Category: Poems

You may sing about Killarney and the glories of the South,
The Connemara mountains or the lovely hills of Louth,
But I know of a better place, the grandest of them all,
Though it’s not by Cork or Kerry, nor the hills of Donegal,
But by Moyola river, where Derry’s fields are green,
And Draperstown is standing by that glorious little stream.

St. Patrick heard about it, its beauty brought him there,
Church building was his hobby, where the scenery was fare,
So he built one by the river, at the junction of two streams,
Where shamrocks twine so gaily and the whins are always green,
The Sperrins guard it bravely from the chill winds of the west,
And of all the churches ‘ere he built, this one is sheltered best.

Slieve Gallion smiles upon it, imposing, big and round,
And Carntogher mountains lie a bit beyond the town,
But though the place is marvellous and all the scenes are rare,
The maids who dwell amongst them seem twenty times as fair,
Being neat and well proportioned, like the angels of my dreams,
If Patrick were alive again, he would come back to “Screen”.

The South may boast of beauty, for there’s beauty in it all,
By Wicklow, Cork or Kerry, or the hills of Donegal,
By Mayo, Sligo, Letrim, or the lovely County Clare,
By Dublin too, and Wexford, and by Galway and Kildare,
But give to me that little spot by Derry’s fields so green,
For beauty’s everlasting by the lovely hills of “Screen”.

The South I’ve praised for beauty and so would do again,
But glory, glory to the North, think of the Antrim glens,
Lough Neagh, the Causeway, and Glenarn, and Larne by the shore,
Fermanagh, Down and Armagh too, have wonder spots galore.
Tyrone has beauty of its own, by every hill and stream,
But still my thoughts return again to grand old Ballinascreen.

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.

The Springtime is lovely, Och lovely,
When the leaves on the hedgerows are green,
The Springtime is lovely, Och lovely,
In beautiful Ballinascreen.

The sweet month of May is enchanting,
When the wild birds in choirs do sing,
For we know that the winter is over,
And likewise the best of the spring.

But lovely and better is Summer,
When we can all sit down and dream,
Of the beautiful roses in colour,
Which flourish at Ballinascreen.

But, ah, when we think of that good time,
And when we all think that it’s by,
There’s a better time coming, yes coming,
When the clover it blooms in July.

With the green of the plants in the hayfields,
And the fragrance the air does waft round,
It is good to be out in the Summer,
When the clover is blooming around.

Then, O, for a trip in the Summer,
Amongst the green lanes of Sixtowns,
When the clover it makes the air balmy,
With the honey plants smelling around.

Fast fell the mist from vale and brae,
As brightly dawned the autumn day,
And O’er Slieve Gallion’s crest the sun,
Its first bright glow of morning flung,
And when brighter grew the east,
The sun shone down on Ballybriest,
O’er Loorty’s rocks of granite grey,
And o’er Lough Patrick and Lough Fea.

The Mill Lough and the Mill Lough hill,
And dark Crockmoran further still,
It brightly beamed across Moyard,
O’er Moneyconey bleak and scarred,
Lough Ouske, Glengomna and ‘the Rocks’,
Where scanty verdures nature mocks,
Moyola’s sleepy vale awoke,
Beneath the magic of its stroke.

Teeming once more with life renewed,
By cot and hall, by glen and wood,
The farmers soon were all astir,
And soon was heard the reapers whirr,
For hay on many a fertile acre,
Was ready now for the haymaker,
‘Tis noon, the sun at morning bright,
Now scarce can show its feeble light.

The day is sultry, dark and close,
Fast drips the sweat from man and horse,
A farmer working at the ruck,
Called to his men to speed their work,
For he says, “the heavens look queer,
There’s thunder in the atmosphere”
Moyola’s banks are high and dry,
The stream was small that trickled by.

Where Autumn floods so often sweep,
Seething, muddy, broad and deep,
The angry clouds on high arose,
The darkening sky still darker grows,
As if the very heavens were lowered,
The lightening flashed, the thunder roared,
Torrential rain came pouring down,
O’er Vale and hill and mountain brown.

The Big Glen’s rushing waters sweep,
Adown its chasm dark and steep,
O’er Mullan’s fall they swiftly pour,
With noise that drowns the thunder’s roar,
Beneath McBride’s deep bridge they flow,
As on their downward course they go,
Till the Moyola’s waters meet,
A whirling, boiling, seething sheet.

Which gathered from the Connelly’s scarr,
And from Glenviggan further far,
And from wild Altayeskeys ridge,
Go rolling neath the Old Church Bridge,
Down o’er the pavement beams to fall,
And all along the water wall,
Past swollen streams and sodden lands,
Where Connelly’s bridge the river spans.

And on through many’s the changing scene,
By Owenreagh’s meadows and ‘The Green’
With many’s the bend and many’s the turn,
By Wall’s bridge and Glushagh burn,
Heaving tossing, flecked with foam,
It spread o’er many’s the Labby holme,
O’er soils enriched with layers of mud,
Swept down by many’s the Autumn flood.

Uprooted trees and shrubs are tossed,
Like corkwood on its heaving breast,
As broad, deep, muddy and brown,
It flows by Tonagh and Draperstown,
The storm cloud an inky void,
Now hangs o’er Crieve and Derrynoid,
And the loud thunder’s rolling shock,
Reverbrate o’er Hanna’s rock.

‘Tis evening and the sky has cleared,
The thunder clouds have disappeared,
The sun is setting in the west,
Beyond Slievewaddy’s heathery crest,
And e’er its beams shall shine again,
O’er Brackagh’s hills and Corrick’s glen,
The floods like a departing day,
Shall be a distant memory.

The last rose of winter has ceased for to bloom,
Its exit it made amidst tempest and gloom,
For tossed by the wild winds and buried with snow,
The last rose of winter lies withered and low.

It grew out of season, it bloomed out time,
And so fell a prey to our changeable clime,
Then flung like a dart, from a loosely strung bow,
The last rose of winter lies withered and low.

It felt not the glow of a warm summer sun,
In long nights and darkness, its course it was run,
And the cold winds around it, are sighing with woe,
The last rose of winter lies withered and low.

Its freshness and beauty, its life could not save,
Yet stainless and pure, it was rushed to the grave,
Its fragrance dispersed by the cold winds that blow,
The last rose of winter lies withered and low.

‘Tis sad for to see all the white petals tossed,
‘Tis sad for to think of a sweet life that’s lost,
Yet all things that live, like the roses must go,
And the last rose of winter lies withered and low.

It’s sixteen miles to Plumbridge town from flowery Ballinascreen,
But many’s the one has dandered there along Glenelly stream,
There’s good fish sporting in the stream, and flowery banks at hand,
And spread beauty on the same, are bushy meadows grand.

There’s heathery hills which stand hard by the little country road,
And by their side the people dwell in well arranged abodes,
And on those hills there’s food for game, and farm stock as well,
And through the summer there they roam, near where their owners dwell.

But winter yearly comes along, a time the farmers dead,
So cattle they are then tied in, with fodder at their heads,
And sheep to lower lands are brought, from off the heathery braes,
To browse on lower pastures, to about St. Patrick’s day.

In bleating flocks they then return, the season’s lamb to rear,
And dipping, clipping, guarding too, it is the farmer’s care,
The time of sale brings money in, the needful to provide,
And Sundays bring the farmers out, in all their dressy pride.

When all is for the winter planned, it is the farmers’ pride,
To sing their Songs, or tell their tales about the fireside,
The wireless it is turned on, the latest news to hear,
And so they gaily pass the time until another year.

My name is is George Barnett, I’m willing to own,
Though I’m not very happy a-hone and a-hone,
For though I’ve wrought hard and stuck tight to the job,
The height of my pension is twenty six bob.

To my country I’m loyal, by day and by night,
If the Russians came over, I’m willing to fight,
Though I’m light in my duds and not very broad,
But how could I be, upon twenty six bob.

The ladies all love me, of that I am sure,
But always keep shy, as they know I am poor,
For who would be willing to take up the job,
Of running a home upon twenty six bob.

So a bachelor am I, and I’m living alone,
And folk think my heart, it has turned to stone,
But I’d rather touch flesh, O, I’d rather by far,
Than lie up too close to a hot water jar.

We have a fine Government, set up of late,
Which might take the notion to alter my fate,
With the purse strings released a bit more that they are,
I would soon bid adieu to the hot water jar.

Then the bags of fine flour might come again to my door,
And the griddle be swung as it oft’ was of yore,
With my teароt all shining and my pipe on the hob,
I could have a fine laugh at that twenty six bob.

But my bread from the baker, I still have to buy,
And meat from the canner be it oily or dry,
And there’s holes in my socks, that’s both big, long and broad,
But what can you do upon twenty bob.

Now there’s stuff on the market, at present I’m told,
Its the latest thing out for the closing of holes,
This stuff it is cheар and does a good job.
But alas! I am living on twenty six bob.

By the steep craggy braes where the hazel nuts grow,
From the top of the cliff to the valley below,
Where the underbrush shelters the hare in her den,
O, there was my home by the Tullybrick glen.

With bright blooming heather the hilltops were clad,
The springs in the valleys made all nature glad,
But as memories recall this wild beauty again,
I sigh for a glimpse of the Tullybrick glen.

I sigh for a glimpse for the friends love well,
Whose friendship I value more than I can tell,
But they have all vanished clean out of my ken,
Like the winds that have whistled o’er Tullybrick glen.

For some are no more, as they sleep neath the sod,
And others have wandered to find homes abroad,
May the blessing of God be upon you again,
And cause things to flourish round Tullybrick glen.

And now it’s farewell to you ‘Erin’s green Isle’,
And long may you flourish and long may you smile,
And while I draw breath, I will think now and then,
Of the glory and grandeur of Tullybrick glen.

And of the Old Church and Moyola below,
Which down from the Mountains like silver does flow,
A picture comes up every now and then,
Of all those fair scenes about Tullybrick glen.

We have a place called Draperstown,
The centre of trade for all around,
With a good wide street and a Hall at the top,
But the principle thing is the old town clock,
The clock of the town, the old town clock.

Its face is was set for Tonagh hill,
And seems to be looking the same way still,
For trade comes in from a place called ‘the top’,
And everyone likes the old town clock,
The clock of the town, the old town clock

From Craig-na-shoke a few come in,
To barter and trade and keep up the din,
From Slievgallion too, though it is some walk,
But all like to see the old town clock,
The clock of the town, the old town clock.

From Sperrin too, by the Sperrin way,
A few come in on a market day,
For all do trade in the many wee shops,
And take an interest in the old town clock,
The clock of the town, the old town clock.

But it is to the fair that the most come in,
Cattle and sheep keep up the din,
And pigs in trailers away by the top,
Near to the Hall and the old town clock,
The clock of the town, the old town clock.

But many have quitted this little town,
Since the clock was first brought to the ground,
Their names and their numbers make me sick,
Since the clock at the Hall gave its first tick,
The clock of the town, the old town clock.

The train with its engine came and went,
By its whistle oft the air was rent,
It was traffic on roads which made it stop,
Regardless of the old town clock,
The clock of the town, the old town clock.

The churches have emptied and the yards have been filled,
And many a kindly heart was stilled,
Nothing at all cold death could stop,
Though on went the tick of the old town clock,
The clock of the town, the old town clock.

At the clock at the Hall, have often stared,
But how long do you think may be spared,
To walk round the town and gaze at the shops,
‘Ere I bid farewell to the old town clock,
The clock of the town, the old town clock.

The donkey and horse are off the street,
It’s seldom now that their likes you meet,
But tractors and trailers, lorries and cars bring all things now from afar,
Those changes give me a kind of shock,
But on goes the tick of the old town clock.

O, my name is Geordie Banet, and I dwell in Ireland green,
At a little spot they call `Sixtowns’ in old Ballinascreen,
The Sperrins brown are clad with snow, and darkness hangs around,
And the only beacon we have got is the lights of Draperstown.

They oft’ shine out in grandeur, like the star in the East,
When Christmas time comes around, with good things for the feast,
But though I love to hear the bells ring out their glorious sound,
I can’t forget those shining lights, the lights of Draperstown.

And brave men do their business there, beneath those shining lights,
With justice in their dealings too, by either day or night,
There’s Burns, aye and Regan, aye and Taylor of renown,
All dwelling ‘neath those shining lights, the lights of Draperstown.

There’s Joe McBride, O’Keeney too, and Parkinson as well,
And Master Gunn and others too, whose names I cannot spell,
McDiarmad’s thriving business and McConnamy’s of renown,
All lit up by those shining lights, the lights of Draperstown.

Long may they shine in splendour and peace forever reign,
In this village by Moyola, the lights stand out so plain,
And may it grow in grandeur, till its praises far resound,
And everyone delights to see the lights of Draperstown.

As I rove round the homestead here, along the Sperrin’s side,
I often view those distant lights, those distant lights with pride,
And when I’m far away from home, and homeward comes around,
I bless those lights, those cheery lights, the lights of Draperstown.