Mrs. Doolan’s Christmas Ball

Mrs. Doolan’s Christmas Ball

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

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!

To Ballina People at Home and in Exile

To Ballina People

at Home and in Exile

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

Old Scenes – Old Places

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

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                                                                                  

BALLINA IN THE PAST

BALLINA IN THE PAST

A

 VERY interesting article was published in July, 1915, in the “Ballina Herald” by a Ballina man who was resident in London for a number of years. In the article Mr. M. C. Walshe wrote: “Your sketch of Ballina in the past is one of extreme interest to those, who like myself, are native of the district, and have been absent from the country (except for short visits) for long years. It brings back to memory that which one must love to remember, and also to ones mind (if he is old enough) the days of trials and hardships, more than counterbalanced by recollection of our simple pastimes and pleasures.

  “Dealing with the population and industries of Ballina; even in my time there was a row of houses in Barnadarrig almost from Nelligan’s house (a house surrounded by a high wall and steps leading up to a door) on the town side of the Convent, to the lane referred to in your sketch, which I take it must be that as Barleys or Barneys Boreen.

  “It is true that whole streets, and portions of streets have disappeared. The many lanes running into what are now cultivated fields on the right side of Garden Street; others on the Killala Road show it.

  “Bunree, again, extended almost from the bridge to Ardnaree; many of the lane in Ardnaree have disappeared, while the latter pushed out towards Dunbar’s flax mills, while like Messrs. Gallagher’s mill and the Moy Fisheries, employed a considerable number of people, young and old. I had in my possession some old books having some reference to the Ham family which leads me to believe that the original Ham came from the west of England, though it may be first to Waterford. Whether that was so or not, he did establish a foundry and iron-works in Ballina.

  “There was also a brewery on the Ardnaree side of the bridge, I think it was known as Hearn’s Moy Brewery, but how long it was in existence I cannot say.

  “The Cobblers’ Row was quite an institution in those days, and was there when I left Ireland. One cheery old soul I can remember very well, Larry Mahody, better known to us boys as ‘smiling Larry’ on account of his kindly word and smile to all children.

  “The boot trade of the town was largely in the hands of about five men. Willie Onions of Bridge Street, was quite a character; another was john G. swift; we never could make out what the ‘G’ stood for, and we turned it into ‘Glogeria’ Swift. My spelling of Irish I am afraid is not good, but ‘Glogeria’ stands for fool or uncouth. Be that as it may, John was no fool.

  “Then there were two brothers named Hannan, one in King Street and the other in Knox Street, both fine specimens of manhood as you could find, gentlemanly, intelligent, and a credit to any town or country.

  “During my many years’ absence from Ireland, and the many people I have met, I have never been able to get rid of the impression made on my young mind by the merchant traders of Ballina, as I knew them. I thought there was no finer class of men to be found, and I think so still. Let me give a few of the names in my mind, those of the old school, but few, if any, are living now. There was John Rooney, M. Coen, J. Coolican, the two Bairds, R. Wilson, R. G. Baxter, P. Flanagan, Tom Muffeny, John Dillon, M. Byrne (two of them), John Mahon, and a score of others, all great men, and gentlemen. I thought then what a  splendid lot of men they were, and I think so now, morally and mentally, an when one considers the small opportunities they had in those days, they were men to be proud of.

  “The trade of the town was then on a large scale and flourishing, though however prosperous in the town, it benefited the countryman not at all. It was the day of the absentee, before the Land Acts and Purchase Acts; the fruit of the soil was not for them.

  “To the eternal credit of the merchant he never forgot his poor brother, he spent his profits freely in defence and for the advancement of the cause of the countrymen, and ungrudgingly, always with his cash, and often with his body.  “I have a clear recollection of the year 1895, when the wolf howled loudly at the poor man’s door; big hearted Father Pat Irwin passed the word to the shopkeepers, ‘Help and trust the poor and you will stay evictions’, and nobly they responded, every one of them, bit and small.

  “Things are different now, will they forget those who fought their battles in the past? Perhaps it is the nature of all of us to be selfish, but there are degrees of selfishness. The Irish farmer is certainly selfish in his prosperity, at least that is the opinion I have recently formed. It is, I suppose, the re-action from want to plenty. All re-actions are rather violent. I like to think of the old times, and ask you to accept this as my apology for troubling you with this screed. Times were hard and harsh in those days, but things have changed, and the young generation seems to have changed also; they have never felt the pinch of necessity of the past. First or second class tickets on an Atlantic greyhound now takes the place of the steerage in a coal hulk, or coffin ship, a bundle of hay, and a ten weeks’ voyage. For all their poverty they were great men then, nation makers all; will the new think as fondly and work as faithfully as the old to defend:

  “The altars we kneel at,

  “The homes of our sires,

against either Hun or Hessian? The need may be greater than some seem to think.

Faithfully yours, M. C. Walshe, London”.