The Scavenger's Cart

The Scavengers’ Cart

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COULD you send us the scavengers’ cart?

The shovel, the brush, or the scraper?

If they only jut gave us a part

Of their work, as we oft see the caper.

They cut with their brush, as each day

At daylight, everywhere if you please,

You can see the stuff swept clean and dry

From the doors of our noted T.C.’s!

Don’t we pay for our share of the work,

Our pennies as good as their pounds;

Sure we’re neither a heathen or Turk

That the scavengers won’t take their rounds?

The hill for the mule is too steep,

While Timlin’s old mare’s not too free;

Between them we’re just ankle deep

With mire in old Ardnaree.

Was it so, in the days long gone by?

When the kings of old Connaught were crowned

On yon hill on the banks of the Moy"

Or the bell’s hold music did sound

From the Abbey, now crumbling to dust,

Could those ’neath its sod but just see

Would they know it from muck dirt, and rust,

Their once famed, their loved Ard-na-rea?

How often has Hamilton strolled,

Or Quigley his optics cast round?

Why, their Acts they will quickly unfold

If the poor with a bonnive is found.

Yet the scavengers’cart up the hill

But twice in the year you may see;

Oh! Send it, do T.C’s to kill

The plague spots in old Ard-na-ree.

We’re in darkness and dirt night and day;

Our lamps are put out or not lit;

Dear T.C.’s do show us fair play;

Give the scavengers notice to quit.

’Tis a shame in the year ’89,

This age of improving to see

That from sludge, dirt and mud for a time

We’re not free in our old Ard-na-ree!

                     S. H.

                                         Ardnaree, 23^rd October, 1889