To Ballina People at Home and in Exile

To Ballina People

at Home and in Exile

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Old Scenes – Old Places

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Tell stories of the glories of dead industries and arts—

Down from tradition, so beloved of Irish hearts.

  This book of Ballina poems is a memorial to all the “poets” who wrote into the two Ballina newspapers – The Western People and Ballina Herald -- with verses of poetry that they had composed while passing the time of long ago. While researching other work I found, throughout the pages of these newspapers, literally hundreds of poems about Mayo; of people and places; of all kinds of activities, some humorous, some serious, and among them the sad poems from those who had left these shores and who never made it back, and those who did come ‘home’ and found huge changes from the life that they had left – some good and some not. Whatever changes that they had seen they still wrote throughout the lines of the poem of their great love for their areas and Ireland. So, as a tribute to those who never emigrated and to those who lived and lie in far-off lands, I dedicate this book to these writers who had the vision to put pen to paper to describe their feelings of their homeland.

  Refreshing now and again is to find time to think about boyhood’s days, beauty of scenery, peaceful surroundings, schoolboy haunts, old roads and boreens that lead into the woods and mountains (far away from the paved road), winding up and down around rocks and across small streams; ancient castles, roofless towers, whose crumbling walls told of their mighty strength.

For instance, in 1924 a Ballina native wrote—

I’d like to stand at Carroll’s* Cross,

And saunter down the road

That leads to ruins long laid bare,

Dissension Cromwell sowed.

The Brickyard* field, the Foundry* field,

Such scenes I’d like to join—

St. Patrick’s Well and old Kilmore—

All point their way to Moyne!

{Carroll’s Cross: The junction between Garden Street and McDermott Street, and Teeling Street and Pound Street; The Brickyard: A field behind the Corcoran Terrace houses where bricks were made; The Foundry: Spades were made here. Started by a man called Mulreaney, it passed into the hands of a John Dillon, then Arthur Muffeny, and  was situated close to the St. Patrick Terrace houses where the workers lived}. (P.J.C.)

  It is refreshing to ponder on the kindly neighbours, to think of the old homestead, within whose walls rang out the noise of mirth and feasting—smiles and tears; days of anxious watching, laughter and beauty, each of which have implanted pleasant memories which yet freshly access our bosoms come.

“A song for the free and gladsome life

In those early days we led,

With a teeming soil beneath our feet,

And a smiling heaven o’erhead.

Oh! the waves of life danced merrily

And had a joyous flow

In the days when we were pioneers,

Fifty years ago.”

  Always – invariably at least – is the heart with old scenes and old places. Something of the sacredness of beauty surround them. Inspiring it is to step upon a floor that has been trodden by a mother and father; for your tracks, invisible though they may seem after you have gone, will surely become a part of that old place, like the fragrance of roses that are faded and gone. ‘Twill be ever thus—remindful of the proverbial bower of roses by Bendemeer’s Stream.*

{*This poem was written by Thomas Moore (1779-1852). Around 1900 Percy French re-wrote the lyrics to the original air and is better known as the “Mountains of Mourne”}. (P.J.C.)

  To be able to put the book together I had the very able assistance of quite a number of people, namely Ivor Hamrock of Castlebar County Library and his staff; Barbara Varley and her staff in Ballina Library; Jackie Hannick (the poet laureate of Ardnaree, who supplied me with a couple of poems); Luke Dodd, R.I.P., (a great listener and could recite many verses when required); along with Ian and Michael from the corner table of Padraic’s; Gerry Ginty for his grandfather’s, John Ginty, poems and acrostics; Patsy and Seamus Rooney, relatives of James Wallace Melvin. Last, but not least, my long suffering wife, Nan, who always came up trumps with the cups of coffee and words of encouragement at the most crucial of moments, and, my family, Paul, Pearse, Carol and Philip.

  So, to all those who read this book I say a very big thank you, and to quote one of Ireland’s greatest poets, W. B. Yeats, who wrote:

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.”

                                                           © P. J. Clarke

              Ballina, Co. Mayo