Connaught Rangers: A Small Window

Connaught Rangers:

A Small Window

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  To you people who have a vast knowledge of the Connaught Rangers I want to briefly open a small window which I found in one of the Ballina papers. I have shortened the report extensively but here is the gist of it. The Ballina Journal Curragh Correspondent reported in the issue of the 11^th June, 1883, that a Grand Field Day was held at the Curragh Camp. Actually the field day lasted nearly a week. The first day was termed by the correspondent as the ‘First Battle’. One of the regiments that took part was the 6^th Battalion Connaught Rangers, under the command of Col. A. W. E. Gore. Lieuteant Ormsby commanded No. 1 Company; Lieut. Inglis commanded No. 2 Company, and were supported by No. 3 Company, under Major Blake, followed by the Regiment, and the Connaught Rangers Band. The object of the exercise was to attack a particular hill and retain it. After a hard battle they achieved their object, and the Rangers arose, like one man and gave a ringing cheer so peculiar to Connaught men. Captain Bourk’s No. 4 Company played a big part in the exercise, and was helped in this by Captain O’Grady’s company. After their victory the Rangers marched back to the Barrack with the band playing some lively marches.

 The second battle took place the following Wednesday and those that took part in an attack on the headquarters block included: 4^th Brigade Royal Artillery; 12 squadrons 5^th Lancers; detachment of 3^rd Grenadier Guards; 2^nd Battalion Royal Scots; detachment of 1^st Battalion Summersetshire Light Infantry; 6^th Battalion Connaught Rangers, and 2^nd Battalion Royal Brigade.

 After a description of what took place all the soldiers returned to the Barracks and the 6^th Battalion, once again under Col. Gore, was complimented by the General commanding the troops.

 The 6^th Battalion was to leave for Ballina on the 25^th June.

The Journal on 2^nd July, reported that although the training was over there was one more ‘battle’ fought. This battle came after a young Ranger was attacked by a couple of Dublin Fusiliers, and once again the correspondent gave a full description of what took place. Notable among the Connaught Rangers that gave the Fusiliers a good hiding were a number of Ballina men: They included the Flemings and Padden of Ardnaree, and they did a good deal of the heavy fighting; Corporals Queenan, Carroll, Huie Gallagher, Michael Ruane and other ‘slashers’ from Ballina also did more than their share  

After Sergeant Major Jackson of the Connaught Rangers came out of the barracks peace was restored.

(I would like to mention that the names mentioned here are the same as those that took part in the Great War, and which some of the fell in Battle).

  A letter appeared in the pages of the Journal about the affray, but it is long so instead, I will read you a poem from a Sergeant of the Rangers which also appeared about the 6^th Battalion: 

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INSPECTION OF

THE 6^TH BATTALION CONNAUGHT RANGERS

(A poetical Sergeant of the Rangers has sent us the following composition):

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On the twenty-third of June, my boys, in eighteen eighty three,

The gallant North Mayo marched forth, with courage light and free,

Their colours waving proudly in the cheering vernal breeze,

Each precious maiden brightly beamed through gorgeous solar rays.

 With measured step each company moved out on the parade ground,

Whilst martial music thundered forth, which made the camp resound,

By ten o’clock we were in line awaiting on the ground,

No movement was perceptible, and silence reigned around.

Our gallant Colonel rode in front, and viewed his men with pride,

Whilst we admired out noble chief, in whom we all confide.

The General now approached, attended by his suite,

While from our gallant corps came forth the general salute.

                                                       

The General then stood awhile in evident surprise,

So stately stood that noble line arrainged before his eyes,

We then broke into column, marched past in quick time,

Each company moved forward in a straight unswerving line.

As quickly each division led, their bayonets brightly gleamed,

Resplendent in the morning sun which down upon them beamed,

We now advanced in column along the sandy plain,

And after wheels to right and left, we formed the line again.

We then advanced in grandest style without a wave or bend,

From left to right along the line each soldier kept his place,

Next through the manual exercise we went with rigid care.

The glowing beams of burnished steel showing brightly in the air,

As past and charge in perfect style was given out like one,

From left to right along the line, alert was every man.

The General to his staff astonishment expressed,

And said of all the Corps in camp the North Mayo was best.

                                     Ballina Journal Curragh Camp, 23rd June, 1883

Childhood’s Memories

Childhood’s Memories

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GEMS of thought infuse my vision—dreams of love with none comparing—

In the retrospective glimmers rising up before my gaze:

Peaceful hours in childhood’s summer, hope and gladness proudly bearing

Whisper back to me in memories all their innocence and praise.

By the fireside in the cottage once again I see the faces

Of those loved ones whom I cherished in that dear old happy home;

And my heart becomes enraptured from the force of all the graces

That my recollection numbers as their echoes sweetly come.

Smiling days, I greet thy shadows as I ponder on they pleasures,

And behold my kindly mother guiding with the hand of care;

Close beside her I am ever as her clam instructive measures,

Fill my soul with love and prudence, and our joys and sorrows share.

With my father I am plodding as he ploughs in cheerful motion,

And I trip across the furrows on the newly-turned clay;

Chasing after swooping seagulls that have journeyed from the ocean,

Or the primroses I gather from the hedges by the way.

Round the fairy fort I wander, and recall its stories charms;

With my sisters and my brothers I am sporting on the green;

And I hear the cock at midnight in his lonesome loud alarms;

Lambs are frisking on the pasture, and I watch that joyful scene

With my comrades, at the river, near the lilies, I am fishing;

At the speckled trout I’ve landed I proudly gazing now,

For to catch the merry songsters in the bushes I am wishing;

In the boat that plies the ferry I am splashing at the bow.

In the schoolhouse I am reading on my turn for the teacher;

And in haste I’m flitting homeward on that bye-way path I see;

Rapt in modest admiration in the church I hear the preacher,

And my heart is now embracing all those moments dear to me.

Summer gleams and autumns glimpses trace the outlines of a story,

And those winter pastimes, peeping, fling their spells before my view.

Farewell parents, fond and faithful, resting now in peace and glory,

And to childhood’s scenes of pleasure, love and innocence—adieu!

                                                                                John Ginty

                                         Kilmore, Ballina, 10th March, 1914.

The Royal Irish Tinker

The Royal Irish Tinker

[Vide Castlebar Petty Sessions]

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STRANGE things will sometimes appear amongst men—

This statement is open to flat contradiction—

But I’ve seen it to happen again and again,

For truth very often is stranger than fiction.

Sea serpents and earthquakes are fairly done brown—

This green-coated genius, my boy, is a clinker,

Who now is on show in our own county town,

A real Royal Irish Constabularly Tinker.

Genius, they say, will shine under a pot,

He has it—the rest of the force don’t begrudge it—

It rests on no certain particular spot

Under the helmet—sometimes in the budget.

This here will climb up the ladder of fame,

He don’t want promotion—the man is a thinker—

With a soldering iron carving his name—

A real Royal Irish Constabularly Tinker.

To keep talent dormant is certainly crime—

Whoever would think that in coal such fine tar is—

And this brilliant young man is now losing his time;

He should be illumining London or Paris;

But Bailey and Barnum will not let him go,

He beats Darwin’s world-renowned missing link, or

Anything else they have got in their show,

This real Royal Irish Constabularly Tinker.

The Japanese want him—they say they can’t cook—

To fix the camp kettles and mend the big drums;

The Czar swears he’ll have him by hook or by crook

To solder his ministers after the bombs.

King Edward declares all his vessels want rims—

He’ll not let him go as the man is no drinker—

So is bringing him over to bottom the Thames—

This real Royal Irish Constabularly Tinker.

A King is a man who in honour is bound,

To elevate men by straightforward example;

He won’t change his robes and start hanging around

Making mountains of mole hills his subjects to trample.

Bereft of his Kingdom and Crown, he’s not mean;

Ah! not for a ship and the gold that would sink her,

That one little spark—self-respect—will remain—

Not so with this King masquerading as Tinker.

                                                       Larry Doolan

                                          Ballina, 5th May, 1906.

A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story

DEAR reader, the story I tell you is true—

You may say to yourself “it is all up my sleeve”—

In answer to this—well, I wish I were you,

Or had you beside me—you might then believe.

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A white Christmas both in country and town;

Mother earth all in white as if dressed for a ball,

Old Nephin that morning had put on his crown,

Yet the feathery flakes still continued to fall.

That night all was silent—the hour was late—

All the streets were deserted, no one was about,

Except the odd straggler, with unsteady gait,

Could be heard as he hic-ccoughed the latest thing out,

Sitting one on each side of me happy as kings,

The town clock struck twelve; I started and said:

“Tis a shame, I should strike for the head of the bed,

When to my great surprise came a knock on the door!

A stranger, thinks I, who is jolly well tight,

When he finds his mistake he will instantly leave;

So, pardon my rudeness, I’ll bid you good night,

You may stop when you are until next Christmas Eve,

I jumped to my feet as he door opened wide,

Begorra, said I, they are coming in pairs,

For there were two strangers in black, side by side,

Who took off their hats and then sat down on two chairs.

Good Lord, I would sooner face two half mad bulls,

I could hear my teeth rattle-do nothing but stare—

In stead of their heads they had two polished skulls,

No eyes or no teeth—not a spoonful of hair.

I fancy they thought the whole thing a great joke,

For they seemed to enjoy my great horror and dread;

I thanked the Almighty when one of them spoke

And said, I suppose, sir, you know we are dead;

I hope Mr. Doolan, we do not intrude,

But the weather outside you could hardly call hot,

And our unannounced entrance must seem rather rude—

But we had to be here, either like it or not.

We lived on the earth forty-five years ago,

And then died sudden deaths as bad men often do;

We were sentenced to wander in heat, frost and snow

Until this Christmas Eve—then to call upon you.

I won’t waste your time now by making a speech—

We are hunted and suffer far worse than the hares—

So hear our sad stories, we beg and beseech,

You’ll remember us both when you kneel and say prayers.

The bottle was near me, I grasped it, asthore;

Without saying good-health took a long, steady pull;

My courage revived, I was Larry once more,

And then, lighting my pipe, said, “proceed, Mr. Skull”.

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LARRY DOOLAN’S DECISION

I studied awhile, then addressed them both—

“As an agent you have been a scourge and a curse;

But, bad as you are, I would swear on my oath

That the grabber beside you was fifty times worse.

He had you all through in the palm of his hand,

And made you do everything that he desired,

For he moulded the balls, gave the word of command,

And you like an idiot obeyed him and fired.

You robbed the poor tenants and then pitched them out,

Though you knew you would suffer as long as you ran

The strange thing to me I cannot make out,

That God did not strike you down when you began.

If I had the power to bring you back here—

But, of course, I have not, as you will understand—

I would bet my last bob that before one short year

The lad I see there would be looking for land.

The clock has struck two, I will soon be upstairs,

No a drop in the bottle my whistle to wet,

You came to crave money and ask for my prayers,

But the mercy you gave is the mercy you’ll get.

Why were you not sent out to visit Jack Haire?

Though he may have the measles, then chin-cough and croup,

I would get Charles Slater to photo you there—

What a nice Christmas card you make in a group.

I feel awful thirsty, it is time I should stop,

My bottle is empty—I wish it were full—

And as sure as you’re there, though I’m fond of my drop,

I would smash it in bits upon that grabber’s skull.

I cannot say this Christmas Eve I’ve enjoyed

Go back to your sender, and be sure to him tell

I will feel disappointed and greatly annoyed

If he does not send both of you headlong to H--l.”

They sprang from their chairs, and then rattled their bones—

Faith it’s coming—I thought I had spoken too rash—

Then they danced round the house to the music of groans,

And out through the letter-box went like a flash.

                                                                                                                             Larry Doolan

                                                       Ballina, 21st November, 1907        

Larry Doolan’s Christmas Adventure

Larry Doolan’s Christmas Adventure

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“LIGHT the pipe and listen Mick; I’ll tell you a strange tale,

You know yourself I never tell a lie—

It happened to myself, you see; I’d tell it word for word

To Father James if I was going to die!

Christmas last poor Peggy, God be good to her, was here;

To-night she sleeps in Leigue beneath the grass.

I said to here, “be sure, agra, and waken me in time

As I intend to go to early Mass.”

At half-past ten the family were fast asleep in bed,

I soon would follow suit, and off I’d pop.

I raked the fire, quenched the light, and said a few short prayers,

Got in, and soon was sleeping like a top—

When all at once I started up and thought I heard loud shouts—

You know I am not cowardly, but brave—

I listened in the darkness but not could catch a sound,

For all was dark and silent as the grave.

I dressed myself, put on a fire—hung the kettle on—

It soon blazed up—I heard the kettle sing,

Then took out the Western People to find out the latest news,

Began to read until the bells would ring.

I soon was interrupted by a knocking on the door,

I thought this must be an early bird,

The holy time that’s in it I must rise and let him in,

For at Christmas we must have the civil word.

I opened, stepped outside—then a shout that rent the air—

And Micky O, the sight that met my view—

The road, the path, and window stools, as far as I could see

Were packed with little men, and women too,

Dressed up in all the colours that the rainbow ever showed,

There could be seven hundred—more perhaps—

The little chaps wore riding boots, with spurs that shone like gold,

But men and women all wore scarlet caps.

One of them stepped up to me, he must have been the boss,

He wore a pair of glasses and a moustache,

The gold lace on his tunic, boy, was shining bright and new,

And at his waist a little sword and sash.

He said “old chap, we want to-night a plucky man like you,

So Mr. Doolan, you must come along with us,

We cannot do the job on hand without a living man,

So come away with us and make no fuss”.

I said, “Now, Mr. Fairy, do you think I am a fool?”—

He struck me with his sword upon the chest—

And while you’d say Jack Robinson, Oh, Mick asthore, Machree,

I was two feet high and dressed like the rest.

“Mount!” rang out in clear loud tones, and horses soon appeared—

Begorra, then, each couple maid a pair—

For every little woman sat behind her little man,

And we galloped off like demons through the air.

The captain rode beside me, and soon began to chat,

He said: “I think we picked the proper man,

And judging from experience, you suit us to a hair,

So I’ll tell you about our little plan:

You know this big Tom Mulligan—he lives in Newtownwhite—

We had a little fort upon his farm—

And there we held our meetings for eleven hundred years,

But never done him hurt or harm.

He cut down all the bushes, and destroyed out meeting hall—

The change to him won’t bring an extra bob—

We must have compensation for disturbance, don’t you see,

And make him rue the day he faced the job.

Now Mulligan’s small farm joins the big boycotted ranch—

Every beast on that to-night must lose its tail—

And patriotic Tommy—staunch supporter of the League—

Will find himself to-morrow night in jail.

And now we near journey’s end, so not a single word,

We always do our work upon the sly,

Silence is our motto, so remember what I say—

Until we meet again I’ll say good-bye”.

“Oh, mille murther, captain dear, my little tongue is out;

Is there any chance, amock,  to get a drop?”

He said: “You’ll have, when we get back Lough Melvin’s of the best—

In Carroll Bros. cellar or the shop.

We halted, all dismounted, then scattered through the field,

And men and women shouted at the fun,

Swords were drawn and tails came off, far quicker, I’ll tell you,

Than if they’d brought the saw and Peter Dunne,

The R.I.C. left watching were enjoying Christmas time—

One of them sang Lynchehaun first class—

If they chanced to leave the hut and have a look around

The tails were on and we—were blades of grass.

The bloody work being over we started home again—

They yelled and shouted hip, hip, hurrah!

When landed safe at home again the cheers that rent the air—

I thought would tumble down old Ballina.

I sat down by the fireside completely worn out,

And thought of all the strange things I had seen,

When a hand was on my shoulder—on looking up I saw

The gentlemen who dress in bottle green.

“I arrest you, Larry Doolan, on the warrant of the King,

I am sorry for your family and wife,

As you and big Tom Mulligan will cross the “Bridge of Sighs!”

For seventeen long years—perhaps for life.”

“You lie, you ugly villain, I was here all Christmas Eve,

And only for the law I’d break your nose.”

The other chap behind him drew his baton like a flash,

And struck me such a welt across the toes.

I made a rush and caught him—then I saw it was my wife—

She was dressed and looked so handsome and so neat—

She said: “You shouted villain and I turned round and saw

The kettle boiling out upon your feet.

Put on your coat and waistcoat, man, you’ll shortly hear the bell,

So hurry up and take the cup of tay,

All the neighbours have passed by and it will not look too well

 If we are late for Mass on Christmas Day”.

                                                

                                                    Larry Doolan

                                            Ballina, December 1905                         

Larry Doolan’s Christmas Eve

Larry Doolan’s Christmas Eve

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A LOVELY night, and Christmas Eve—of all nights of the year,

All Ballina now inside doors preparing Christmas cheer;

A nice fresh breeze was blowing straight direct from the North Pole,

As I filled and lit my G.B.D.* and started for a stroll.

Not caring then which way I took when leaving my abode,

So took the turning on my left and down Killala road.

Leisurely I strolled along, when, at St. Patrick’s Well,

I heard the Ballina town clock the midnight hour tell.

Yet on I went quite carelessly, although the hour was late,

Then turned in to light my pipe at Kilmore graveyard gate.

While here I thought of old friends I loved who now were laid to rest,

And must be spending Christmas Eve among the good and blest.

Then all at once, while thinking thus, the lighted match in hand,

I felt a queer sensation, and my hair began to stand.

A kind of all-overness—I felt as cold as death—

And something creeping  up my spine that took away my breath.

I felt so cold, so awful cold, as if my blood would freeze—

And trembled like an aspen leaf, especially the knees;

“Lord, save my soul—was that a moan?” – I turned round my head

And there I saw before my eyes a man who had been dead

And buried twenty years ago, for well I knew the year,

As I was as his funeral, and no one dropped a tear.

Yet there he was as large as life, in shadow almost hid;

He smoked a Derry pipe and sat upon his coffin lid.

Dear reader, you may laugh, but I declare it was no joke,

So I made up my mind to run—when all at once he spoke:

“Is that you, Larry Doolan? Faith you’re looking up to date,

But what can have you prowling here; what keeps you out so late?

No matter, boy, take that big stone; sit down and rest your shoes,

And tell me all about the town, you must have piles of news”.

My courage was now coming back and not at all in dread,

I looked him straight between the eyes, and this is what I said:

“Don’t think that I’m inquisitive; no, no, Tom, God forbid—

But why must you be here to-night perched on that coffin lid?

How is it you are down here, Tom, and who could give you leave?

I thought that you were sleeping snug and warm in your grave,

Away from this wide world-its troubles and complaints,

And strolling round through Paradise with all the dacent saints;

Not here as an obstruction in defiance of the law,

And moaning like a “collough” with a tooth-ache in her jaw.

Faith if the Royal Irish heard of how you’re getting on

You’ll get your fourteen days, my boy, or may be twenty-one,

For having all the dacent folk disturbed, in fact, annoyed,

If I were you I’d go and get a ticket from John Boyd.

Then Billy Rape will let you in without a single word,

And don’t you fret they’ll never bring you up before the board.”

“No, Larry, boy, I cannot leave, I’m here as if in gaol,

So if you pay attention I will tell you all my tale—

While living on the earth I led a mean and selfish life;

I quarelled with my neighbours and delighted in the strife,

Hating almost everyone, especially the poor;

I never gave them charity, but ran them from my door.

Not one “May God be merciful” for me was ever said;

One prayer while living, Larry O, is worth twelve gross when dead.

I had town tenants, some have died, but brought with them their proofs,

And told St. Peter they could count the planets through their roofs.

They proved I had evicted them for less than half-a-crown,

And some had died from fever and rheumatics from rain down;

And now I’m feeling every pang I made those creatures feel,

I’m famished, starved, and racked with pain, my bones as cold as steel,

For sickness, cold, or poverty I never did relieve,

So here I sit in punishment on every Christmas Eve,

And here I must remain, asthore—how long, O Lord, alas!

And suffer for my punishment till those things come to pass:--

Until the licensed publican sells nothing else but hops,

And tenant farmers tell you straight they all have splendid crops;

When the bogus agitator shakes his neighbour by the hand,

And will not split him with a spade for half a perch of land.

When maidens of a doubtful age admit they’re on the shelf

And lawyers take to preaching “Love your neighbour as yourself.”

When our glorious Irish Party from its apathy is roused,

To think of poor town tenants worse than dogs or cattle housed.

Until our Urban Council has got clearly out of depth,

And those cottages long promised are all finished and to let;

And when our grand, big market house stands proudly in the sun,

Then Larry O, asthore machree, my penance here is done”.

The cocks then crew, he started up as if he’s got a fright:

He jumped into his coffin and then vanished out of sight,

I thought I heard a frightful noise above me in the air,

Then started up to find I had slumbered in a chair.

Beside me stood a bottle just half empty I could see:

The whole thing was a mystery and no one there but me

So where I was and not below conversing with the dead—

I took another bumper and went quickly to bed.

                                      Larry Doolan

                                 Ballina, December 20th, 1904.

Larry Doolan’s Christmas Card, 1893

Larry Doolan’s Christmas Card, 1893

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The following “lamentation” is to a Garden Street lady

residing in New York city:-

I know this night is Christmas Eve of all nights in the year;

I’m thinking of my colleen Dhú, so far and yet so near.

Her ringing laugh, her hazel eyes, her jet-black silken hair—

Perhaps she has some masher chap beside her on the chair?

His arm around her slender waist, enjoying her bright smile,

Whilst I, ochone, sit here alone, in Erin’s lovely isle.

And if she weds this masher fool, may God forgive her sins;

Oh! may he find himself each year the ‘pater’ of fat twins;

May he get “tight”, roll home each night with all his senses gone—

Then may he feel the “flushfork” in that part he sits upon;

And may the twins alarm the street with screeches loud and vile

Whilst I, ochone, sit here alone, in Erin’s lovely isle.

But if she still remembers me—her honest, faithful friend—

Then may her Christmas, happy be, the New Year to her lend

New charms. But, quite impossible—“the lily you can’t paint.”

Dear, Reader, you may fancy we are lovers, but we aint,

She filled a sister’s place for years, but now is in exile,

Whilst I, ochone, sit here alone, in Erin’s lovely isle.

                           Larry Doolan

                                                          Ballina, 1893.                   

Mrs. Doolan’s Christmas Ball

Mrs. Doolan’s Christmas Ball

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THE other night my wife proposed that we should give a ball,

I might not bother my dear head, she would arrange it all,

And fill the spacious Town Hall with brave women and fair men—

Our names would be immortalized by editorial pen.

I had my third strong tumbler down, and felt that I was done;

I might object, but later on I must give in my gun.

I hate responsibility, so left it all to her—

Then for a week, oh holy smoke, I had not room to stir,

Velvet, satins, piles of lace, and some stuff called chiffon;

Feathers, flowers, bangles, till my head was fairly gone.

Under skirts and over skirts, with every kind of fan,

And fifty other fol-de-dols mysterious to man.

The tone of conversation heard from morning until night

Was “Miss McGuffin” will wear blue, Miss Gibbons goes in white.”

I remonstrated with our cook, complained the steak was rare;

She said it’s nice with violets and sprigs of maiden hair.

The night arrived and with it came a carriage to my door;

We drove away, arrived in time to meet full seven score;

Such fashion and variety, such dresses and such swells,

The ladies voices soft and low, so like sweet chiming bells.

These lovely creatures floated round like angers without wings—

Some say that women’s tempers change when wearing plain gold rings—

You never could select the belle, or even yet surmise,

Each lady was par excellence; and talk about sheep’s eyes—

The Japanese artillery, if managed with such skill,

Would force the bear to knuckle down and hug them with a will.

The gentlemen were up to date, and all wore swallow tails,

White tall collars out of sight and cuffs down to their nails,

Bouquets of the rarest plants, with perfume rich and rare,

Moustaches waxed to point like pins, and not a struggling hair.

A lot of gay light-hearted youths on fun and pleasure bent;

And every dog will have his day, so let them be content;

But matrimony and its cares will teach them later on

To “bring your umbrella with you, John, John, John.”

The musical selections were exquisitively grand,

Dancing soon commenced, but, och, marrone, not dancing with the feet,

More like the ring-or-roses that the kind play in the street.

They called the dance the “lancers”, but I could not make it out—

They bowed. They scraped and twisted round, then twisted round about,

Take your partners, polka round, and then all ladies star-

They start the “D’Albert,” but I started for the bar—

I took a few of special then, I smoked a perfumed fag,

I wore a coat with tails on it just like a willy wag.

My blood got up. I pushed my way—some ladies said “how rude”—

And found my little queen at last in converse with a dude,

“Och, Peggy, oh,” asthore, machree, I’m rusty for a dance,

I don’t like those dead marches brought from Germany or France;

You know right well, my little queen, just how a fellow feels,

With that sensation working him—a heartbeat in the heels.”

She smiled, I took her hand in mine, then to the band aloud,

“Strike up the "Rocky Roads’, my boys, then give us "Miss McLeod.”

Then, och, marrone, we footed it in real ould Irish style,

And showed them how a pair could dance in Erin’s  lovely isle.

Dancing was kept up until the darkness was reversed—

We had the parting drop, and then we quietly dispersed.

My little wife and I got home with morning’s first red beams,

Then took a cabin-passage for the happy land of dreams.

Next I heard my servant say “my boss is still in bed,”

I scrambled out to feel the drop still working in my head.

I danced the “Rakes of Mallow”, till my wife began to shout,

“Why Larry Doolan, are you mad, or what are you about?”

And there she was, my little queen, with tear drops on her lids;

Her curling pins were cocking up like horns on young kids.

She caught the influenza, and, of course, was very ill—

Herself to blame; she got the ball, but I would get the bill;

Her nose was swollen, one eye closed, the other on me fixed—

She said “to be or not to be,” continued in my next.

                         Larry Doolan

                                Ballina, 10th August, 1907.

Mavourneen! Shule Asthore!

Mavourneen! Shule Asthore!

------------------------

’TIS silent midnight as I sit alone, in sad dejection,

And ’fore my mind the shadows flit of somber recollection;

The sunny Moy and boyhood’s days, the Abbey, old and hoary,

Whose turrets tall and winding ways, bring back its ancient glory.

The green hill top, the sparkling brook, St. Muredach’s stately spire—

Fit subjects for the poet’s book, or music’s dulcent lyre!;

Where Bunree’s woods and meadows fair, and Downhill’s sheen aglore

Bring back fond memories of my south, Mavoureen! Shule, asthore!

As wandering through this mighty land I think on Erin’s beauty,

And how her sons, with head and hand, have the patriot’s duty;

I pray for better days to shine on that sweet emerald shore,

When parting tears, on sorrow’s shrine, will our eyes no more.

When loved ones, clasped unto our breasts, will feel the gladsome thrill,

And each sad heart contented rests, secure from ever ill;

Then Erin bright, my sweet  old home, my father’s land, once more

       I’ll lay me on thy emerald breast, Mavourneen! Shule, asthore! 

                                                                 W.R.A.                   New York, 3rd January, 1895.                     

                                  

                            

The “Up” and “Down” Bus

The “Up” and “Down” Bus

-----------------------------------

DAY after day,

The dark green bus went by;

Taking people away,

Leaving others to cry,

And lament their departure.

Harold Lewis, the driver,

John Timlin, the conductor;

Well nourished bodies,

And fingernails clean;

In contrast with passengers,

Who invariably had a lean

And weather-beaten look.

Ballina to Galway,

On every week-day;

Bicycles on top,

Nothing extra to pay;

A ladder bolted to the rear,

For Harold to climb;

A man without fear,

In my worshipping eyes;

Someone worthy of a prize—

For his bravery.

A man once said to Harold Lewis,

“You must know every house and bush

Along the road from Ballina to Galway?”

“I do,” he replied, “and not alone that,

I know every jug in each dresser,

And every picture in each hallway!”

                    Tony Ruane

                                                      Straide and Dublin, 1952.

The s.s.“Ballina”

The s.s.“Ballina”

-----------------------

(Taken from the Quay School Project).

(The ship left Liverpool, overladen, with her crew of four on the 6^th January, 1882, to return to Ballina, but was never seen again. The ship’s bell was found in a wreck off the coast of the Isle of man in 1971, and returned to Ballina. A pilot at the Quay, Pat Walsh, after guiding out the ship from the harbour, failed to disembark at Enniscrone, and proceeded to Liverpool, where he left the little coaster and returned to Ballina, via Dublin. Despite pleas from the crew to stay with them over the Christmas he returned home, a decision which saved his life). (P.J.C.)

IT was on the 5^th January,

I remember well the day,

Our gallant ship “The Ballina” sailed from Liverpool quay.

The cargo being too heavy as the captain he did say

Addressing all his crew before they left the quay.

The storm arose, the thunder rolled,

The lightning it did flash,

The waves again our vessel tremendously did dash.

The captain cried “prepare yourself

For death it is at hand,

Unless the storm ceases we will never reach the land!”

The captain and his gallant crew did their duty well,

The hardship that they bore that night no pen or tongue can tell.

Pat Carney and Jack Hennigan and James Walsh makes three,

They were the finest young men that ever left the quay;

They left their friends and parents in sorrow for to mourn,

Each one lamenting for their own who never will return.

God help poor Mrs. Hennigan, she’s reason to deplore—

For her last and only son

She’ll never see no more.

                              Author Unknown.

A Steamer Called “The Tartar”

A Steamer Called “The Tartar”

-----------------------------------

(A century after trade between Sligo and Belmullet commenced by steamer, former ship captain, Frank Devaney, wrote this commemorative poem in 1999. As a tribute to all the people who had anything to do with the trade into the Quay (Crocketstown) we reprint these few poems which we found either in “The History of Ballina Quay” or the local papers). (P.J.C.)

A fast steamer call “The Tartar,”

Not so many long years ago;

Opened up trade to Belmullet,

In Broadhaven, Co. Mayo.

But her carriage of passengers ended,

When World War 1 came to bear;

Never more could people take passage,

To take in the Atlantic’s sea air.

On her way she anchored off by-ports,

Loading curraghs with all they could bear;

And then would proceed with her passage,

Ti tie up at Pickle Point Pier.

Her cargo would there be unloaded,

And she laid in that berth overnight;

Where some crew went off for refreshments,

Which later would help them sleep tight.

Next day she began loading cattle,

Then all present had to take care;

As live beasts were slung by her derrick,

And lowered to hold through the air.

By noon she would be off on passage,

Trailing black smoke on the way;

And just about seven hours later

Would be tied up in Sligo at quay.

But the ’Thirties saw widespread depression,

And what was in store no one knew;

“The Tartar” tied up, her crew all paid off,

So ended the trade in nineteen-thirty-two!