go.

And still the preachers come and go, to talk, to preach, to pray,
And still they think of angel throngs, that’s somehow far away,
But I’ll no longer search the skies, or think of distant spheres,
For Heaven’s in Co. Derry, as we have the angels here.

There’s a clever schoolmaster — retired for life,
From the noise of the school with its worries and strife,
Midst blotters and jotters, books, inkpots and maps,
And the trouble of training up other folk’s brats.

Who got from Belfast with a very tight squeeze,
Along with a bunch of the evacuees,
He arrived at Sixtowns looking hearty and hale,
And soon settled down amidst Labby’s green vale.

He felt quite at home being reared on the ground,
And started to lecture the farmers around,
On the right kinds of stock both for milking and beef,
And their slow farming methods which brought them to grief.

On good cultivation he oftimes would rave,
And showed them fast methods their hay for to save,
At subjects like these he would seem to be clever,
But n’er gave a thought to unsuitable weather.

A neighbour’s dun duck to his farmyard did stray,
And finding some crumbs she did stop there to lay,
Then his knowledge of farming was put to the test,
And it took him a week to discover the nest.

When at last he succeeded his grief it was keen,
As there was not an egg at the place to be seen,
His sister, a farmer, laughed out at the joke,
And told him beneath the moss cover to poke.

The eggs he discovered and started to watch,
As the duck at that time was beginning to hatch,
And the neighbour who owned her, her kindness to show,
To his small grandchild, David, the duck did bestow.

The ducklings came out and their number was six,
And they greatly amused him with head-wagging tricks
Till a rat came along and a duckling did slay,
Which caused him to worry by night and by day.

He borrowed a dog and he searched for a cat,
Tried ‘Rodine’ and ‘Romore’ upon that same rat,
But the rat did elude him and all he did try,
And oft showed its whiskers from a burrow nearby.

It took his whole household — their number was five,
To guard his flock for to keep them alive,
And his neighbours were greatly amused at the sight,
When the flock to the parlour were rushed every night.

The highway caused trouble, it passed by his gate,
Where he oft stood on guard when the traffic was great,
‘Make way for my duck’, he would constantly shout,
When the duck and her ducklings did want a walk out.

Good water he gave them and oft was amazed,
To see how they left it, the sight put him dazed,
The trouble seemed inbred and deep in the blood,
As the hated clear water and hankered for mud.

He says the whole lot he will quickly sell off,
And no more at the work of the farmers will scoff,
For they must have great courage and hearts that are big,
When they tackle the problems of poultry and pigs.

Sheep, horses, goats, cattle, geese, turkeys as well,
Their courage and patience increasingly tell,
Beside the crop problems and problems of weather,
Those folk should be honoured forever and ever.

‘Princess Victoria’ was a boat which carried people far,
Across the brimey ocean, ‘twixt Larne and Stranraer,
Or back across the waves again, and that to Erin’s shore,
But, alas, her sailing days are past, for she will float no more.

She left Stranraer by Scotland’s shore, about the break of day,
With many precious souls aboard, content to get away,
‘Twas on the closing day, alas, of the first month of the year,
Nineteen and fifty-three, of course, and January clear.

When she put out from Scotland’s shore, and the shelter of the land,
She seemed a boat all in good trim, which could the seas command,
But nature’s furies set to work, and the waves rolled mountains high,
And soon a battered wreck she lay, beneath the raging sky.

An S.O.S. was soon sent out, least all would perish there,
And tugs and lifeboats put to sea, across the waters bare,
A warship too rushed to the scene, with all they could command,
In spite of all the ship went down, not many miles from land.

Hurra, for brave old Donaghagee and their gallant lifeboat crew,
Who did so bravely face the waves, to see what they could do,
‘Twas many lives they chanced to save, and brought them safe on shore,
Any may their names in glory stand, and that forever more.

Here’s praise for Captain Ferguson, the Skipper in command,
Who set a fine example there, to all on sea and land,
He raised his hand in proud salute, and that right manfully,
As he, likewise his gallant ship, went down beneath the sea.

And now to all who played a part, over forty souls to save,
And snatched them from the jaws of death, and from a watery grave,
Your and Queen and country should be proud of gallant men like you,
And give great praise to one and all, for that is but your due.

And now to all who mourn and weep, you have our sympathy,
For far beyond a hundred souls, all victims of the sea,
May heaven console you one and all, unto life’s journeys end,
And then in heaven you’ll meet again, with your bright angel friends.

The old cart body is lying against the garden fence,
The old cart body is rotten, and it’s not worth eighteen pence,
The cribs and the boxen’s missing, and the wheels and axle’s gone,
Though many’s the load they carried, when they were new and strong.

I have often danced on the sheeting, as the mare she trotted away,
To bring down peat from the boglands wet, which lay right over the brae,
I cracked my whip most merrily, as I gazed down the vale below,
And said ‘Gee up’, to the old bay mare, for she was getting slow.

The meadows were green and growing, and the hay not yet cut down,
And the leaves on the trees were green as well, which yet would turn to brown,
I sigh when I think of the grand old times, before the tractors came,
For they have wrecked our social life, and we’ll ne’er be happy again.

Och, there’s nothing like the young days, when we’re fit for any job,
And there’s nothing like the horse-men, who toiled the acres broad,
For those days and those men have vanished, and the blacksmith too as well,
For how could they make a living, without a hoof to pare.

So goodbye to the old cart body, which was in use so long,
And goodbye to the old bay mare as well, the mare which was limbed so strong,
My whip it has gone forever, and I give it a crack no more,
And leaves they are falling, falling as I lean by the kitchen door.