ITS AA IN THA WYE WAE TAK

A version o' a poem published in the Constitution 27th March 1937.
by V.Q. The Manse Ballykelly. It tells aboot the pitfa's the fermer haes tae pit up wae an' is caa'ed.

It's noo a worn aul' sayin'
In tha mooth o' mony a man
That ye'll naw get far these dehs
If ye haenae a bit o' lan'.

Weel, I hae a wheen o' acres,
An' ye'd think I shud succeed ;
But tae tell tha very truth tae ye.
I kan harly  mak' mae feed.

Mae hens dinnae lay tha gradin' eggs
An' mae pigs they get ower fat ;
An' as far as tha subsidy beef's concerned
I'll tell ye a' aboot that.

I fed a couple o' brav wee stoors
Tae they wirnae fit tae stan'.
An' I tuk them tae tha toon yin deh
Tae see if they'd pass thon man.

Ha groped them here, an he poked them there ;
He punched them a' aroon ;
An' then he luked at mae an' saes
I'll haetae turn them doon.

Sae I tuk them hame agen wi' mae
An' a fed them het an' coul' ;
An' whun I tuk them bak agen
He saes, They're far ower aul'.

Then there's tha ither boady
Wha 'ill naw let mae spuds pass ;
An' think o' tha trouble ye get intae
For benweeds through yer grass !

Tha wife had a couple o' porkers ;
Tha best a iver man cud see ;
But instead o' gettin' them intae grade A
They wur somewhaur doon aboot D.

Sez tha wife tae tha boady wha bocht them ;
æ²D'ye think I'm sellin' white mice ?
Ye gie different pyemints for porkers
But tha bakin' is a tha yin price !

I'm gettin' fed-up wae tha fermin' ;
I'll sell tha hale stock aff ;
I'll let mae lan' tae tha neibors,
An watch them wurkin'  an' lach.

An' yit there's naw a man sae happy
As tha man wha wurks on the soil ;
He'll gang tae bed richt peacefa'
If he gets returns for hes toil.

If yere thinkin' o' takin' up fermin'
An' gettin' an' aisy ta'k,
Jest ye gang doon tae tha grav'yerd
An buy tha breadth o' yer bak.

Here's a wee rhyme aboot a Fair awa baak in 1790. Fairs wur deys that tha maist o country folk aye luked forrit tae, it wus affen tha only ootins they wud had for months on enn.
By Samuel Thompson.
from New Poems (Belfast 1799).

Here grey-clad farmers, gash an' grave
Drive in their sleekit hawkeys ;
With monie a slee, auld farrand knave,
To sell their heftit brockeys ;
An' jockey louns, sae gleg an' gare
Wi boot be-deckit legs,
To glow'r an' drink, cheat, lie an' swear
An sell their glossy raigs
          Come here this day.

Here countra' chiels, dock'd aff compleat,
Weel sheath'd in Sunday claes,
Sae trimly as they pace the street,
In shoen as black as slaes ;
The lasses fain, come stringing in
Frae a' parts o' the country,
Ilk ane as feat's a new made prin --
Ye'd tak them a for gentry,
        Sae fine this day.

Here chapmen chiels unlock their packs,
An' roun' display their toys ;
Intent an' keen to wile their placks
Frae silly jades an' boys ;
Ah ! bonie young things have a care !
Nor let their coaxin' trash
E'er claim your notice i' the fair
Or twin you an' your cash,
     But scant this day.

Here cantin varlets, thrawn an' cross,
Wi' ballad singers skirl ;
There blackguard boys at pitch-an-toss,
Gar baw-bees crimbly birl ;
There's ginge bread wives and tinker jades,
In garbs o' monie a texture,
With folk o' a' kinds, callins trades,
Mak' up the motley mixture
     That's here this day !

This is a wee rhyme A wus geen bae a guid freen, it is in tha Scots tongue an A think it is weel worth a wee keek.
A Mither’s Funeral.

Ah, sune ye’ll lay yer mither doon
In her lanely bed and narrow ;
But, till ye’re sleepin’ by her side,
Ye’ll never meet her marrow ! *

A faither’s love is strang and deep,
And ready is a brither’s –
A sister’s love is pure and sweet –
But what love’s like a mither’s ?

Ye mauna greet ower muckle, bairns,
As round the fire ye gaither,
And see the twa chairs empty then
O’ mither and o’ faither ;

Nor dinna let yer hearts be dreich,
When wintry winds are blawin’,
And on their graves, wi’ angry sugh,
The snelly drift is snawin’ ;

But think o’ blyther times gane by –
The mony years o’ blessing,
When sorrow pass the door, and nane
Frae ‘mang ye a’ were missing.

And mind the peacefu’ gloamin hours
When the outdoor wark was endin’,
And after time, when auld grey heads
Wi’ yours in prayer were bendin’.

And think how happy baith are noo
Aboon a’ thocht or tellin’,
For they’re at hame and young again
Within their Father’s dwellin’.

Sae, gin ye wish to meet up there
Yer faither and yer mither,
O’ love their God, and be gude bairns
And O love ain anither !

-By the late Norman MacLeod, D.D.
Anglice – her equal, her match.
Here is somethin different frae tha pen o tha Dervock Wizard Charlie Gillen its his varsion o an aul Robert Service poem. Noo its Charlie at his best hae a wee keek.
Burberry Man M’Grew

north antrims version o dengeras dan megrew

Me an the boys wur fu’as po’s,
In M’Shafertie’s saloon,
An a fermers boy fae Balintoy,
Wus murderin a Jim Reeves tune.

At the enn o the bar in dungarees,
An whut wus left o a Burberry coat,
Sut a boy wha come in, as blak as sin,
An a baird like Jamiesons goat,

Sittin watchin him lake a cat wae a moose,
An naw a bar in hir grate,
Sut a rickle o’ bones aboot seven stone,
She wus known as Tolly Eye’t Kate.

She had fell through the door, She wus kell’t like a boar,
She had sa’ monies a gye ruch hoose
She cursed an she swore an she sput on the floor,
Clean mad on jungle juice.

Weel she wink’t at the boy in the Burberry coat,
An seys she, ir ye passin through,
Seys he, yis ma’am, indeed I am,
I’m for patrick’s boar wae a soo.

She striddl’t oot ower an she seys tae him,
Mae boy that’s a gye dark nicht,
It’s up tae you but for drivin a soo,
Ye cud ‘ve dane wae a bit o a licht.

Seys he sowl dae ye know, yer’e naw sae slow
For baith me an the soo’s clean bate,
She tweedl’t hir thooms an she bare’t hir gooms,
Is that the soo that’s tied tae the gate,

I hae a Hurrican lamp up at my oul camp,
An strenger if  your game
I’ll see ye richt for the len o’ a licht,
Geen you wud see me hame.

Weel he got cleek’t on hir erm,the boady mean’t nae herm,
But that’s whun hell bruk loose,
For Scabby Heid’t Dan the oul dolls man
Come intae the public hoose.

Weel he lukk’t at the boy in the Burberry coat,
An lot oot a baw like a bull,
An seys he richt son thats the enn o yer fun
An the veins stud oot on his skull

He pley’t race for yer man in the Burberry coat,
An put him clean aff hes feet,
An in a cloud o stoor they gane throo the dure,
An they focht in the dark coul street.

Weel they tell mae that,  barrin twa buck cats,
Sich a fecht wus niver seen,
Wae fists an boots an bluidin snoots
They  blaken’t ithers een.

Boys the rips an the tears ye wud’v thocht twa bears,
Wus fechtin for Tolly Eye’t Kate,
On murder bent tae doon they went,
Ower the soo that wus tyed tae the gate.

As sure as ye wur boarn the very nixt moarn,
Lyin there wae thoor brains  knock’t in,
Wus Scabby Heid’t Dan an the Burberry man,
Wae nebs an knuckles skinn’t.

Sure it’s nae surprise, that mens naw wise,
It’s mony times prove’t true,
As they got wash’t at the pump,wae thoor heid full o lumps,
Oul Burberry miss’t the soo.

Seys the fermers boy fae Belintoy
An he swore whut he sey’d wus true,
Och! Bliss mae sowl, whun ye’s  wur baith felt coul,
Oul Kate got  away wae the soo.
This month A hae geen yese a very oul poem frae awa baak in 1899 but A think its a wee gem scrieved bae boady wha wus yin o the best poets o his dey Adam Lynn.


Weel, freens, A gat me tae the toon,
Although big clouds were hoverin' roon,
An whiles an odd yin did come doon
Tae we got drack'd;
Yet mony a sinburnt-luckin' croon
Seem'd tae be cracked.

The hale toon seemed tae be aware
That Sethurday was Hiring Fair ,
And that ferm-servants wud be there
For a big day,
Wha meant tae hae a treat sae rare
Wae six months' pay.

Here and there wus a wee ban'
The centre-piece a big ould man,
What mak's his leevin' off the Ian'
Without a doot;
Bit see him view the horny han ,
'Ere he spak' oot.

"Tell me, my man, noo can you sow,
And can you milk, and plough, and mow
And build a load of hay or stro'
For market day?
If you can do these things, say so
I'll fix your pay."

The toon assumed its usual gait,
Folk mashing roon at nae wee rate,
Each lucking' for their ain dear mate
In blank despair;
And so may I if I keep blate
To the next Fair.

November. 1899.

Adam Lynn, Random rhymes from Cullybackey (Belfast, 1911), pp 13-14.

Dinnae bae gettin intae a tizzy folks for A hae geen yese yin o mae wee rhymes A jest pit tha thochts doon as they come til mae, A hope yese lake it, even a wee.

Its tha wye wae taak.

Heth,its deein they sae, its naw gane tae last,
Wae yin thing an anither it wull bae left in tha past,
Tha wye that its trated it wud mak ye loast hert,
But a wheen  kan still taak it aroon this airt.

Its pairt o’ oor Heritage, its oor ain native tongue
But intae tha midden, some yins, wud hae it flung,
They ir as blin as a bat an they cannae see
Its pairt o’ themsels an shud fill them wae glee.

Withoot oor ain tongue wae ir naethin ye see,
Jest yin the hordes wha wud try tae brake free,
An taak only in the English as if its wus thaur ain
Sure they wur boarn Ulster Scots hae they nae brain.

Wae aa mann mak a stan tae houl on tae oor ain tongue,
An niver niver allo it frae oor grasp tae bae wrung,
For withoot  the Ullans tongue  thaurs a pairt o is deid,
Sae let is bae proud o it it, oor ain native leid.

Tha Poocher
Aprile 2010
This a wee shoart rhyme fir noo bae nane ither nir Bab wha scrieved fir years in tha Bellamena Observer. He wus some boy.
A Naebody

If a naebody thinks he’s a somebody,
An’ that naebody equals hisel,
Then it’s somebody’s pairt tae enlicthen
That naebody’s ignorance well.

For there’s naebody free o’ a somebody,
An’ only a naebody wad say
That he was dependent on naebody,
As somebody’s thinkin’ the day.

(Bab M’Keen).
This is a wee rhyme o  aa weel knoad poet frae awa a hunner years ir sae an weel wirth haein a wee keek at.






This is a wee rhyme that wus wrote in English bae a Maud I. Peden o’ Clintagh, Macosquin, mair nor sixty year ago, an aa tuk tha liberty o’ pittin’ it intae mae ain aul Nor’ Entim tongue.


Hae ye iver sa’ an angel
Richt inside yer very dure ?
Hae ye iver sa’ hir weer hir halo
As she washed tha kitchen flure ?
Hae ye iver sa’ hir kerrie
Shinin’ wather frae tha burn
Turn tha scones ower on tha griddle,
Tak tha butther aff tha churn.

Hae ye iver sa’ hir hingin’
Spotless claes up wae tha pegs ?
Wash tha dishes on tha table,
Clean aa basketfa’ o’ eggs ?
Hae ye iver sa’ hir Kerrie tay
Tae tha man ahint tha plo’ ?
Feed tha hens an’ tha touries,
Milk, tha quaet moiley coo.

Mair tha work is aften heavy
(Daes an angel iver tire ?)
Whun ye come doon in tha moarnin’
She haes on tha kitchen fire ;
Noo tha breakfast’s in tha makin’ ;
Ye kan feel tha beckon’s smell.
Then tha tay is in tha taypit,
An ye ken that aa is well.

Hae ye failed tae see an angel
As ye wak’ed alang life’s way ?
Weel, ye’ll fin’ yin in tha kitchen,
Ony oor o’ ony day.
Noo A hae had a loc o bother wae pittin stuff on tae mae wee website lately, but here is an oul rhyme a hae baen gein A hope yese lake it.
Dodderin Davy
"Dodderin Davy? He's no wise,"
That's phat the glen fowk says.
"Dinna gang bye his thackit hoose,"
But I whustled and said them nay.

Doon by the Rocks o Solitude
I fund the doited loon
Lowpin the burn an listenin again
Wi a leuch, then a sich an a froon.

Awa throu the wids he ca'd again;
"Mysie! Mysie, come oot.
I've socht a' day an I canna find,
Oh Mysie! Mysie, come oot."

He wis auld an grey an wrinkled sair,
Wi a queer glint in his ee;
I thocht I'd slink back ower the bracken bank,
But he turned an he looked at me.

"Eh, laddie," ses he, "hae ye seen my lass,
She's haddin far frae hame;
Wull ye help me to seek my bonnie quean,
It's been a lang, lang game.

"I ken," says he, "that thae village fowk,
They say she's deid lang syne;
Man, it's only a game o hod-an-seek,
I ken the lassie's mine."

We lookit ahint ilk bowken stane,
An ilka buss o broom,
Till the mist cam doon an the Ben wis hid,
An the birks wis aa in gloom.

It wis dark an queer an fearsome like
Playin hod-an-seek wi the deid;
I joukit an ran an aye as I ran,
I hard "Mysie! Mysie! Ye're freed."
--Edith MacQueen, 1923

Tha rhyme below is jest het aff tha griddle an at this tha time o tha year whun wae aa mine aa wha gein thaur lives that wae aa micht hae oor freedom. Tha freen wha scrieved tha lines is nane ither nir Tam Walker wha is a North Antrim man leevin ower tha sheough. AT THA GANE DOON O THA SUN AN IN THA MOARNIN WE WULL MINE THEM.
                               FIR PLENTY ITHER DAIN THE SAME.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

TAM WALKER NOV 2010                              
Am gled tae bae able tae let yese hae a luk a wee rhyme bae a weefla frae Dervock wha thocht hae wud scrieve twarthy lines aboot haes Grandfeyther an aff coorse hae dane it usin a brev wheen o words frae tha guid Ullans/Ulster Scots tongue. Keep hir lit Dean. Gie is wheen mair.
My Granda.
Whun I think aboot mae Granda
What always comes to mine
Is him oot cutting thon oul hedge
Joost tae pass the time.

He loved tae cut the grass as weel
He’d niver let it grow
Whenever a daisy showed its heed
He’d be oot come rain or snow.

He was up early every morning
Always roon six or seven
Raidin oot the hearth, ye see
Then stockin it with kindlin.

Tae light the fire for the day
Boys he liked his heat
Then sit on thon oul sofa smilin
  His hands behin his heed.

He always toul me these wee stories
Sure half of them wereny true
Aboot when he met a wee elf man
Or how he’d heard the cuckoo.

And he used tae always tell me
When I was joost seven or eight
How he went to Cookstown on his bike
For the sausages on my plate.

He loved a boiled egg in the mornin
Alang way a cup o tay
An he liked a wee drink o Guinness
‘It’s gyid for your health’, he’d say.

He had an oul dog he walked every day
He called it ‘Greystone’s Pride’
I can joost picture them noo in my heed
Walkin side by side.

Never a bad word aboot anyone
A smile to my face he could bring
I joost wish I’d spent mare time way him
But hindsights a won’erful thing.

But now he has departed
An if there’s a heaven above I know
He’s up there cutting hedges
An walkin his oul dog.

Dean McBride July 2010

A hae tuk it intae mae heid tae let yese see tha wye a boady scrieved in a local paper awa baak in 1913. Hae caa'd himsel Erchir Nuhan, an this awee bit aboot a hirin fair that ir noo dane awa wae am gled tae sae.
Frae The Northern Constitution 24th May 1913.
At the Hiring Fair.
Dear Sur, — A jest want tae tell ye that A wuz in Coulrain fair last week, an’ A micht say that A didna rue it.  But A wuz gie near losin’ mae life, for whan A gaed tae the stashun as they ca’ it, an’ wuz stannin’ at the ba’k o’ a gate, afore A know’d the train dashed by me at fu’ swing.  If A had been six feet further forrit an’ nae gate there A wid been kilt.
Weel, man, ye had a nice toon.  A went up tae see the shurt factory.  The wife had bocht me a shurt for newans, an’ she sed it wuz made in Coulrain, so A asked a peleeceman if he cud show me whaur they made sich things in Coulrain.  A didna jest want him tae know mae privit bisness.  He sed, “Up in the foundry.”  Up A went an’ walked in. The body at the gate asked me mae bisness.  A sed A had got a shurt frae them, an’ wanted a luck through.  He lauched, an’ sed it wuz the shurt factory A wanted, no’ the foundry.  So A sa’ it, an’ than A sa’ the pawnbrokers, an’ the Bann, an’ the cannon, An’ A wuz al’ roon the place, the Orange Hal’ an’ Union Street, an’ A luckit in the “Constitution” Office winda.  Man, thon’s a nice room ye hae.  The only thing A wid object tae is say mony heidstanes in the yerd fornenst ye wae nae names on.  Ye widna know wha’s they wur.
Iverybody seemed tae be on bisness, frae the match-seller tae the professor, al’ classes an’ creeds an’ denominations; mesters an’ servants argyin’ an’ hagglin’ aboot a shillin’ o’ carls, an’ nether o’ them wid a gien their mooth a thra at spennin’ in drink.  There wuz ballat-singers, street artists, trickisters, an’ games o’ ivery class, dulse an’ Waterloo rock an’ candy glue stan’s.  There wuz yin tremenjus saft oul’ fella.  A thocht a peety o’ him, for iverybody wuz daein’ him. He wuz stannin’ on a box wae a truck open, an’ al’ his belangins wur in it.  Man, but he wuz civil.  If ye bocht a wee bit o’ paper frae him at a penny he wid hae gien ye a set o’ stud intae it. A sa’ him sellin’ a watch chain at a shillin, an’ gien the fella twa shillin ba’k forbye the chain.  Surely thon man’s daein’ a power o’ guid in the niberheid.  If A cud a got near him A wid hae spekelated a wheen o’ shillin’ wi’ him, but he wuz jest the picter o’ innocence, an’ ivery yin seemed tae be takin’ him in.  If he wuz clear o’ Coulrain A’m sure it’ll be a while before on the Diamon’ again.  An’ min’ ye, he wuz sellin’ goold watches at half-a-croon, an’ pittin’ in five shillin’s for luck.  A asked sumbody if he wuz Carnegie or Rockfella, or hoo he cud stan’ it, an’ yit he seemed tae hae plenty o’ money, an’ sich a lot o’ folk tuk the advantage o’ the oul’ sowl.  But he didna seem tae care; he wuz jest as content at fower in the efternane as what he wuz at nine in the mornin’.
Then A turned mae attention tae a nice hamely body wae a very simple game.  Al’ ye had tae dae wuz throw yer penny o’ a kerpet, an’ he gied ye sixpence.  But ivery yin A seen throwin’ seemed tae fin’ faut tae whaur the penny fell, nae faut tae the coin.  Then anither yin had a marvle rinnin’ roon in a cirkle an’ gaun oot ower wires.  He wuz shoutin’ “Five tae wan on the blue.”  Hooiver , it wuz a blue luckoot for nybody that happened tae pit his penny on.  But thon’s a fair thing — nae trickery, jest a bit o’ bad luck — better nixt time; at least the chaps ‘at loast ir hopin’ sae.  The chapest thing A sa’ al’ day wuz the ice crame kert.  Ye wid hae got twa guid shovelfu’s, crammed between twa buns for a ha’penny.  A h’ard the man wuz a forriner, an’ he maun hae been, for ye cudna buy ice crame onywhar else for twice the price he wuz chergin’.  He wuz daein’ a roarin’ trade wi’ niber weechels an’ niber wee lasses.  The consate o’ thon’ wee lasses hookit on tae boys, as they ca’d them, their sweethert on yin erm an’ their sweet-slider on the ither !
  A tuk pertecklar notis o’ yin chap aboot fourteen, an’ A wid sey his girl wuz aboot aleven ; he wuz dressed gie smartly, only his dickey an’ tie wur oot ower his waistcoat, an’ his kep wuz set on three hairs on the ba’k o’ his heid, an’ his hair wuz hingin’ ower his broo lake the tufts in a road-sweeper.  His collar wuz al’ candy-gloo an’ so wuz the lower pert o’ his face ; he wuz three perts drunk, an’ the tebakka spittles wur flyin’ in al’ direkshuns.  A h’ard him ask the wee lass tae go intae a public-hoose tae he wid trate hir.  Hir mother wuz behin’ them, watchin’ if onybody wuz remarkin’ on hir intended son-in-la’ (an’ oul’ damsel dressed like thon daesna know very much !)  A sa’ him spekilatin’ a penny on dulse ; a fella like him is very foolish wae his money.  He asked “the oul’ doll,” as he ca’d hir, tae go alang wae them, an’, in troth, she didna need much coaxin’.
“What ir ye for ?” sed he tae her.
“Och, sin,” sez she, layin doon hir basket, “A’ll tak’ sumthin’ saft.”
A luckit at hir, an’ sed I tae maesel, “Ye’re a saft luckin’ article,” an’ wae that he sreks the coonter wae his fist tae he bounced half-a-dizzn o’ glesses on tae the floor.
“Bring is in,” sez he, “three stouts.  It’s no’ affen we meet, an’ there’s nae use o’ bein’ a fella unless ye’re a hell o’ a fella.”
The he laid his han’ on the oul’ wuman’s heid an’ sez he,
“Ye’re the best oul’ girl in Irelan’, an’ so is yer dochter, an’ she’s mine.”
“Eh, sin,” says the oul yin, “wid ye pit sumthin in mine tae nock the froth aff it ?”
“Clod hir in a gless o’ Bushmills,” sez he, “for man, she deserves it, sez he, luckin’ the barman fu’ in the face, as much as tae say “Yell niver be a wuman lake hir.”
“Hoo much is that ?” he cal’s oot.
“Wan an’ a penny.”
“Hoo much ?”
“One an’ one.”
“Well, A’m blowed.”
“Ye dinna luk lake it.”
“Been blowed.”
Doon goes twa bob, an’ wae that a row rises, an’ ivery yin wuz makin’ for the daur.   Hooiver, the chap focht his road wae the wee lass on his erm tae the street. The oul’ wuman got nocked doon wae hir basket, an’ sumbody tramped on it, anither gied it a kick, an’ oot flies twa lemons, a pickle o’ dulse, aboot three inches o’ liquorice bal’, a half-etten bun, an’ oul’ dickey, a pair o’ half-worn slippers, five bunnocks o’ fadge, a tin o’ syrup and a side-comb.  A lifted the oul’ sowl’, an’ asked hir what she wuz daein wae sich a lot o’ stuff.
“Och, sin,” sez she, “mae sin-in-la’s cummin’ up the nicht, an’ A wuz for giein’ him a cpu o’ tay.”
But the porter tuk her heid, an’ her heid tuk the street, an’ the bobbies tuk hir, an’ sumbody’d doag tuk the fragments, an’ A tuk the train for hame, an’ tuk the oath that A’d niver stan’ in a pub again, an’ if A dae A’ll let ye know, or at least ye’ll hear some wye, for iverybody seems tae see
     Erchie Nuhan’.
Efter tha daith o mae moather in July A cum on this wee poem bae chance an A thocht  it wus tha richt yin tae let yese see. It wus scrieved weel ower a hunner year sine an wus tha work o a Scotsman wha wus a man o tha cloth.

A Mither’s Funeral.

Ah, sune ye’ll lay yer mither doon
In her lanely bed and narrow ;
But, till ye’re sleepin’ by her side,
Ye’ll never meet her marrow ! *

A faither’s love is strang and deep,
And ready is a brither’s –
A sister’s love is pure and sweet –
But what love’s like a mither’s ?

Ye mauna greet ower muckle, bairns,
As round the fire ye gaither,
And see the twa chairs empty then
O’ mither and o’ faither ;

Nor dinna let yer hearts be dreich,
When wintry winds are blawin’,
And on their graves, wi’ angry sugh,
The snelly drift is snawin’ ;

But think o’ blyther times gane by –
The mony years o’ blessing,
When sorrow pass the door, and nane
Frae ‘mang ye a’ were missing.

And mind the peacefu’ gloamin hours
When the outdoor wark was endin’,
And after time, when auld grey heads
Wi’ yours in prayer were bendin’.

And think how happy baith are noo
Aboon a’ thocht or tellin’,
For they’re at hame and young again
Within their Father’s dwellin’.

Sae, gin ye wish to meet up there
Yer faither and yer mither,
O’ love their God, and be gude bairns
And O love ain anither !

-By the late Norman MacLeod, D.D.
This is a very oul sang that wus first published in The Constitution in 1912 it wus sent tae them bae a boady bae the name o John Troland frae tha USA. He said hae har'd it sung bae a boady frae Bellnamore caa'd Sam McCaughern in 1840. Noo that wusnae yisterdey. Its aa aboot tha evils tha dreaded drink.


What lass would be won by a wooer like this ?
A lad wi' a leer, an' a clove on his kiss,
A pipe in his cheek, an' his hat set agliee
He's a slave tae the bottle  he'll niver wed me !
       (Repeat last two lines of chorus).

When aff tae his work in the morning he goes,
When he will return it is vain to suppose ;
For days, yea, aft weeks, he will spend on the spree
He's a slave tae the bottle  he'll niver wed me !

If he meets wi' a freen his carousals begin,
Then he'll drink tae his health till they're baith bleart an' blin',
A' sense lea's his heed, an' his tongue rins sae free
He's a slave tae the bottle  he'll niver wed me !

When his money's a' spent then he doithers back hame
Tae his wife an' his weans wi' his burden o' shame ;
A' tattered an' battered, no worth a baubee
He's a slave tae the bottle  he'll niver wed me !

What a contrast is he tae the douce sober man,
Wha lives in accordance wi' nature's first plan,
Wi' health on his cheek an' true love in his e'e
He's no slave tae the bottle  he's welcome tae me !

Like a lion to labour he'll rise with the lark,
An' whan he comes hame, ' twixt the licht an' the dark,
Ower the fields an' the flowers rings his whistle o' glee
He's nae slave tae the bottle  he's welcome tae me !

When the day's work is dane he comes back wae a smile,
An' the pleasure he feels all his labours beguile,
An' a kiss greets his brairns, as they spring tae his knee
He's nae slave tae the bottle, he's welcome tae me !

An' his weans wait a kiss whan they jump on his knee
He's nae slave tae the bottle  he's welcome tae me

This wee rhyme is bae a guid freen o mae ain, a yung lass Laura Spence wha haes a grait luv o tha Ullans tongue an haes jest sterted tae scrieve in hir moather tongue. Here's yin aboot a fecht ower tha heid o a hen egg. Kep hir lit Laura.
Tha Egg.

Yince thur leeved a mon ca’ed Ben
wha hed a maist byornar hen.
It wadnae stap at hame fir layin
but bein’ thrawn,
tha bird be’d yin fir daily strayin’
an’ wayward gawn.

Tha hen decided, this yin day,
intil tha nibor’s yaird tae gae.
She flep’t her wings an’ flew awa’
ahint the wa’;
an’ thur a speckled egg she lay
an’ geen a craw.

Whan Ben cem oot intil tha yaird,
he luk’t aroon tae fine his bird;
an then tha layer’s cackles hear’d
frae nixt door’s midden.
It wudnae heed his coaxin’ wurd:
it tuk nae biddin’.

An’ noo, tha nibor hed cum oot –
a sleekit halyan, hae nae doot.
“Wha’ be’s a’ this noise aboot?
Hey – ye’er some geg!
Whur are ye gawn ye big galoot,
an wi’ mah egg?”

“It’s no yer egg,” quo Ben, quo he.
“This here hen belangs til me.
Tha egg was lain by nane but she,
ten minutes syne.
Ye hae nae richts – jist lay it be:
tha egg be’s mine”.

“Indade it’s no,” tha nibor said.
“T’was on my groon thon egg was laid.
an’ noo a notion’s in ma heid –
fresh egg fir tay,
scrammled wi sim proota breid –
thon’s wha’ Ah’ll hae”.

Bek an forrit tha twa men focht:
fir hoors, they cud agree on nocht.
An’ then Ben said: “Ah’ve hed a thocht -
here’s wha’ we’ll dae:
we’ll haetae play a game or ocht
tae sort this oot taedae”.

“Lay yersel upon tha groon,
straitch richt oot frae fit til croon:
than Ah’ll tak a buck charge doon
an punt yer heid:
gin ye dinna mak a soon,
ye’ll tak the lead”.

“Than we’ll swap oor places owre:
ah’ll lee doon an – if ye daur –
ye’ll hae a chaunce tae win th’hour
an tak tha egg:
Jest boot mah heid wi’ tha michty power
o yer hefty leg”.

Tha nibor viewed tha egg wi’ greed.
“Yer on, let’s gang,” he then agreed.
He pick’t a spot an’ doon he layed
an’ straitched weel oot.
Ben lukked at thonner waitin’ heid
an’ flexed his boot.

An’ then Ben coonted – yin, twa, thee.
He pace’t weel bek an’ screwed his e’e.
“Ah’m cumin noo,” he ca’ed wi’ glee
an’ chairged fu’ speed.
He sunk his fit, hard as cud be,
intil tha heid.

Tha nibor stagger’t til his feet:
tha awfu’ pain near gart him greet.
He wudnae e’er admit defeat
tho’ amaist stunn’t.
Determined he wud no be beat,
he stud his grun.

He wakely croaked: “It’s yer go noo”:
Tha bluid wiz rinnin’ doon his broo.
“Lay doon thur an’ straitch oot fu’
it’s mah torn nex”.
Ben laugh’t, an’ said “Here’s what to do -
“Jist kape yer eggs”.

This is a lang windit rhyme a come ower tha ither dey, a dinnae hae nae author for but if onyboady knows wha scrieved it as it wud bae jest grait tae gie them tha credit for their wurk.

Yin nicht as Ah' lay on mae bed
Ah' started aff a dreamin',
Ah' thocht Ah' wus in some fair lan',
Wi' sunshine alwyes streamin'.
Nae clouds the pleesant prospect marr't,
Nor sullen snowy shoowers,
The countryside wus al' abloom
Wi' iverlastin' floowers

There wur nae maladies nor daith,
Nor ony dread diseases ;
An' iveryboady luked in health,
Fanned, bae  fragrant breezes.
An' sich wus thon  mild climate's mood
They niver tane the jendy's,
Nor iver suffered roup or croup,
Nor things lake influenza.

As mankin' niver had tae work,
The bastes wur niver jade't,
The trees wur alwyes in fu' leaf
An niver drooped nor fade't.
The seas wur iver clear an' ca'm,
Rude win's wur niver blowin',
The rivers run lake silver ban's
Wae music in their flowin'.

Hoo different frae this harried sphere,
Wi' folks their duty shirkin' ;
But naw yin cud malinger there,
There wus nae cal' for wurkin'.

An' ivery-yin wus gled an' gran',
An' life wus sweet an' funny,
An' destitution wus unknown,
For al' had piles o' money.

The frogs an' toads that happi't roon
Cud sing lake larks an' thrushes,
Cigars they  grew on rowan trees,
An' guineas grew on bushes.
The bulls an' kye ower moor an' flough,
Lake butterflies wur wingin',
An' horses had forgot tae keeck
An' bees had loast their stingin'.

The atin' hoose wus cool an' clean,
An' thranged wae ivery gender ;
The breed wus moist, an' sweet, an' fresh,
An' ivery beefsteak tender.
At yince as if bae magic tricks,
Stuff cooked while ye wur lookin',
Wi'hoot the aid o' angry chefs
Haf-roasted wi' their cookin'.

Och hoch ! It wus a pleesant place,
Whaur iverey-yin luked youthfu',
Whaur al' wus honest an' correct,
An iveryboady truthfu'.
The beer an' stout wus free tae al',
Wi'oot expensive labours ;
An' gossips niver tane delight ;
In takin' o' they're nybors.

There naeb'dy iver wus alarmed
Bae thrawn misfortune winkin',
For folks had alwyes lots tae eat
An' mair nor that for drinkin'.
The pubs wur alwyes warm an' dry,
Wi' glesses polished brichtly,
An' what enhanced their genral' cherm,
They stud open, day an' nichtly.

The wud that formed the boortry bush
Had grown as strang as metal ;
Bananas grew on benweed tips,
An' strawbry's  on the  nettle
An' whun it renned, if ren it did,        
The day wus bricht an' sunny ;
The clocks had larned the silkworm's airt.
An flays wur makin' honey.

Young lassies ay' wur  deep in love,
An' niver sad nor scowlin' ;
Each wus content wi' yin young man,
An' niver thocht o' prowlin'.
The preachers al' wur eloquent,
But naw the laist pretentious ;
The dockthers niver axted for fees ;
The laayers conscientious.

The politicians wur sincere,
An' ta'ked o' things that matter ;
They niver led the voters wrang,
Wi' empy' heed't clatter.
They alwyes dane the peoples wull,
Instead o' grindin' exes ;
Nor driv them intae discontent
Wae revenue an' texes.

In barbers' shaps ye wur "the nixt",
That niver kep' ye waitin',
Nor niver shav't aff haf yer face,
Whun arguin' or debatin'.
   They had unfailin' remedies
For cratures beldy heided,
So shiny pates nor glossy broos 
Wur things that wurnae dreeded.

They'd sweet perfumes tae scent a lass
An' garnish hir attrection ;
A dizzen different ither things
Tae burnish hir complexion.
They'd lotions whun they'd touch the skin
Cud mak' them luk lake roses,
An' brilliantine tae dust their hair,
An' poo-ther for their noses.

The drapers wur a honset lot,
Lake ivery ither boady ;
An' if ye pyed for wool or silk
They dinnae gie ye shoddy.
The grocers kerried on their traid
Wi'thoot deceptive splutter,
An' niver sowl ye margarine
Rowl't up tae luk lake butter.

The milkman wus a trusted man,
An honest helpfu' cratur'
The fu'-crame milk for which he cherged
Wus niver mixed wae watther.
There wur nae trusts tae boost yer crusts
Ayont the value's dole,
They niver sent ye stoor  for lime,
Nor slates or stanes for coal.

Herrin' sellers niver barged nor swore,
'Tho' that's ayont belief ;
The butchers niver overcherged,
Nor sent ye banes for beef.
They wur nae magistrates tae try,
Nor p'leece tae apprehend ye ;
An' if ye wantit ready cash,
The banks wud alwyes len' ye.

The people wur o' ivery class,
They al' wur social fren's,
They niver donned the smilers mask
Tae use ye for their enns.
Tae injure ye through greed or guile,
Sich things wur niver thocht on,
An' if ye did a kin'ly deed
It niver wus forgotton.

There wur nae angry, hungry mobs,
Vain santerers  obeyin' ;
They niver murdered men for fun,
Nor ony soart o' slayin'.
The Bolshevics wur niver bent
On lootin' an' destructions,
An' renegades ne'r  tempted men
Tae join in social ructions.

The newspapers wur kin' tae me,
They  kep' mae on a rack ;
They printed al' mae nice aul' rhymes,
An' even sent them back.
A met an editor bae chance,
A merry man wus he,
He said A wus a cliver chap,
An' axted mae hame for tea.

They passed mae free tae al' the shows,
An' prayse't   mae education ;
They said mae manners fitted mae
For ony place or station.
I sauntered tae a dance yin nicht,
Impelled bae love an' duty ;
Young lasses al' cam' surgin' roon,
Sayin Isn't he a beauty ?
Contrasted wi' that lovely worl',
This yins a disapointment
A worm  in ivery  bit o' fruit,
A fly in ivery ointment.
Too shane A winged me ba'k tae earth,
An' waikened wae a scrame';
Alack, alas ! Alas, alack !
It only wus a drame.
Tha wee A hae hoked oot for yese is an oul yin frae awa baak in 1906 sae wha scrieved wud bae weel oot o thaur teens A wud think. Onywye its a gran wee rhyme weel worth taakin a keek at.

The Auld Ferm At Hame.

The auld ferm’s up for sale, Willie,
An’ so ye’r lee’in hame,
Ye wur aye a bit ambitious
Tae wun’ a heicher fame
Than him wha strides ahint the plough,
An’ whistles tae the hills.
Or times a wee bit hamely sang
Tae the babblin’ o’ the rills;
Although ye let it go, Willie,
An’ claw’t a bigger name,
The very yoit amang its leaves
Wull chirp ye’r leein’ hame.

Noo dinna tack it ill, Willie,
But turn yer mind a wee
Tae hamely scenes an’ youthfu’ days;
Yer noo aboot tae lee ;
The lap o’ wealth may hide a while
The grammelin’s o’ the heart,
An’ simmer freen’s may gild the sore
Wae nice consummit art;
Ye’ll miss the blackbird on the hedge
That use’t tae cock his came,
He’ll cock it noo wae greater zest,
An’ sing yer lee’in hame.

Ye’ll miss the early spring, Willie,
The buds alang the thorn,
The rabbits whud amang the whuns,
The pheasants craw at morn,
An’ as the day advances,
Wha’d lee the laverock’s sang,
Or cuckoo on the slae thorn,
Cheerin’ oor toil alang ?
Sic wee things lowly in their cast,
An’ simple in their name,
Has been a God sen’ mony a time
Tae them wha stye at hame.
Ye’ll shortly birl the coin, Willie,
An’ add up cent per cent,
Then at the mornin’s papers
Ye’ll likely tack a sklent,
Tae see hoo shares are sellin’,
Shud stocks be budgin’ fare,
Or if the money market
Micht add a wee bit mair
Tae what is glamm’t thegither,
A’ll no say limp or lame,
But what is wealth if deeper doon
Contentment sleeps at hame.

We seem as only wanes, Willie,
Creepin’ this pad o’ life,
Catchin’ at wuthere’t wunilstraes
Tae help us in the strife ;
We aften meet wae little
But selfinflated views,
Growin’ like mildew’t puddockstools
Ower hallen, cot, an’ pews,
There’s noucht on earth but nature’s face
Can genuine truth proclame,
An’ happily yet though far afield
Ye’l fin’t in rural hame.

December, 1905.
Tha lang rhyme am gantae share wae yese wus gein tae mae a wheen o year baak. A think it micht hae cum frae roon tha Bellamena airt but A dinnae know tha author. If ony ony o yese know a wud luv tae know as A think it is a clinker an tha Author shud bae gein tha credit for thaur work.
A Freemasons Frolic.

Where Slemish rears his hump on high,
A curious mount to passers by,
But famous still in hist’rys lay,
Here Patrick herded sheep they say,
Naw far fae Bellamena toon,
There leev’t a man ca’ed Joe Cahoon.

A dacent leevin man wus Joe,
As honest as in Antrim grow,
Weel kent amang his he’s freins an pals,
As staunch an soon as his hame wa’s,
A comfortable fermer he,
An Independant staunch an free.

In shoart a type o’ Ulster’s sons,
That figger’t weel ahint the guns,
In darksome deys whun hellish war,
Was spillin bluid baith near an far,
A wee bit ferm at Ballyslash,
He owned for years but little cash.

His wife wus Jane alert but thin,
Slim-built wae lean an soople shin.
A cleanin, slavin, guid wee boady,
But whiles as thrawn as a cuddy,
Hoo aft some shinin’ gift or grace,
Is dimm’t bae things we wud efface.

Like picture traced wae slimy trail,
Or lachter ennin’ wae a wail,
Or nosegay beautiful an rare
But cull’t wae hans naw sweet nor fair.
Hooiver let is tae oor tale,
Lest readers interest micht fail.

Noo Joe wus made a mason wance,
He rid the goat an tane his chance,
He pass’t through a’ the mystic richts,
Awa fae hame for nichts an nichts.
Aquirin much Masonic lore,
Imbibing knowledge more an more.

Till dang it boys they al’ agreed,
He had a Power in he’s heid .
Like mony anither man wus Joe,
He practised hard wae mine’aglow,
An much tae his delight an pride
The chiar at last he occupied.

T’was installation nicht that he,
Foun rayson for bein on the spree,
So efter labour great an sweat,
Like modern wurkmen idly met
The Brethren sut the table roun,
An et an drunk wae merry soun.

T’wus not a temperance lodge so Joe,
Had cried for Dunvilles an Old Crow.
The toast wur plentifu’ an aft,
An heids lik’ drinks wur getting saft,
An yarns wur passin roon the table,
They wur speeches made bae them still able.

The bottles that wur fu’ o’ whuskey,
Had made some voices gye an husky,
Some brethren drunk but lemonade,
Much tae thoor credit be it said.
Some tongues they wagged an gye uncivil,
Aboot the Pope or war the divil.

But maistly sober sut they there,
Some forty seven men or mair.
Let them wha read this rhyme naw think,
Masonic Lodges close wae drink,
Or deem a Mason as a man ,
Wha drinks tae he can harly stan.

Och! Och! at suppers ye micht fin,
A hanfu’ sottlin tae thoor blin,
Or like the Glesca’ man wha said,
He’d drink as lang as ithers paid.
The glesses clink’t the revels grew,
The banter roar’t the minits flew.

Shane like al’ meets o’ mice an men,
Man come for certain tae an en’.
Joes maul he struck wae deefnin din,
Resoundin lood the hal’ within’,
In twas an threes they made for hame,
An later yin bae yin the same.

Thus aft in life we man alone,
Oor journey mak an cerry on,
Alane we enter’t lifes coul day,
Alane we quat this mortial clay.
So Joe push’t on ower hill an dale,
Tho’ aft bae sowl his fit wud fail.

Zeeg- zaggin in his path a bit,
But feelin rouse’t an fairly fit.
He humm’t at times an Orange sang,
Or croon’t a chorus far ower lang,
An tho’ he had nae Latin stock,
He’d interject a Hic Haec Hoc.

Whun near the graveyerd boys o’ boys,
He thocht he hard some eerie noise,
He quicken’t step as best he could,
Tho’ naw in an athletic mood.
Then please’t tae meet some ithers out,
He cried guid nicht wae heartsome shout.

Tae yin wha question’t him al’ smiles,
If heedin hame he answer’t  whiles.
An reaching village street at last,
The iron raylins shane he pass’t,
An on these pley’t the harp betimes,
In answer tae the belfry chimes.

Then stapp’t tae see whut time wus shown,
Bae penny wecht machine on throne,
But naw a soun or tick he heard,
An swore bedamnit through his beard.
An hopin Jane wud be tae bed,
He reach’t his hame bae instinct led.

He fummel’t wae the key a bit,
But deil the keyhole cud he git.
Love gars the wurl gang roon they say,
It isnae love but Bacchus way,
Poor Joe his heid wus sweemin noo,
An iverythin wus bizzin too.

At lenth the kitchen doar geen wye an he,
Had enter’t on, ect yin scene three,
The kitchen snug wus warm an bricht,
Tho’ oot it wus a cheerless nicht.
An Jane wus sittin bae the fire,
Straicht up an grim an fu’o’ ire.

An knittin socks hir brews as weel,
She glower’t at Joe an garr’t him feel.
A wee thocht gunk’t an brocht tae bay,
Depite Masonic power an sway,
Och! Mony a man can cut a caper,
Tae his feet lands on his ain scraper.

But whun he enters wifeys hoose,
He’s joost as timit as a moose,
Pretendin al’ wus richt wae him,
He spraghle’t tae the dresser trim.
Tae pit his epron on the shelf,
But damn it al’ he cope’t some delph.

Including plates o’ wonderous size,
That Jane for thirty year did prize.
Wae that hir birse got up an she,
Decided she wud victor be,
So liftin heich anither plate,
She lash’t it doon aside it’s mate.

Wae flashin eye she flung it doon,
Come on says she, I’ll bate ye soon,
Then Joe the challenge had tae meet,
An drapp’t a boul aside his feet.
But harly had it gane tae smash,
Than Jane had made anither crash,

So plate an cup an boul aboot,
They floor’t an clear’t the dresser oot.
An sich a hash wus niver seen,
Fae taypot stan tae soup tureen,
A sea o’ delph that they had hurl’t,
The ruins o’ a crockery wurl.

Then baith sut doon upon a creepie,
Retiring efter they got sleepy.
Aboot twa ‘oors or so Joe slep,
Then drouthy felt an doon he crep.
Tae get a drink but in the dark,
Exploring roon he miss’t his mark,
The kitchen flure he had forgot,
He steppit on a broken pot

He limp’t tae bed again at nine,
He limp’t doonstairs an whut a shine,
He had tae sup his parritch then,
Fae oot the pot for dae ye ken.
There wusnae left a single boul,
Or plate complete naw new or oul.

That nicht big basketfu’s o’ ware,
Arrived that Joe had ordered there,
An he an Jane made up an said,
The fools they’d been an for it paid.
An iver syne whun Joe sets oot
For Lodge, she says, mine’ plate aboot
Tha rhyme am gantae share wae yese at this festive sayson o tha year is yin tha wus sent frae tha front lines in France awa bak in 1916. A thocht it wus fittin wae sae mony young yins awa fechtin in Afganhistan an tha lake.

My muse she wears the beggar's badge,
For, 'pon my faith, she's on the cadge.
Tho' bardies a' they  may rampage
            At me
I still intend wi' ye tae lodge
            My plea.

We've some excuses for our crime
Since we've committed it in ryhme ;
Besides, it is the Christmas time.
           A double dole
Is beggar's due in every clime
           Frae pole tae pole.

The public hae been mair than guid,
(The cash box early lost its lid).
That we're unworthy, Heaven forbid,
           Yer gifts or money !
An' he can gie us his hearts bluid,
           Poor Tommy !

My mates an' I we dinna fash
Aboot fitba' or any trash.
(In fact, we haenae time tae wash)
         Oor greatest plight
Is want o' lamps tae gae a flash
         At nicht.

Whene'er the Germans rival hell
We are the lads tak' up the shell ;
At nicht we gallop of pell-mell
           Through wat an' mud
Ower roads that luk'd aboot as well
           In Noah's flood.

Noo, should the public heed my plea.
I want some scores o' lamps, ye see,
My mates an' I maist thankfully
           Will them accept
If not, we will still happy be
           Wae what we get.

For we're as cheerful as can be
An' through the glar up tae the knee
We lauch an' joke wi' muckle g'ee
          Determin'd tae swim
Through mud and Germans  one tae three
          Until we've won.
                       Gunner R. J. M'Lean
75th B. A. C. Guards Division. B. E. F. Franc

At this tha time o tha year whun wae aa mine tha faa'lin o tha wars for oor freedom. Am sharin this wee rhyme aboot tha love yin sojer haes for anither. Noo a think it cum oot o an oul paper but it is scrieved bae nane ither nir wur oul freen Anon. Hooiver aa hope yese lake it an aye wae mann niver forget tae.

His Mate. (Anon)
There's a broken battered village
Somewhaur up ahint the line
There's a dugoot an' a bunk there
That A ustae  sae wus mine.

I mine noo hoo I reached them
Drippin' wat an aa forlorn
In the dim an' dreary haflicht
O’ a weepin' summer moarn.

A' that week A'd buried brithers
In thon bitter battle slain
In yin grave A laid twa hunner
God, what sorro an' what pain !

An' that nicht A'd been in trenches
Seekin' oot the sodden deid
An' jest drappin' them in shell holes
Wae a Service quickly said.

For the bullets rattled roon mae
But I cudnae lae them there,
Watther soaked in flooded shell holes
Reft o' common Christain prayer.

So A craaled roon on mae belly
An' A listened tae the roar
O' the guns that hemmered Thiepval
Lake big breakers on the shore.

Then there spake a drillin' Sergent
Whun the time wus grouin' late
Wud ye please bury this yin
Caase he ustae be mae mate.

Sae we groped oor wye in darkness
Tae the boady lyin' there
Jest a blaaked lump o' blaakness
Wae' a rid splotch on his hair.

Though wae rouled him gently ower
Even noo A hear the thud
As the boady fell face forrit
An then settled in the mud.

Wae lae doon on oor faces
An A said the Service through
Frae I am the Resurrection
Tae the last the grate Adieu.

Wae stud up tae gie the blessin'
And commend him tae the Lord
Whun a sudden licht shot soarin'
Silver swift an lake a sword.

At a stroke it slew the darkness
Flashed its glory on the mud
An I sa' the Sergent starin'
At a crimson clot o' blood.

There ir mony kin's o' sorro
In this wurl o' love an' hate
But there is nae sterner sorro
Than a Sojer’s    for his mate.

This is an aul rhyme A fun whun A wus scunchin through aul papers frae tha year o 1888. It's soarta sad but then it's naethin tha waur o that. See what ye think.

High tide by the Northern sea.

Auld Maisie stands on the shore,
Where foam wreaths fa’ an flee ;
“An it’s oh for the bairns I bore
That gang sae far frae me !
Oh, the wind blaws cauld an’ sair,
The place o’ their daith I canna tell,
But I’ll see them niver mair,”

“Wi’ risin’ win’ an’ a tide comin’ in,
There’s a deith to die ;
When the win’ gaes back, an’ the tide’s at the slack,
There’s a spirit free.”

“It’s weel ye may mak’ yer mane
It’s weel ye may sob an’ greet,
But the deid  are deid an’ gane,
Though ye haver at my feet ;
For ye’ve won my man awa’,
An’ my sons I’ll niver see,
An’ still must ye cry an’ ca’
Whun I’ve naethin mair tae gie.

“Oh, why do you cry to me sae ?
There will nae boat sail the nicht ;
Oh, why do ye steal roun the bay,
Where ye loup sae wild an’ white ?
The lang waves tumble an’ curl,
An’ the rocks lie sherp between,
The curlews whustle an’ skirl,
An’ the saut wind blinds my e’en.

Auld Maise turned on the shore
As the tide it rose breast-hie,
An’ she said, “Whun ye maned before,
‘Twas then ye were callin’ me ;
Your voice  was the voice of the deid
The cry that I cudna ken :
But the deep sea kenned my need,
An’ I’ll see my ain again.”

Wi’ risin’ win’ an’ a tide comin’ in,
There’s a deith to die ;
When the win’ gaes back, an’ the tide’s at the slack,
There’s a spirit free.”

A hae a new name for yese tae watch oot for this month is nane ither nir Alan Wright frae Bendooragh, wha haes gein mae his furst attempt intae tha rhymin wurl. Keep up tha guid wurk Alan an a hope tha wee penn is noo awa.
Tha Penn.
A riz this moarnin’, I feelt a wee penn,
A thocht tae maesel “it’ll aply tha renn.
As tha dey went on an’ tha penn got warse,
Sez I “the boy ye, ye micht en up in a hearse”.

Sae A sterted tae wunner  what wud heppen at mae waike,
Whun folk wud ca’ roon, drink tay an’ ate caike.
They’ll sit roon tha room an’ smile at each ither,
They’ll nod, bae polite an’ taak a lot O ould blether.
Then someboady  wud say  “what edge wud a be”
“he betae bae in his 40’s, for he went tae school wae me”.
The chat then come’s roon tae tha wife,
“I wunner what she’ll dae at hir time o’ life”.
“Tha big girl luck’s weel for someboady bereft,
I think she’ll step oot lukin as weels the rest”.

Sae mae thochts then turned tae tha deh o’ tha funeral.

Tha hearse wus there shiny an’ clean,
Followed behin’ bae a big limousine.
As tha mourners wud gether ,in their
Sunday best shuits,
Shirts and tie’s and new shiny boots.

They kerry mae coffin doon tha road bae tha four,
Lakely some ir still taakin aboot tha ould fitba score.
Wae arrive in tha Toon a wee bit late,
There’s folk already stannin at tha cemetery gate.
Some lukin their watches their wantin awa’,
There in a wile hurry at this time o’ dey.

They kerry mae ower aa tha bonnie green gress.
Ye kno’ theres some awa hame “they’ll see the second haff”.
Sae as I think on these things an’ I still feel that penn,
I am stertin tae hope there’s a guid shooer o’ renn.

Alan Wright June 2009.

Here's a wee rhyme a hae jest come across,noo wha scrieved it aa cannae seh but it's aboot granny an hir dancin' deys. An as they seh it gaes somethin lake this

Dancin’ , Lang Ago.
Granny toul mae a’ aboot it,
Toul mae, sae Aw cudnae doot it,
Hoo she danced , my granny danced !
Lang ago.
Hoo she hoult hir bonnie head,
Hoo hir dainty skirt she spread,
Hoo she birled hir wee toes ,
Smilin’ wee bonnie rose !
Lang ago.

Granny’s hair wus bricht an’ sunny ;
Dimpled cheeks, tae ,ach, hoo funny !
Really joost a bonnie lass,
Lang ago.
Bliss hir ! Why, she weers a cap,
Granny daes, an’ taks a nap
Ivery singil daeh ; an’ yit
Granny danced the minuit
Lang ago.

Noo she sit there, rockin’, rockin’,
Alwyes knittin’ granda’s stockin’
Ivery lass wus larned tae kint,
Lang ago ;
Yit hir figure is sae neat,
An’ hir wye sae staid an’ sweet,
I kan almaist see hir now,
Bendin’ tae hir partner’s bow,
Lang ago.

Granny saes oor modern jumpin’,
Hoppin’, rushin’, whirlin’, bumpin’,
Wud hae scarred the gentler fowk
Lang ago.
Naw , they moved wae stately grace,
Iverythin’ in its richt place,
Glidin’ slowly forrit, then
Slowly curtesying bak agen,
Lang ago.

Modern wyes ir joost alarmin’,
Granny saes ; but lads wur charmin’ ,
Lasses an’ ladies, a mean, aff coorse ,
Lang ago.
Bravly modest, grandly shy .
Wha if a’ o’ is shud try
Joost tae feel lake them wha met
In the gracefa’ minuet,
Lang ago.

Wi’ the minuet in fashion
Wha cud fly intae passion ?
A’ wud weer the calm they wore
Lang ago.
In the time tae come, if a’ perchance
Shud tell mae grancheil o’ oor dance,
A wud joost lake tae sae,
“Wae dane it, dear, in some sich way,
Lang ago.”

Here's a wee rhyme frae a freen o' mine frae Bellymony country, he rins unner tha name o' Gary Blair. Its yin he scrieved aboot tha furst Kar he iver bocht. Mnie ye a min' o' tradin in a push bike
alang wae thirteen pun for yin, min' she wus ruch aricht.

Car Bother
Tha furst car A iver bocht
Wus frae a fairmer who leeved at tha Aird
Tha tyres were bald, tha boady was rugh
But he swore that he’d niver drove it hard

A tuk it hame an gien it a dicht wie a cloot
An left it gleamin frae tha front tae tha bak
But whit thon oul boady niver toul mae
Wus that gan roon a corner required a knack.

Doon tha Bendooragh Road, A turned tha wheel
An it throwed mae clean intae a hedge
A staggered hame wie shoogly legs
Fer mae nerves were richt oan tha edge.

Tha nixt yin A bocht wus frae a wummin
It had only 15 thoosand mile oan tha clock,
Whit she maun hae forgot tae mention
Wus that she had gien tha oul car a knock.

A skidded oan ice a month later
A hut a post an thon car broke in twa
The wee wummin haes moved far frae hame noo
An she’s bein chased bae tha lang airms o tha laa.

Mae last motor came awa ower frae England
Tha engine seized an A got hut frae behin
When A rung tha last boady tae hae owned it
He said, “Och boys that’s a sin!”

Sez A, “Ir ye gan tae mak thing richt?”
He hooched an gien a wile hearty laugh
A tried tae ring him a dizen mair times
But the phone wus aaways turned aff.

Sae noo A’m usin tha feet an legs
Tae get maesel frae A tae B
It micht no suit tha rest o youse
But its tha safest option fer me!
Gary Blair.
A wus jest lukin at tha wye tha buds ir stertin tae open an tha gress is growin agen noo that tha spring time is roon agen. Here's we shoart rhyme Caa'd Whin Time A hope yese lake it.
Och, whin time's a gran' time,
In oul' Antrim's hills ;
Wi' tha glistin' o' boag pools,
An' tha singin' o' the rills ;
Wi tha warblin' o' tha storm-cock,
Perchin' on tha briar ;
An' tha singin' o' tha rid lark,
Mountin' higher an' higher.

An' o' tha hills in whin time
Ir a' but cloots o' gowl,
An' decked wi' finer jewels
Than wur iver bocht or sowl.
Och, Antrim hoo A'm langin'
Tae bae bak tae remain ;
An' in thon hills in whin time
Tae mak mae pleasant hame.
Here's a wee rhyme A come ower tha ither deh a cannae mine whaur it come frae but maebae some yese micht bae able tae pit mae richt on wha Billy Moore wus. Onywye here it is.
                 by Billy Moore.

I'm a poor aul' man that's listenin'
For the Mester's welcome cal' ;
Whun it comes tae pass I'll bae in the class
O' millionaires an' al'.
It mak's nae difference wha ye ir
Whun ye reach the happy shore,
For its true there me an' you
Wull suffer niver more.
It's a gye lang time since I wus boarn
In eichteen forty-three ;
Coont in yer heid an' ye wull fin'
The proper aige o' me..
An' I've bain honest a' these years ;
Whun knockin' roon aboot
I did nae herm nor caased alerm,
Ootside o' a bootle o' stoot.
But the worse yin o' mae life
Wus the sorrowin' day they kerried awa'
The remains o' mae darlin' wife.
But I know she waitin' for mae,
Wae mae lovely dochter Jane ;
On a Churchyerd crest their bodies rest
Near the borders o' Coulraine.
Mae yin guid freen's the clergy,
An' a Godly man is he ;
There's naw mony such wud bother much
Wae an' aul' dain man lake me.
But I hope he'll bae rewarded shane,
Ach, that I affen pray ;
He's young in life, an should hae a wife
Afore I gang away.
An' I leeve there bae maesel',
Sur I widnae gie it's chimley
For the finest made hotel.
I hae a view o' the countryside
Frae mae yerd whaur I affen stan' ;
O' the Mester's michty han'.
Noo, I'm tired o' yarnin' tae ye, mae sin,
An' the evenin's gettin' late ;
Tae conclude oor tak' I'll hae a wa'k
The length o' Dugan's gate.
Gye shane I'll lay this guid oul' worl'
Tae meet mae wife an' wean ;
On the churchyerd crest we three shall rest
Near the borders o' Coulraine.
Whun we wur weans.
Dae ye mine the lang het summers al them years ago,
Whun naithen semt tae metter an we hud jist begun tae grow,
Moochin epples oot at archies an swummin in the plum,
Aye we thocht little o the grewwin up that we hud still tae come
Whun ah luk bak on ur wee group o freens ah wunner cud onyboady a guessed,
Whit wid kerry thum ah forrit in thur lifes quest,
Three sojers an a brickie a kerpenter an a plumber
                      An ivry single yin o thum is noo near haf a hunner                           We climt the trees an jumpt the sheughs playt fitba in the street,
Run ur the fiels follyt the burn an bilt forts amang the peat,
Nae computers ur nintendo playstations wurnae seen,
Action man ur cowboy suits wur whut we wid be geen,
Ahm sure that we al wunner whit life is al aboot
An ah canny be the only yin thinks wur weans ir missin oot,
Ye harly see thum kickin fitba playin tig ur rinnin roon
Theyd rether hing aboot the streets an gether doon the toon
Mibbe ahm jist gettin oul an carnapcious in me ways
Bit whun ah luk bak whun we wur weans they seemt lake better days
Tam December 2008

This is a gran wee rhyme that wus gein tae me bae mae guid freen,'Gary fae tha Toon'. A think tha author's name mann hae bae loast in tha mists o' time mairs tha peety, it's caa'd
A Cudnae tell ye when.
Tha gress grows oan tha winda sill
Tha dishes washed bae brither Bill
Ye'd know wae wur gan doon tha hill
But A cudnae tell ye when.

Tha cobwebs cling frae wing tae wa
An beds are lien twa bae twa
Some day we wull no bae thar ava
But A cudnae tell ye when.

Thar is a taak aboot mae da
They say he's gan far awa
Tae bring mae bak anither ma
But A cudnae tell ye when.

She micht bae fat ir micht bae thin
Wae great big warbles oan hur chin
When mae da gits oot, A'll jump in
But A cudnae tell ye when.

An if mae da she disnae please
We'll pray tae God upon wur knees
That some day he wull gie iz ease
But A cudnae tell ye when !
This a wee rhyme a fun tha ither deh aboot aroon tha North Entrim coast that lies dear tae mae hert. A dinnae ken wha tha author wus but it disnae haf gie a insicht tae guid herted folk frae alang the shore an ayont.
Snaw Storm.
Snawin' a’ tha moarnin', snawin' a’ tha night
Glenshesk's fu’ o’ it, an’ Knocklayd's white;
An oot on Rathray Islan it be's snawin' there tae,
An what'll bae tae dae there, what'll bae tae dae?

Plentys taa bae dane there, niver min’ tha snaw:
There's watther tae be kerried in, and someboady maun gae;
There's peat frae tha stack tae be kerried tae tha fire,
An fodder for tha cattle that be's restless in tha byre.

But whun a’ that's finished wae, tha rest o' tha day
Thae kan sit an tell yarns an’ drink black tay,
Or ax oul' riddles lake Granny usetae know,
Oul' quare guesses frae tha far lang ago.

"What is it, what is it, that cries Chink!  Chink!
Gangs ower tha watther and unnther watther and niver taks a drink?"
Or "Wha's a’ in white wae a lang shiny nose,
An tha langer she is leevin' it's tha shoarter that she grows?"

Stories and guesses, but somethin wud bae wrang
If there widnae bae a lad there tae raise ye up a sang;
Sae let tha snaw come, sure tha tay is in tha pot,
Tha griddle's on tha fire and tha griddle-breid is hot.

An if ye be a stranger that's loost upon yer way,
Ye only need tae lift tha latch in far Rachray,
An there'll lie tha kitchen wi’ its saft peat-smoke
An a het word o' welcome frae tha Rachray folk.

Niver min’ tha morrow; ye’re a lang time dead:
Sae there's liltin' and there's lachtin tae its time tae bae in bed;
An tha snaw keeps faa’in' as thick as kan be,
An Rachray haes vanished in tha lane dark sea.
Nae Time tae mine.
A wus mair nir vexed on tha 11th o’ Navemmber 2005 whun A stapped tae pye mae respects tae  a’ wha fell in tha twa Wurl Wars an ither Wars sine. As A stud wae twarthy ither sowls A wus fair gunked tae see sae mony yins wha jest hadnae twa minits tae gie in honour o’ them wha dee’d for their freedom. Tha vexin thing wus they dinnae even hide the fect thae had nae time as thae jest wakit by lukin at tha twa dizen ir sae as if thae wur sum kine o lunatics. Am naw sayin am ony betther nir onyboady else bit A think its jest a sign o hoo little time sum yins hae for onythin’ apert fae themsels. In mae ain opeenion it hes jest becum a me,me,me, wurl, nae thocht for them wha focht for a wurl o freedom an respect for A. Efter A cum hame a pit these twarthy wurds doon on paper. Mine ye am no gettin at tha thoosans wha ivery year pye their respects tae tha Fallen. IF THA SHOE FITS WEER IT.
Wae God on their side.
Thae left hame in hunners wae nae thochts o fear,
An tha hale countryside cum oot for tae cheer,
These young men o’ Ulster their ain kith an kin,
Wha wae God on their side thae kent thae wud win.

A wheen cum bak hame in wee dribs an drabs,
Tae mony sad faces an  oul weemens sabs
For mony wur slachtered wae God on their side,
Thae a dee’d brav heroes tae stap tha Deils tide.

But that wus lang sine an folk shane forget,
Nae time for remembrance, nae time for regret,
Naw even twa minits o’ their silence tae spare,
For wae God on their side shure thae dinnae care.
Charlie “Tha Poocher.” Reynolds     
Am mair nir delichted tae gie yese al' a wee rhyme frae a yung man haf mae age wha hales frae tha toonlan o' Bendooragh in tha  Bellymoney District. Hes name is Gary Blair, sae kep hir lit Gary an keep yer quill sherpened.
A Ragin Acquaintance
A’ll niver forget him for as lang as A leeve;
Nae worse tempered craiter wus iver born,
His ragin mooth wus hardly iver closed
Tha hope o decency frae him wus aye forlorn.
Wae his flashin een an his bricht rid gills,
He’d stare ye oot, aye prepared tae shock.
Should A ever ootleeve tha ancient Methuselah
A’ll niver forget mae granda’s prize game cock!
Here’s a gran wee rhyme frae a poet frae yisteryear wha dane hes ritin unner tha name o' John o' tha North an haled frae tha toon o Larne
by John o' the North.

Listen, Mary Ellen, saes Jimmy tae me,
There's a dance the morrow nicht, wull ye go ?
But I'm shy in a wiy whaur boys ir concerned,
So saes I tae him, Jimmy, Ach no !
---- Ach no !

But the tickets ir bocht, saes Jimmy, saes he,
I hae them in mae poaket an so,
You'll hae tae cum noo, for ye cudna let mae doon.
But saes I tae him,  Jimmy, Ach no !
--- Ach no !

On the nicht o' the dance, sure he ca'ed at the dure,
Come on, saes he, dinna be sae slow ;
Al' the lads an' lassies frae the Braid wul be there,
But sae I tae him, Jimmy, Ach no !
--- Ach no !

He's a tarrible masterfu' kin' o' a lad ;
There was naethin' else for it but go ;
Whun we got there, sae Jimmy, We'll show them a step,
But saes I tae him, Jimmy, Ach no !
--- Ach no !

But he tuk me in hes airms an' he swung me aroon,
An' boys ! did the saxophone blow ;
Lean your heid on mae shoulder,  saes Jimmy tae me,
But saes I tae him, Jimmy, Ach no !
--- Ach no !

At the en' o' the nicht he wus leein' me hame,
The moon in the sky hingin' low ;
Kiss me guid-nicht noo, saes Jimmy, saes he,
But saes I tae him, Jimmy, Ach no !
--- Ach no !

Well, guid bye then, saes Jimmy, I'm aff tae the war ;
I'm joinin' the Army an so,
I be to be aff an' ye'll see me nae mair,
But saes I tae him, Jimmy, Ach no !
--- Ach no !

He put hes airms roon me an' gein me a hug ;
I feelt lake he'd niver let go,
Wull ye iver, saes he, merry onybody else ?
An saes I tae him, Jimmy, Ach no !
---Ach no !
Here’s a wee shoart yin frae a boady wha screeved  hunners o' rhymes monies a year lang syne in tha Bellamena Observer. He wus weel kent in hes deh wus yin wha stud up fur tha aul tung
A Naebody

If a naebody thinks he’s a somebody,
An’ that naebody equals hisel,
Then it’s somebody’s pairt tae enlicthen
That naebody’s ignorance well.

For there’s naebody free o’ a somebody,
An’ only a naebody wad say
That he was dependent on naebody,
As somebody’s thinkin’ the day.
Bab M'Keen
Here's a wee rhyme wae a soart o' jag tae it. A dinnae ken wha dane tha screiven, bit if ony o' yese kens wha it wus,wud yese bae guid eneuch tae pit mae oot o' mae misery.  Here it is onywye.
                                                    The Waather.
I ken a fermer an' he's a blether,
Aye chirmin' an' greetin'
Aboot the waather;
He's maybe no' an' elder - onyrate
He's got a dooble sate
Weel forrit in the meetin'.

I ken we dinna lake tae sow the coarn
In three inches o' watther - nether
Daes drappin' praties on a frosty moarn
Luk the richt thing althegither;
But then agen I'm thankfu'
That it's no iz hes the makin'
o' the waather.

I ken a pigeon's nest,
Twa big scaldies in it,
Heicht up the sliddery cove it sits,
A curious place tae build - the doo'
Daesna feed hir yung on limpets,
True, for their crappies ir fu'
O' the fermers beans this minnit.

A wee broon burd hes a nest
In a bush in the fermer's gerden,
Fir a the sporras in the wurl
He wudna gie a wan farden;
Hes twa big kats ir watchin'
The burdie sittin' hatchin';
But naw the day, nor yit the morra,
The Lord is carin for the wee bit sporra.

There's mair dependin'  on the fermer
Than he kens aboot -
Hes ferm, hes horses, an' hes man,
Hes plou; an' harra,
Al' ir in the plan
O' him wha careth fir the sporra,
An' tho' the crap be late, he'll no' be bate,
Withoot a doot.
The bees aye sing an' hum
Amang the heather.
This is a wee rhyme bae Kilrea man James McIlFatrick lang sine awa tae his lang hame.But his rhymes leeve on an on.An richtly so.
The Hearth
Och gie me bak thon oul hearth fire
An the smell o' burnin' peat
Wae a lump o' boag fir burnin'
Tae warm mae hans an feet.

What a heatsome sicht
Wus thon hearth fire bricht
Dispensin licht an heat.

Nae nettles sang wus half as blythe,
As the yin that swung on the crane
Wae it's rattlin' lid that geen thae hint
Its tay time mem I'm sayin.

Then the tay wus wet
An the table set
The kettle link't up on the chain

Thon oul peat fire on the hearth
Had monies a job tae dae,
It bake't the scones o' Indian male,
An fadge an pancakes tae

The roon oat cake
Oul weemin bake't
It harn't it through an through.

It boil't the pratas for the pigs,
Calves gruel ivery nicht,
The fryin' pan cookin eggs an ham,
Wus a hungry lads delight

An if ye tane the flu
Yer ma wud brew,
A possit on the gresagh bricht.
This rhyme is frae awa bak whun tha famous Bab McKeen scrieved in tha Bellymena Observer. A hope yese a lake tha yin a hae picked . It's simply caa'd
Through  The   Reek
A hoose weel thatch’t , a broad hearth stane ,
A big peat fire bleezin’
An oul man sittin , naw his lane ,
But young yins roon him teasin’,
A kine’oul wummin slippin  him  ,
A bit o’ breid an noggin ,
O’ milk het strippit fae the coo,
The oul man’s mem’ry joggin ,
Aboot the calves that’s in the croft ,
An’ shud he naw shane  luk’ them ,
For fear that they micht jump the dake ,
Geen an evil spirit tuk them ,
Through the reek !

He’ll see wae me the furst bit ride ,
He iver had on shilty ,
An if he feels as I did then ,
Tae him a thoosan welcomes ,
Wae hans in mane an feet stuck close ,
Again Miss Fanny’s withers ,
An’ nathin on the meer but me ,
A heed stall an a tether ,
Through the reek!

He’ll see wae me the weans at school ,
He’ll hear their bit chalk scratchin’,
He’ll copy fae his nybors slate ,
Whun the Mester isnae watchin’,
He’ll get a sned across the bak’,
Wae a soople bit o’ hazel ,
As mony a yin I got maesel ,
That made mae blinkers daezle ,
Through the reek !

He’ll spin his peerie , bounce his ba’,
An rougue lik mad at marbles ,
Hell fecht an cry an cry an fecht ,
Tae he’s ivery bit in warbles ,
He’ll get weel thong’t for dirty claes ,
Or breeks that’s needin stitchin ,
Or hear a lectur lang’s the Boyne ,
Again the crime o’ mitchin’ ,
Through the reek!

He’ll see wae me the folk at hame ,
Afore the circle’s broken ,
‘Fore seperatin’ left it’s mark,
Or pertin wurd was spoken ,
He’ll feel he’s on a sacred spot ,
He’s ears in rapture tingle ,
An tears  rin doon his wrinkl’t cheek,
As he hears the voices mingle ,
Through the reek !

He’ll see some things he’d lak; the mist ,
Wud hide foriver fae him ,
But penetratin mem’ry through ,
The reek ay’ brings them tae him ,
Tae sleep at last pits oot his pipe ,
The dreamlan’ sheddas quiver ,
An’ float yince mair afore his een ,
Doon mem’rys crystal river,
Through the reek!
Bab M’Keen

Here is a wee rhyme aboot golfin frae roon aboot tha 1900's, A haenae tha name o' whaiver scrieved it. A hope yese lake it.
Jist look at my bonnie wee bag o' sticks,
An' my tackety pair o' shoon,
The auld suit wi' the holes intilt,
An' my face that's nice and broon ;
You can see the health stickin' out o' my een,
I cud eat  eat even on ;
I wis juist  a fair footer a month ago,
An' noo I'm a pairfect don,
At whit we wad kin' o' ca' gowfin'.
Gie the lea a bit daud, then look oot for the clod,
That's the principal thing at the gowfin'.

I was awfu' shakey aboot the knees,
I cud only read wi' glasses ;
The doctor said that for fancy complaints
I wis yin o' their foremost cases ;
In fact, I wis jist kin' o' hangin' on,
Wi' a cough that wisna canny to bear,
An' a face like a soda scone,
When I up and begood the gowfin',
Jist kin' o' amatuer gowfin',
Easy osy, ye ken, the short holes in ten
It's a fine game is gowfin'.

Ye ken you troubles they adverteese,
For tae mak' ye buy their peels,
Like a stab in the back, or a fire inside,
Or a scunnerin' at your meals,
I had them a', and a wheen forbye,
That the doctor's couldna name,
They were awfa' chawed when I stopped their drugs,
An' took to the gowfin' game ;
O man, I'm keen on the gowfin',
It's the patent cure is gowfin',
I tell ye it's grand to get back to the land,
And lift it in lumps at gowfin'.
A wus axed aboot this wee rhyme bae a boady wha wus boarn roon Stranocum. The airt is close tae mae hert becaase mae granfeyther an granmither leeved in tha oul Station Hoose for monies a day.The introductory lines wur pairt o' a very auld local rhyme. Cubbadale is on the auld road frae Armoy tae Ballymoney, no far frae Stranocum.
by Rev George Hill.
(written in 1838, revised in 1898.
Willy went tae Cubbadale
As hard as he cud switch --
For Nora Lynd, o' Cubbadale,
Wis such a cantie witch
Her cherry lip and sparkling glance,
And croon o' auburn hair
Brocht mony a lad tae Cubbadale,
Wha had nae errand there.

Willy wus a weaver lad
A lonely widow's sin --
And niver absent frae his loom
Whun wark wus tae bae dain.
In summer days or wunther nichts
His idle oors wur few,
An' still wae steady gleesome whirr
His bisy shuttle flew !

Willy came frae Cubbadale
For a' his honest love wus told
Tae Nora Lynd in vain !
Ah, me, the with-witch o' Cubbadale
Hes thrown hir weary spell,
And on our worthy weaver lad
The upshot nane can tell !

He cares naw noo tae touch his loom,
He wanners here an' there ;
An' on his changeless face is set
The seal o' grim despair.
Then, ponther weel, young weaver lads
This melancholy tale,
An' whun yer gane tae sell ye're webs
Dinnae gang through Cubbadale !

This is a wee rhyme bae a up an comin' poet in tha Ulster Scots Leid. His name is 'Gary frae tha Toon' an he hales frae Bellymoney Toon an this is yin he scrieved aboot tha demon drink.
Tha Deils Buttermilk
Tha hairs oan mae neck aa stud oan their enn
Tha first tim a tuk a swig frae tha still,
It wus gien tae me bae an oul uncle o mine
Wha swore it cured monys a flu an a chill.
Bae tha time I reached tha age o twenty-four
Yin bottle only dane mae yin nicht –
Mae een were bloodied an mae pallor was pale
But mae neb wus shinin wile bricht.

At forty A’d loast mae wife an mae weans,
They cleared becaase o’ mae love o poteen,
A sipped and gulped doon an extra bottle that nicht
An watched them lee through twa watery een.
At fifty A’d loast a kidney tae drink,
An noo mae liver is waitin tae go –
So if anyboady offers ye a swig frae tha still,
Be sure your answer that ye gie him is NO!
Tha wee rhyme alow is naw what ye wud ca' hairtin' but its weel wurth o' takin' a keek at. Its bae a boady caa' Jack Graham.
I dinnae feel sae guid the dey,
I hope it’s joost the coul’,
But somthin’ tells mae otherwise,
It’s caase I’m getting’ oul,
Naw that it shud metter much,
The years is there I know,
I hae hane mae time tae sow mae oats,
There nae mair left tae sow.

I wunner that oor God o’ Love,
Sae kine’ an’ sympathetic,
Lets is in sae little years,
Get useless an’ pathetic,
But Och ! I’m sure he haes a rayson,
That al’ through his creation,
That we pit in oor twarthy years,
In misery an’ aggravation.

Whun I wus young an’ lukin’ forrit,
The time I had seem’t en’less,
Noo lukin’ bak’ it seem’t that shoart,
Lang draa’n oot plans ir needless,
But plan we dae in spite o’ al’,
As if we’re here for iver,
Instead o’ pakin’ up oor things,
An’ heidin’ for the river.

This is a gran rhyme aboot Krisamas rhymers that ir noo rarely har'd tell o' noo-a-dehs. It is screieved bae yin o tha best rhymers frae roon tha Larne airt.
by John Clifford.

Whun days ir chilly, drab an' drear, an' Christmas time is draain' near,
The lang foresupper daes provide, contentment roon a snug fireside,
A kin'ly neibour danners in, a freenly yarn or twa tae spin ;
The sturdy weans ir washed an' fed, wull shane be safe an' snug in bed.

The barns the byres, the stable dures ir safely closed wae boalts an' bars,
Contentment reigns an' happy peace, descends alake on men an' beast,
The kitchen dure is on the latch, whaur Collie keeps his faithfu' watch ;
His birses rise wi' warnin' bark as forth he saunters through the dark.

He tries his best tae keep at bay a score o' Xmas rhymers gay ;
They ken him weel, they ca' his name an' in the en' he leads them hame,
Lord knows whaur they hae bain --- They're dung an' gutters tae the e'en.
They've rhymed their wye for miles, through sheughs an' loanins slaps an' stiles.

Disguised as Lords an' Knights o' yore they clatter roon the farmhoose dure,
Adjust their wigs, their masks, their swords, an' check their entrance cues an' wurds.
Then flingin' wide the kitchen dure --- Room, Room mae gallant boys, they roar,
The nervous weans in terror flee for safety to their parents knee.

An' then begins the age-aul tale --- hoo George, weel-clad in coat o' mail
So rammed  his dagger through an' through that he the monstrous dragon slew.
The kitchen flure becum a stage whaur on these rustic actors rage,
Their audience huddled roon the hearth, enjoy this bit o' hamely mirth.

Sometimes the nervous weans 'll squeal whun through the kitchen jumps the De'il,
Wi' gret lang hoarns an' hairy mane --- frae roon his middle swings a chain.
An' ootside, waitin' in the coul', jest waitin' till the story's toul
Comes rushn' in Wee Johnny Funny --- he's the man that kerries the mony.

The weans bae noo hae cast aff their fears, an in Wee Johnny Funny tears,
An' roon' the hoose wi' fearfu' din, seeks coppers for his wee aul tin.
Sae, in the weel satisfied, they sing a sang o' Christmastide
A verse ir twa o' local lore, an' then they clatter oot the dure.

They've gane --- their noisome frolics cease, the hame resumes its tranquil peace,
Till by an' by John Nod appears tae coax the yungsters up the stairs.
The lamps ir snubbed, an' very shane the tireless, lonely midnight moon
Wull ride hir coarse, then steal away, Awaik. Awaik, 'Tis Xmas day.
A thocht this wee rhyme wus tha richt yin roon tha time o tha year whun wae bring tae min tha sodjers that went frae roon this airt tae fecht in tha Graet War. May we niver forget them. This wee rhyme wus scrieved bae a boady in 1915 an wus in tha local papers.

Will ye no' come wae the laddies,
Wae the gallant khaki band,
That are oot for King and Country,
That are oot for Motherland ?

Will ye no' declare for Britain,
An' her foes help tae subdue ?
Will ye no' come wae the laddies,
An' see the danger through ?

Noo, I winnae ca' ye cowards,
For I ken fu' well ye've pluck ;
But ye dinna ken the nation's need
Or what way that we're stuck.

An' it's no' yer prayers, or yit yer goud,
We're efter jest the noo,
But khaki lines o' flesh and bluid,
Tae see the danger through.

Will ye no' come wae the laddies
That are fechtin' for yer hames,
That are striking hard for Britain
An' for the wee bit wanes ?

An' them it esnae wae us
When were merchin' tae Berlin,
Them winnae fect hae lost the right
Tae ca' us kith or kin.

R. J. M'Lean, 16th Division R. F. A.
Tha rhyme this month is bae a guid boady  wha haes scrieved afore on this page nane ither nir Gary Blair frae Bendooragh ootside tha toon o' Bellymoney  an mann A think its jest gran, sae keep hir ye boy ye.
An oul Country thing

A wus stapped bae a boady as A waaked doon tha street,
Sez he, “Boys but yer the maun A hoped A wud meet!”
Sez A, “Whits wrang – dae A owe ye ony catter?”
Sez he, “Aw naw, it’s aboot a hale different matter.”

“A wus axed a question joost tha ither nicht
An cudnae gie an answer fer fear it wusnae richt.
It wus ‘Why when A’m reading yer Ullans rhymes
It’s aye aboot tha country an set in owler times?”

“Sez A, “Tha answers aisy if ye hae tha time tae hear
We can taak aboot it noo ir discuss it ower a beer”.
Sez he “A’ll hear it sober joost sae A’ll no forget
An mebbe efter ye’ve toul mae we’ll get wur whistles wet”.

Sez A, “Tha answers aisy an tak heed tae aa A say
An tak mae wurds tae whoever axed ye oan ither day
Tha raison it’s aye the country we rhyme aboot is clear
Fer its only in tha country whur Ullans is hoult dear.

Ye’ll no hear wur Ulster Scotch used iver in Bilfawst
Fer when it comes tae taakin Ullans, they wud come in last
Its bin only country folk that haes kept alive wur tongue
An we spake it in aa places, nae metter who were among.

City folk aa lake tae think they know far mair nor iz
But tha wye they hannle taakin is lake mineral withoot the fizz
Maybe yin day they’ll larn it an use it ivery day forbye
Meantim iz in tha country wull no let Ullans die.

It’s near aye aboot tha owler days we write aboot in wur rhymes
Fer wur tongue got watered doon wie tha passin o tha times
Atween teachers in schules an parents in tha hoose
Ullans was subjected tae a worl o abuse.

But sure ye can change that”, sez A tae tha maun
“Instead o axin questions, ye can gie iz a haun
Bae explainin tae tha weans that they can taak in wur tongue
An get them tae use it frae when they’re still young.”

Sez he, “Ye know somethin, A know whit ye mean
Fer thon wean o wurs thinks its gye near obscene
Tae taak in wur ain leid; she uses English aa tha time
As if tae spake Ullans wus some soart o crime.”

Sae we pairted oan that an awa he went enlichtened
As A watched him gan, his step quarely tichtened
In his haste tae tell his dochter tae larn wur great owl leid
An git notions o it bein wrang richt oot o her heid.

Sae whit’s wrang wie you that yer no daein tha same?
Dinnae think aboot gan lukkin fer ithers tae blame
If wur Ulster Scotch leid isnae ten oan bae wur youth
Fer it’ll bae aa doon tae you fer no opening yer mooth!
Gary Blair July 2009

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