As I Rode by Granard Moat Read Online Free PDF Page A

breathing
    Frae croft and causey and window-sill.
    O, brave are the haughs o’ Baile-liosan,
    And brave are the halds o’ green Magh-luan;
    But braver the hames o’ Newtownbreda,
    Twined about wi’ the pinks o’ June.
    And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,
    The heart within is as guid as gold –
    Wi’ new fair ballants and merry music,
    And cracks cam’ down frae the days of old.
    ’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,
    ’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;
    ’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
    Beeking under the eaves in June.
    The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,
    The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,
    And o’er the white road the clachan caddies
    Play at their marlies and goaling-ba’.
    We are travelling too fast; we must pay a decorous farewell to my native town and to another lough which lies close to it. Nobody quite knows who wrote this first poem or song.
    SWEET OMAGH TOWN
    Ah! from proud Dungannon to Ballyshannon
    And from Cullyhanna to Old Ardboe
    I’ve roused and rambled, caroused and gambled
    Where songs did thunder and whiskey flow.
    It’s light and airy I’ve tramped through Derry
    And to Portaferry in the County Down
    But with all my raking and undertaking
    My heart was aching for sweet Omagh Town.
    When life grew weary, aye, and I grew dreary
    I set sail for England from Derry Quay
    And when I landed, sure ’twas fate commanded
    That I to London should make my way
    Where many a gay night from dark to daylight
    I spent with people of high renown
    But with all their splendour and heaps to spend sure
    My heart was empty for sweet Omagh Town.
    Then further going my wild oats sowing
    To New York City I crossed the sea
    Where congregations of rich relations
    Stood on the harbour to welcome me
    In grand apparel like Duke or Earl
    They tried to raise me with sword and crown
    But with all their glamour and uproarious manner
    My lips would stammer – sweet Omagh Town.
    And when life is over and I shall hover
    Above the gates where Saint Peter stands
    And he shall call me for to install me
    Among the saints in those golden lands
    And I shall answer ‘I’m sure ’tis grand sir
    For to play the harp and to wear the crown
    But I, being humble, sure I’ll never grumble
    If Heaven’s as charming as sweet Omagh Town.’
    That other lough, small and unpretentious, a couple of miles from the town is called, modestly, Lough Muck. But the name is not, by any means, intended to lower it to the level of a mudbath. It was fine to swim in, and the best place in the world in which to catch perch. The original name was, needless to say, Loch na Muice, the Lake of the Pig, that mythological pig which, slumbering on the enchanted ocean, misled the Milesians.
    Lough Muck lay slumbering there, like the monstrous pig, but doing no harm to anybody. A relative of mine, however, considered calmly that it brought enchantment to all who looked on it. He was a man called Frank McCrory, a Shavian, a Wellsian, and a man of music who could play everything from the ‘cello to the ocarina. In his youth (about 1919) he had even been a famous footballer. He wrote songs for the neighbourhood and he worked up this fantasy about two boys from the town who had been drinking a bit, wandered off and were bemused by the enchanted lake …
    THE TREACHEROUS WAVES OF LOUGHMUCK
    Me and Andy one ev’nin were strollin’
    As the sun was beginning to set
    And when just outside Drumragh new graveyard
    A young Loughmuck sailor we met.
    He brought us along to his liner
    That was breasting the waves like a duck
    And that’s how we started our ill-fated cruise
    On the treacherous waves of Loughmuck.
    (Repeat last two lines for chorus)
    As our ship glided over the water
    We all gazed at the landscape we knew
    First we passed Clanabogan’s big lighthouse
    Then the Pigeon Top came into view.
    But alas as we sped o’er those waters
    Soon we all were with horror dumbstruck
    For without any warning a big storm