Author: George Barnett

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.

My name is Geordie Barnett, and you’ll never find me grand,
But you’ll know me when you meet me. I’m a real mountainy man,
With heather in my buttonhole, and peat upon my shoes,
And if you meet me anywhere you’ll get the latest news.

I have climbed the Sperrin mountains, and likewise Slievegallion brae,
Fir mountain and Bellevenuemore, where many sheep do stray,
I carry a bag upon my back, and a hammer in my hand,
You’ll know me when you meet me, I’m the real mountainy man.

I have been up many’s the river, aye, and many’s the winding glen,
For mostly in the open, I’m inclined my life to spend,
For nature’s rich contrasting scenes, are ever new and grand,
And you’ll know me when you meet me, I’m the real mountainy man.

I’ve been by Lough Neagh’s winding shores and grassy stretches flat,
I’ve seen the swans go flying round above the waves or that,
But though I love those lowland scenes, for lowland spots are grand,
You will very seldom see me there, I’m the real mountainy man.

Because my clothes are ragged, you may think me ragged too,
But I’m tight and active on my feet, when paddling on the dew,
My feet were mostly active, though my clothes were seldom grand,
But you’ll know me when you meet me, I’m the real mountainy man.

My bag may soon hang on a nail, and my hammer lie around,
When I do stop my climbing of the heathery mountains brown,
For all things must come to an end, no matter how we plan,
But you’ll know me when you meet me, I’m the real mountainy man.

(1964)

Och, my name is Geordie Barnett, and for long has been the same,
And if I roved around a bit, I always homeward came,
For no matter where I wander, O, no matter where I roam,
There’s nothing seems so homely as a drop of tea at home.

I’ve been far down the country, and I had the best of crack,
Likewise the best of grub and drink, but I longed for to get back,
For Owenreagh hill kept calling, with a feeling in my bones,
Which made me long to get a drop, a drop of tea at home.

I’ve been to Gortin village and the place they call the the ‘Gap’,
Likewise the Boorin wood as well, and likewise to Lislap,
The scenes around that village fair, for grandeur stand alone,
But still I’d rather have the tea, a drop of tea at home.

I’ve been at times in Donegal, along the Swilly fair,
And likewise to the Grianan high, to see the scenes that’s there,
I’ve been to Rosapenna too, hard by Sheephaven bay,
Where all along the stricken rocks, the mighty breakers play.

Around Rosquill peninsula, the scenes are more than grand,
You only find such beauty spots in dear old Ireland,
It’s there I gazed in wonder, though I did not stand alone,
But still I’d rather have tea, a drop of tea at home.

O, Mulroy Bay it winds along with inlets here and there,
The beauty of the scenery could drive away my cares,
And Letterkenny girls are fair, O, the finest in my knowin’,
But the would seem more lovely if they made my tea at home.

O, no matter where I wander, that feeling comes along,
It’s singing through my framework, like the rhythm of a song.
Let me be on the mountain high, or valley lying low,
The call of home comes back to me, no matter where I go.

But that is nearly over now, except for summer sport,
For many days now lie behind, and my time is getting short,
So I ‘hurkle’ over the fire in the kitchen all alone,
And the only comfort I have got, is a drop of tea at home.

(4th January, 1959)

I sigh when I think of the long long ago,
When my limbs they were strong, though now they are weak,
When I climbed the wild mountains and tripped o’er the heather,
To toil in the bogs at the winning of turf.

Then cattle grazed round me on the sedges and heather,
Each owner nearby kept an eye on his own,
But the owners and cattle have vanished for ever,
And I sigh as I tramp the wild mountains alone.

Around by Lough Patrick it’s lonely but peaceful,
There’s none to disturb now the wild fowl that’s there,
There is none to go rambling with dog and with gun,
In search of a shot at the grouse or the hare.

The horsedrawn carts used to creak o’er the bogroads,
With their bodies all blue and their cribs painted red,
And a wee bag of hay on the top of the peats,
Now I don’t see a horse with a man at his head.

I lean on my stick and it’s often I’m resting,
Unlike the bold heroes of long long ago,
It’s few that remain to talk over old times,
For the Churchyard holds many that are now lying low.

So where is the good of the fight and the struggle,
It all ends the same as the years hurry by,
Hope as we may, the end is approaching,
It’s racing along to meet you and I.

The young disregard it and think but of pleasure.
And look upon old folk as silly old men,
But when we are gone they’ll have something to think of,
When they’ll find they’re the next crop, with time ageing them.

(19th July, 1958)

I dreamt that I heard in the clouds of the night time,
A song, a lament of the long, long ago,
Of folk who had vanished from the green glens and hillside,
The glens of Sperrins which most of you know.

O, where are the Murphys and the Deaneys and Converys,
The McCanns and O’Hagans and the brave McNamees,
And all who inhabited the tumble-down houses,
Which some of you know and could name at your ease.

Their living had vanished at both spinning and weaving,
At beckling and carding, and all sorts of trades,
At scutching and cloving and work amongst the leather,
And planting potatoes with their big weighty spades.

They could make their own songs, aye, and sing them correctly,
And their own melodies, both mellow and true,
They could dance too with pleasure, they were happy by nature,
They were gifted and clever, light-hearted and true.

I thought of the stories about wee folk and fairies,
They seemed to be fables which none could believe,
But who would believe the true tales I’m telling,
Though I know they are true and not meant to deceive.

This story has proved that there always were fairies,
For the strong beat the weak, and to the wall they were driven
Their homesteads collapsed, as their living did vanish,
For a curse or a blight seems to hang over all.

So the fairies have vanished across the wild oceans,
Away to the strange lands which lie over there,
Where the Mississippi rises in the back lands over yonder
Where their music still rings, for they never despair

3rd June, 1958

It was in the 13th century, by ancient records shown,
That Hugh O’Neill to battle led the warlike Cinel Owen,
When from Ulidia foreigners came, to plunder Glenconkine,
And rob the shrine of Columbkill, built on yon hillside green.

Dermot MacLoughlin was the man, who led that warrior band,
O’er vale and hill and mountain wild, far from their native land,
But little did that chieftan think, upon that fatal day,
That he would die a warrior’s death, upon yon distant brae.

When Hugh O’Neil the tidings heard, that he was in the glen,
He told his chiefs to muster up a hosting of his men,
On the white road from Tullyhog, that armed host was seen,
Upon their way to meet their foe, at distant Glenconkine.

At Altayeskey wild and bare, they found the foe they sought,
And on that wild and barren place, a battle fierce was fought,
Alas, for the Ulidians bold, their leader soon lay dead,
And fast before the Cinel Owen, his conquered warriors fled.

MacLoughlin’s corpse was buried at the place where he was slain,
And those who search to find his grave, shall always search in vain,
The wild winds whistle o’er it, as each winters snow falls down,
Upon yon hallowed ruins, and the churchyard lying round.

Ambition is a glorious thing if put to proper use,
But may lead to destruction if it’s coupled with abuse,
Remember bold MacLoughlin and his disregard of God,
And how he lies on yon hillside, beneath our native soil.

(March, 1957)

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)