Poems for All Occasions (7 page)

But the soft red seats brought trouble,

an invasion of hopping things,

Not the Germans or the Russians but fleas as big as tins.

We ate “ bulls eyes and peggy’s legs” and ice cream all in cones,

As we watched a thousand Indians beaten by one cowboy lone.

1 never could really fathom that, as we held our breaths in awe

That hundreds of those arrows missed the cowboy large and tall.

Yet all around the Indians fell as fast as flies at night.

One mighty shot from a cowboy’s gun, they all fell down and died.

Ah how we loved dear Chaplain in the silent movies grand

We wondered at his charisma, he drove the women mad.

But passing years brought changes,

improved films in sight and sound

With lights in multi colours and a lady walking round

With tray filled up with chocolates, popcorn, and drinks so neat

The prices too gave one big leap and the fleas all disappeared.

Twas many the happy couple sat in the back seat holding hands

Gazing at Clark Gable , he set all our hearts abang.

Jane Russell, too, and Marilyn, brought many a sigh and gasp,

Ah, how the. young boys loved them, and likewise did their Dads.

But progress may be brilliant, in the cinema goer’s world,

But give me the old dark film house with its

musty smell and curtains.

To some its pictures were so real, they believed behind that veil,

Were horses . strong and cowboys and girls all fine and hail

The film house is gone ,Alas, replaced by a building high

We often laughed and clapped with glee,

and many the time we cried.

Nostalgia is a terrible thing, it brings thoughts of pain and joy

its like being in a time machine ,

and roam back past years and time.

When we were then teenagers. and thought we’d ne’er grow old.

But to the youngsters. of to day ,I say, your day will come a Stor.

When You’ll be not as sprightly and may suffer pains and cold,

But from seed to bud to full grown tree, the world will stroll along

And baby grows to adulthood, by the river of life he trods,

Then falls asleep in the ocean of the fatherly love of God.

The fair day in my native town

Was fun for young and old.

The traveling people came in droves,

With lame horses and piebald colts.

Their women folk with babies fat,

Wrapped in their shawls of black.

“Give us a penny for the child

And God will guide your track.”

But woe betide, if you said “No”

You’d hear a different tale.

The devil’s curse would be showered on you

“May your children end up in jail,

May you die for want of water,

You scrawny mean old man,

In a pauper’s grave may you lie

Without priest or prayer at hand.”

But should you help the traveller.

Such praise you were sure to get

“May the good Lord reward you kindly,

You’ll be lucky Sir, I bet.

May you never want for comfort

Or a friend to soothe your pain

And may you go to Heaven”

Is the traveling woman’s prayer.

We watched them buying and selling,

Ah! ’twas fun on that fair day,

The jobbers all looked big and strong,

Big boots so tightly laced.

And farmers and their gorsoons,

Blackthorn sticks in hand,

Those fine young men in Wellingtons,

With their healthy country tan.

How much for that scrawny skeleton

Says the jobber to the boy.

Pointing to a fine young copper colt,

With shining teeth and eyes.

“A hundred guineas, Sir,” says he

“You’ll ne’er get better than that,”

“You’re joking,” says the Jobber

“It’s no bigger than a Persian cat.”

For half an hour or maybe more,

Insults were flying high,

We pitied the poor animal,

Who was described as nearly dying.

But like a stroke of thunder,

The Jobber spat on palm

And clasped the farmer and his son,

Now relaxed he was more calm.

“I’ll give you eighty, nothing more

And a round in the Roughty Bar,

You’ll give me luck money, then I’m sure,

Our friendship it won’t mar.

I have a fine young girl at home

Who would suit that son of yours,

She has a healthy fortune,

And two dazzling eyes of blue.

“Ah! beauty never boiled the pot,”

The cute old farmer said.

I hope she sews and makes good tay,

And goes early to her bed.

She must be fond of children

And tell a yarn, be it lie or true,

She’d suit my son. Herself and me,

And nurse us when we’ve flu.

’Twas in the dance ball in
Kenmare,
the action all began,

Just underneath the Library,and midnight’s hour at hand.

The Ladies gathered earlier, some sat, some stood in rows,

Awaiting for the pubs to close, as they powdered cheeks and nose.

And then the noisy entrance of males both old and. young,

Some unsteady on their feet all set for a good night’s fun. .

The strains of lovely music, entranced the lads and girls,

Mike
COMMERCIAL
and his band,

like sounds from another world.

A line of girls stood staThely along the grey- brown wall,

Being studied with cautious glances by the men across the hall.

Ah the waltzes and the foxtrots and a bit of Ceili too

Sent ripples through our heart strings and brought

sweat a pouring through.

Our partners pranced and danced with glee

till the early hours of morn

’Twas often two or three o’clock at the crowing cocks ,we scorned.

How great it was to trip around with a chap who could really dance.

With one’s head upon his shoulder and the touch of his

strong sound grasp.

But woe betide, misfortune, t‘was many another bloke

Who jumped right on our corns and nearly broke our toes.

“Will you do a whirl with me.”, says he, how right he said his words,

’Twas like being up in Carrantoole, a sheltering from wild birds.

No need for massage parlours in those far of bygone years.

Because one got more pinching ,dancing midst shouts and cheers.

Quite often there, some met their fate,

in the good old plain dance balls.

Astanding there aglowing, they got their marriage call.

They courted in the old Lodge wood, or by the Golf links rails,

Some ventured to the Churchyard with its big dark Iron gate.

Miss Corbett had a shop so nice, in the centre of the town,

We were escorted too to Bessys or the generous Mrs Browne.

We drank a soft red mineral, it was orange or lemonade,

Or icecream mixed with lime juice, Ah, it was a welcome treat.

Those boys had no great riches, but they were generous to the core,

They shared their menial earnings, and came from happy homes.

The music was soft and lulling, we had time to chat and talk,

As we danced to the glorious rhythm, of the foxtrot and the waltz.

Songs 1 hear In memory’s ear,. haunt me clear and loud,

1 can hear the strains of ‘Sweet Sixteen’ or romantic

“Now Is the Hour.’ “

‘Forever and forever, as our partners politely bowed,

1 can almost hear the music dear of

‘I wonder whose kissing him now?.

They came from Kilgaryan and Kenmare.

From Incheese and Cork’s Coolea,

From Bonane, and Tahilla, Templenoe,

Tuosist and from across the waves.

Mangerton, Letter., Black valley. Crossroads and Roughty Vale,

Cleady, Killowen and Tullig, and Cork City on Drag hunt Day.

Ah some of them dressed in grandeur, while,

others couldn’t care a dam,

They wore their Sunday caipins, and the best suits that they had.

Few owned a car . or even a bike, but they sauntered without a care,

They bid goodbye to the old dance hall and left for the U.S.A.

We sang them songs like Noreen Ban,and wished,

them on their way,

Some returned once or twice but others we ne’er saw again.

Their names we hear at Mass time.

When the good priest asks for prayers,

For John or Pat or Jim or Joe, who has died in Americae.

I feel the pain in my heart sometimes,

when I think of those good old days.

As we danced with joy, in peace and love neath the library

in Kenmare.

i‘ve danced In Crystal Ballrooms,. in luscious clubs aglow,

But the very corner of my heart is still with the long ago.

I think when Heaven. calls me, I hope it I is like that hall,

Where we danced In childish innocence, and fell in love with all.

The young folks of to day, alas, can’t hear their partners speak,

Because the music’s noisy, and dancing is not, what it used to be.

With our heads upon their shoulders. we glided o’er the foor,

Our minds were flled with a peaceful mirth,

that could not be bought for gold.

Och I could go an forever and drop a few salty tears,

Let’s hope we’ll meet In Heaven, and dance again cheek to cheek.

I can almost see the good Lord smile,

when He sees how easily pleased,

We were In those far of days gone by,

when we only knew peace and ease.

Sad the day they closed it ,the Railway line I mean,

We changed our train at Headford,

Coming to Dingle via Tralee.

Those were the days of boarding school,

The sadness leaving home,

But the surging joy of coming back,

Was worth its weight in gold.

The shunting train from Headford,

Had a lulling soothing sound,

Where Paddy Donoghue, God rest him,

Shook hands with all around.

Then Jimmy Donoghue, with whistle

Would blow it loud and clear,

He knew we were all excited

Just thrilled that home was near.

At Morley’s Bridge and Loo Bridge,

We knew each stone and wall,

The train would stop for water,

Giving us plenty time to talk.

The bushes by the railway side

Never looked so green and fair,

The next stop was Kilgarvan

Dan Cahill was always there.

“Ye’re home again Young People,”

He’d say in his kindly way.

“Any news,” we’d ask him, with a smile

“Ah! sure nothing strange,” he’d say.

“Oh! There’s a dance to night in Hickeys,”

We’d jump with joy to hear

“There’s a few fine lads in the village,”

Then he’d wink an eye at me.

There was no hurry in those by gone days,

No fluster, fright or speed,

Each one seemed happy so relaxed

’Twas the sound of the train ,indeed.

To day there’s music to help one sleep

Sounds of dolphins, waves and sea,

But the lulling sound of the moving train

Soothed man and bird and beast.

A great loss to our native vale,

Was the day we lost the train

As it shunted slowly in its own good time

Past Kilgarvan to Kenmare.

There was history by the railroad

Smiling faces, friendly bright,

By the mountain peaks of Kerry,

And the sounds of birds in flight.

’Twas the 15th of August in Kenmare,

And the trucks were all filled to the brim,

With geese, like young cygnets

And chickens and piglets

With horses that neighed with a grin.

Huge bulls and wee heifers,

And sheep scraggy and nervous

The men holding sticks black and long

Donned in coats and grey wellies,

Bodies healthy and well fed

Caps sideways pitched on their heads.

Going to Mass down the main street,

Was like the front lines of Aintree,

We were scared from back kicks from the cows,

Or the prod from a wild goat,reared up in Baurlan

Or smart remarks from the boys of the town.

We bought bulls eyes in Bessys,

And icecream from Hanleys,

With raspberry cordial on top,

We strolled past the courthouse,

And watched the good Travellers

As they spat on their palms soft and hot.

Tony Murphy looked handsome,

In his striped butcher’s apron,

As he bargained for heifer or lamb,

He told the bold jobber

That his beasts were disastrous

From the town they should surely be banned.

But the Mangerton farmer was well able for Tony,

Who pretended to walk the other way,

But back he came quickly,

When he saw fast approaching,

Paddy Dan Mick on his trail.

Ah! those were the days

When the 15th was brilliant.

Relations and friends gathered round.

’Twas there that Sean Murphy

Met his own darling Threseen

And took her away from the town.

The pub floors were covered

With saw dust and soft sand,

And straw as yellow as gold

No Park or no Sheen Lodge

Could ever compare with

The charm of the 15th of Old.

Ah! those were the good times

They are gone like the old folks,

Who lie in the grave by the Bay,

I can still see their faces

That gallant old fair day

On the 15th of August, Kenmare.

Bending on one knee,

Sweat pouring down

over his torn overalls.

Breathing hard