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TO THE TUNE OF JANEY
by Charlie McCoy
Well we've been singing most our life time of rockall
Strong men and botany bay
Singing songs of love and hope and freedom while time
Has slowly slipped away
Have you noticed the barmans getting younger and the
Barmaids there getting younger too, while all my friends
Are getting older, I have stayed the same you know it’s true
And Janey Mc were over 40, I think our hair is turning
Grey will be on the pension very shortly and how I long for yesterday
Were so long together it's a record we should be in the
Guinness book of fame for 25 long years we've been
Together and just for spite well do the same again
But there's silver threads in Eamons hairstyle and Jimmy
With the whistle he's getting bald while Denis he’s
Getting kind of grumpy while I, I’m just not getting old
So all you knockers and begrudgers you will admit we
Have that touch of class if not we ll send you our new
Record and you can stick it up your ass.
Copyright owned by: Charlie McCoy
THE MIXEMACTOSISH
by Charlie McCoy
Come listen to me with attention a few words I want to relate
About our Rabbits in Ireland and the way they all met their fate
They call it the Mixemactosish a word not heard before
The old people say its ferocious they have imported the devil for sure
So hang up your trap snare and ferret unload your double shotgun
Sell all your greyhounds and whippets the rabbits no longer can run
They were food for a great many people the beast and the wild bird of the air
And a jingle in many a pocket when market gave four bob a pair
Now on the road their run over because they have no eyes to see
Soon they run in the downs o bring back a bunny to me
All will go well until springtime when lambs hop about in their play
And reanard comes over the hillside no rabbits so here is my pray.
The ducks on the pound will stop quacking the hens taken out off the run
Their feathers flying over the farm yard the farmer astep with the gun
With the rabbits all gone he is contented a weight taken off his mind
To the dreadful disease he consented and left the destruction behind.
Copyright owned by: Charlie McCoy
THE GLENDALOUGH TAVERN
by Charlie McCoy
If ever you go to Glendalough to spend a little while,
Step into The Tavern there is service with a smile,
The seats are high and cosy, the barmaids nice and neat,
You will enjoy the grand surrounding, brass railing for your feet,
You can have your brandy hot or cold, your Guinness High and dry,
We are ready for inspection so come along and spy.
It is sad when you think of the old reserve, no more they will appear,
Fanning, Ryan and many more that used to drink the beer,
Long Boat was the last to go, he had a special seat,
Tucked up in the corner where he drank his whiskey neat,
So now in conclusion when driving make a stop,
Step inside The Tavern in The Valley of Glendalough.
Copyright owned by: Charlie McCoy
WWC gratefully acknowledges the help of Michelle McCoy in putting together the above poems (1999)
THE FISHER
A POEM BY J.B. DOYLE
His wand an arc of power, caution overhead.
As line of gossamer , nay, but coated and double tapered.
Shoots back and forth to descend, feather like artificial, as duck-down
On the rippling water.
To test the wily brownie, drops, silent, almost to a tee.
From the practiced purist in pursuit ,
Of “Salmo Trutta”, makes a dash.
And then a flash, a fleeting glimmer,
Of silver, a false cast in the air,
A scream disturbs the stillness,
The silence is broken, the line
Cuts the water like a knife,
H’es on running, running, stripping line
Off the reel, adrenaline pumping,
Heart racing! Fish running, reel screaming,
Will the hook hold , palms sweating;
Will the cast hold , arms aching,
Will the hook snap,
Gut wrenching,
Beads of perspiration, heart throbbing, where’s the net?
Belly, up, mind the barb,
Grease the griddle,
He’s in the creel,
A sigh of relief,
A flash, a sound,
A Kingfisher, serenity returns.
Year written up 1999
Copyright owned by: J.B. Doyle
Below is an interesting poem transcribed around 1933 and read at an impromptu reading on December 5th, 1933 at 42 Grafton Street Dublin.
CIRCLE
by R.W.A.
Drop a pebble in the water,
Just a splash and it is gone,
But there are a hundred thousand
Ripples curling on and on and on.
They are spreading, spreading, spreading
From the centre to the sea;
And there’s not a way of knowing
Where the end is going to be.
Drop an unkind word or careless,
Just a splash and it is gone,
But there are a hundred thousand
Ripples curling on and on and on.
They are spreading, spreading, spreading
From the centre as they go;
And there’s not a way of stopping them
Once you’ve started them to flow.
Drop an unkind word or careless,
In a minute you forget,
But there are little waves a-flowing
And Ripples circling yet;
And perhaps in some tired heart
A mighty wave of tears you’ve stirred
And disturbed a life thats happy
Just by dropping an unkind word.
Drop a word of cheer and gladness,
In a minute it is gone,
But there are a hundred thousand
Ripples curling on and on and on,
Bearing peace and joy and comfort
On each Dashing, splashing wave;
And you’d not believe the colume
Of that one kind word you gave.
Drop a word of cheer and gladness,
In a minute you forget,
But there’s a gladness still a-swelling
And joy a-circling yet;
And you’ve rolled a wave of comfort
Who’s music can be heard
O’er miles and miles of water,
Just dropping a kind word.
R.W.Archer
Published by: Richard Hamilton (2002)
Copyright owned by: Richard Hamilton
WWC gratefully acknowledges the help of Richard Hamilton in putting together the above two poems
Towers of Two Saints.
The tower of Saint Kevin built beside the two Loughs
Is it more precious than some later rocks?
Built skyward of industry in a more populous vale
The towers of power with a different tale
Built for another God of an alternate race
Purely to perform at a much greater pace?
Saint Kevin’s to nurture and protect all mankind
Those of Saint Patrick to pump and to wind
To rob the riches of the valley’s earth
Whilst playing a part in creating its dearth
Both to remain to the present day
As symbols of what? Can one really say?
Life and death belong to all of these towers
Which of them directed by the cruellest powers?
Where was the profit in Kevin’s domain?
Who did Avoca’s metals sustain?
Where was the love and true affection?
Do the graves of Macadam show a true reflection?
These towers all play a part in Wicklow fame
The holy one to the memory, the others the same
One viewed by many, Ballymurtagh’s by few
A sharing of feelings may be long overdue
All have the beauty of ancient toilings
Only Avoca is left with the tailings and spoilings
The memory of miners now long since gone
Their smiles and goodwillstill lingers with some
But many forgotten lay beneath the ground
Where their living and ending was to be found
Godbless all the martyrs of Avoca and Crombane
Ballymurtaghand Tigrony I wish you the same
Daz Beattie 20thSept 2002
Published by: Daz Beattie (2002)
Copyright owned by: Daz Beattie
Colours of Copper
On the edge of Tigrony an open wound now lies
A once hidden heart exposed to the skies
The veins once enclosed now opened wide
Left torn and bleeding until this mountain died
With a final gasp its secrets are gone
Its final treasures were stolen not won
What really was taken will never be known
From desperate greed desolation has grown
The leaf of the Maple left the craters behind
Long since gone but still in the mind
Of miner’s widows and others who cared
A generation of thoughts that are rarely shared
Bridge of white amidst the ochre stained land
In a valley of green like an emblem so grand
The profits have gone but riches remain
Colours still with us now claiming the fame
From the depths of the valley the treasure is gone
But Avoca’s true beauty will ever go on
Soaring falcons replace the circling vulture
Birds of prey but of a far higher culture
The noise and dust now so long since left
The blasting and hammering within the cleft
All gone but for the holes in rocks and hearts
Lifetimes of toil exchanged for far easier starts
Awooden symbol now guards over with care
The two mountain sides laid waste and left bare
Nothing to give at the cost of more lives
No worn out miners and no worried wives
The valley lies tranquil now fully at ease
Just as its waters are mingled in peace
Daz Beattie
3rd October 2002.
Published by: Daz Beattie (2002)
Copyright owned by: Daz Beattie
WWC gratefully acknowledges the help of Daz Beattie in submitting the above two poems
Glendalough Mines
Monuments of survival
Not of man, but of his doing,
Distant white but nearer grey.
Accumulations of inconvenience then,
Symbolic now of long spent pyres.
A residual epitaph to mining's fortunes
Fortunes for few, the misfortune of many.
The ancient lead mines of Glendalough
Set in the difficult distance then, as now
Sees today a pleasure seeking visitor
Who in hard earned unknowing ramble,
Pass the ghosts of harder worn men
Who in similar toil climbed the same paths
To start their day of earning.
Glendalough
Hollow silence within unholy tranquillity
Restrained in solitary crowding
Silent perpetual overlapping water
Its moorland peat tainted ripples
Replaced in cold fluid rhythm
Against the edges of entrapment.
A never ending flow to nowhere
Absorbed before risking loss.
Trapped but released to new attempt.
Not ours now, nor ever within man's claim
In the name of the Lord or less noble estates,
You are of your own nature
Born of molten Earth, ice and fire
Succoured into a gentler continuation
But now in ease of your own placid existence.
Displaying but rarely revealing,
To be viewed in awe by millions
But seen by only the few.
Daz Beattie
30th July, 2004.
Published by: Daz Beattie (2002)
Copyright owned by: Daz Beattie
To pass comments, or if you wish to add a further similar article, please email:wwc@wwc.ie reference this page
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