Mr. Doolan, according to the next poem, was duly elected to serve his time on the Urban District Council of Ballina, but I have yet to find any contribution he made to the debates that took place inside these exalted quarters in Dillon Terrace. –(P.J.C.)
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An Urban Councillor’s Dream
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THE night was dreary, bitter, cold, and ‘silence reigned supreme,’
A night to make one feel inclined to sleep, perchance to dream;
The wind seemed changing dirges, as it moaned along the streets,
And I lay thinking, wide awake, tucked in between the sheets.
The chapel clock had tolled out twelve, the inmates were in bed,
My coin was locked within my safe, the keys beneath my head;
I had a good few jorums from that bottle of three stars,
And prayed for those unfortunates who frequent public bars.
Then thoughts of dear old Erin till for wrongs I wept,
So filled with patriotic thoughts I closed my eyes and slept;
I dreamt this town of Ballina had grown, to my surprise,
Into a little city and was twice its present size.
By mills and many factories on both sides of the Moy,
And these gave constant labour to man, woman, girl and boy;
The shops were filled with customers, the shopman smiling bland,
The clink of coin was plainly heard exchanged from hand to hand.
The working class looked hale and sound and showed they used good beef,
And did not want a coal fund raised, or any such relief;
The joyous feelings filled my soul, what happiness! What bliss!
When one man said aloud to me ’twas you that did all this.’
I took a walk to Bohernasup, and there to my surprise,
The change was so remarkable I scarce believed my eyes;
A row of lovely cottages on each side of the street,
Bright flowers grew in front of them, and all looked clean and neat.
The children played about in groups, so happy and so gay,
The little girls dressed in white, it was a gladsome day;
The light of health and happiness shot forth from every eye
With healthy roses on their cheeks that money could not buy.
I saw a woman passing, but to me her face was strange,
She said: ‘May God increase your store, ’twas you that made this change;’
I made my way to Garden Street, and in the Market Square,
A splendid cut-stone market house rose proudly in the air.
A railing set in stone in front in case of crush or press,
Three massive gates lay open giving entrance and egress.
And here again the busy hum of business filled the air,
You bet your bottom dollar there was money making there;
The merchants’ tills were fairly filled with silver, notes and gold,
Potatoes, poultry, butter, eggs, etc., bought and sold.
At meeting time I went upstairs and knocked, then in I strolled,
‘God save all here,’ upon my word the day is pretty cold;.
I spoke to members, then shook hands with Mr. Brown,
Then taking off my coat and hat I quietly sat me down;
A member got upon his legs and said, ‘we can’t delay,
The King will be in Ballina at four o’clock today’;
Each man must do his duty now and meet him in full dress,
He then proposed me as the man to read him our address.
It passed with acclamation, then we started for the train,
We took the way by Piper Hill, then on by Water Lane.
The train passed Crossmolina, and was coming mighty soon,
And then we felt an ugly want, no band to play a tune.
‘Here she comes,’ the porter yelled, ‘all people must keep clear,’
The King stepped forth, and then went up a loud and hearty cheer;
Now was my time, I pushed my way, and elbowed through the crowd,
Then halted – then began to read in accents clear and loud:
‘Ten thousand welcomes to Mayo’—the crowd did not applaud,
But sang them dumb, and silence reigned, of what a deuced fraud.
The King he smiled a happy thought, I kneeling on one knee,
He whispered, ‘never mind all this, I came here just to see
How things have prospered with the poor, ground down by landlord greed,
Condemned to live in hovels foul, and pois’nous air to breathe;
For this they’re taxed – the tax of death—Oh what a burning shame,
Their friends are few because they’re poor, ’twas ever thus the same.
The scene then changed, as things will change—the King had gone away,
My friends and I sat down to talk o’er what had passed that day.
And when we sipped the red, rich wine methought I heard a strain,
It certainly was music, or my over-heated brain.
Nearer, louder, still it came, ‘twas music sweet and grand,
Then halted right before my door, the Pullawarla band;
It played the ‘Conquering Hero,’ then struck up "The Cruskeen Lawn,’
‘The Maid From Killecrankie’ and ‘We’ll Plough The Rocks Of Bawn.’
The ‘Wind That Shakes The Barley,’ then ‘The Rising Of The Moon,’
They said they’d play a waltz, but for the drum was out of tune!
I spoke at length and called the band the best of Erin’s sons,
Then ordered them refreshments and a batch of steaming buns;
The cheered me to the echo, then each man filled his glass,
But when they said ‘tis hard to say, so better let it pass!
Another change, and such a change, it makes my blood run cold,
Dear reader, pay attention, and I will ‘a tale unfold!’
I saw a funeral passing as I gazed from out my rooms.
I saw the polished coffin and the hearse with big black plumes.
I rushed down stairs and joined the crowd, with slow and steady walk,
I heard my brother Councillors and boon companions talk;
They turned round the corner, ‘There must be something wrong!’
Said I, still strangely trembling, but it didn’t last for long.
A wave of light shot through me – there was radium in the air,
And all the dreams I fondly dreamt were naked myths and bare.
There were no girls dressed in white, no music there that day;
No pretty cottage to be seen, bedecked with flowers gay.
All things were still as they had been – the hovels filled with smoke,
And shivering forms moving round – oh, what a cruel joke.
To call this Home, these wretched dens, where God’s air is shut out,
Adds mockery to cruelty; then quickly set about;
Ye Urban Fathers to provide the cottage and the flowers,
And the poor will bless your goodly work in after endless hours.
Larry Doolan
Ballina, 16th February, 1904.
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