The Turf Spade

[Lar Naparka]

Here's another for the collection:

IN THE COUNTY ROSCOMMON

In the County Roscommon in hail storms and rain
As I was crossing the field on me way to the train
I met a fair coleen, says she, did you know
The shortest  shortcut into old Ballymoe.


Says I, coleen og, who led you astray
I think I'll go with you and show you the way
Says she, I won't go with you for you I don't know
You might kiss me between here and old Ballymoe.


Says I, coleen og, I've seldom been kissed
She says, poor lad, sure a lot you have missed
But I am willing to learn you now
We can practise between here and old Ballymoe.


You think I go with you, you moron gay rogue
I don't like your looks and your smoothering clothes
You are young you are handsome but God knows you're slow
You look like a dead one in old Ballymoe.


Says I, I've been noted for strength and good looks
My brains' not so bad when I mastered the books
I'll give you a ring till married we'll go
And forever live happy in old Ballymoe.


She started to laugh till I thought she would choke
She says, poor lad, I will tell you a joke
Get out of my way, but now I must go
I've a husband and six kids in old Ballymoe.

[Antrim Coaster]

The Turf Spade by Aussie Bryson from the Castlefin direction of Co. Donegal.'I got up this morning in the Rosses, looked out the window, fine day for cutting turf etc..and ends up outside Euston Station in London. Classic!

[Hardy]

Another one from Brian O'Rourke

DRUMSNOT  (Brian O'Rourke)

Oh come all ye pleasant fellow peasants
    and listen to my song
It has twenty verses and what's far worse is,
    it's three times as bad as its long
Oh lend me your ears while I spill the beans
    about the place where I was got
For it's likely that you haven't much of a clue,
    about the place they call Drumsnot

Where my birthplace lies beneath Irish skies
    isn't easy to explain
Its not in the Pale or the Golden Vale,
    nor yet in the Central Plain
It affords no view of mountains blue
    and it sure is no beauty spot
And to date no county has claimed the bounty
    for admitting it owns Drumsnot

Oh, on Inishcarra and Gougane Barra,
    on Macroom and on Omagh Town
God poured out air of a fragrance rare
    that gained them high renown
On King Williamstown He showered sweetness down,
    on Lough Neagh and Glanlee and the lot
But those rare perfumes were all well consumed
    by the time that he reached Drumsnot

Ah but savage Nature, that lavish creature,
    Drumsnot did not neglect
For its stony fields with hoary weeds
    are gaudily bedecked
Them thistles, thorns and bouchalawns
    would be an ugly blot
Upon the face of any place –
    excepting dire Drumsnot

And all around wildlife abounds
    and leaps and creeps and crawls
And prowls and scowls and growls and howls,
    and fights and bites and bawls
And shrieks and yells and reeks and smells
    and kills and the devil knows what
And the ould triangle goes strangle-mangle,
    in the jungle around Drumsnot.

Now to sing of the birds, sure I have no words
    to express just how I feel
For the sweetest notes in their cheeky throats
    are the five pound notes that they steal
The sly magpie he rules the sky
    and ruins every garden and plot
And every songster is a fully-fledged gangster
    on the rampage around Drumsnot

Oh, we have no fleadh, we've no cine-MAH
    for to goggle at spectacles lewd
And Tim Lyons couldn't grouse about our eating-house
    that never heard tell of fast food
We've two broken down bridges infested by midges –
    and a gaming machine with no slot
And the meanest street between Kansas and Crete
    is the main street of Drumsnot.

Oh now you might guess that Drumsnot's a place
    where old customs they are held dear
And you'd be right for our faction-fights
    halve our numbers every year.
But our Gaelic tongue you'll as soon hear sung
    as the speech of the Hottentot
In fact we're distinguished for unspeakable English
    in the backwaters of Drumsnot.

Oh in Ireland's fight for her birthright
    we had no glorious share
For the Black and Tans with their trucks and guns
    never knew that we were there
Now they've gone away and 'tis sad to say,
    things haven't changed a jot
For in Leinster House neither Minister nor mouse,
    gives a sugar about Drumsnot.

Our hedge-master died in eighteen-o-five
    and since then we have had no school
And for all we see of C.I.E.
    we might as well be in Kabul
Ah but soon we might get th'oul electric light –
    and then again we might not
And the Christmas mail arrives without fail –
    around Easter in Drumsnot.

Oh a telephone kiosk or a Shi'ite mosque
    would be equal novelties there
So our smoky signals and dopey pigeons
    our urgent messages bear
And no motor car has yet got that far
    for the Spring Show could justly allot
For sheer scope and size a major prize
    to each pothole around Drumsnot.

We've no B & B's, no facilities
    for the stranger touring round
No Cead Mile Failte in your tracks will halt you
    if you tread on our tainted ground
If you're tracing your ancestors in parish registers,
    I'm afraid you won't here find a lot
Ah sure japers we barely can point out our parents
    in the shambles they call Drumsnot.

If you've a low opinion of our dominion,
    please don't broadcast your point of view
For although the locals are yobs and yokels,
    they have their fine feelings too
A bass-baritone weighing twenty-two stone
    dropped a hint that we weren't too hot
Well, he sang falsetto as he left our ghetto
    and staggered away from Drumsnot.

Oh 'twas in Drumsnot I was begot
    and there I squandered my boyhood days
And my youthful deeds they now recede
    in an alcoholic haze
When I grew a man, I drew up a plan
    and teamed up with a well-endowed mot
Her father owns the Rag and Bones –
    that's the only pub in Drumsnot.

By the effluent pump near the rubbish dump,
    I courted her right well
And we got engaged within seven days
    for she couldn't stand the smell
Then came the day in the month of May
    when we tied the fatal knot
And the wedding do was crubeens for two
    in the eating-house of Drumsnot

Now we live in a cabin with the thatch in ribbons
    and the rent we can barely pay
And all the roses around the door
    won't keep the wolf away
And all my dreams of pints so creamy,
    alas they have come to naught
For supplies of stout they did soon run out
    in the only pub in Drumsnot

Oh I wish I was far from the Shamrock Shore
    in some place where I might find work
And I tried of late for to emigrate –
    but I missed my lift to Cork
So to settle down in my native town
    has become my doleful lot
And to sink my roots and my hobnail boots
    in this dungheap they call Drumsnot

Now as you all know, some years ago,
    big blundering Uncle Sam
Tried to lift fifty-one of his native sons
    held hostage inside Iran
Ah but isn't it strange when 'twas all the rage,
    that the whole bloody world forgot
To break in and let loose us hundred and two poor hoors,
    marooned inside in Drumsnot.

Now, at last I must conclude, arrest
    and terminate this desperate ditty
And I hope you good people true
    by now feel for me some pity
And when at last my life is past
    and my bones have to moulder and rot
I pray God on high they won't have to lie
    in the cemetery of Drumsnot.

[sledge hammer]

The Turf Spade by Aussie Bryson from the Castlefin direction of Co. Donegal.'I got up this morning in the Rosses, looked out the window, fine day for cutting turf etc..and ends up outside Euston Station in London. Classic!

that sounds like it antrim coaster. do you know where i would get a copy of the words?

[Hardy]

Spade - here's a link to Cork City Library (I've broken it into two lines so that it doesn't make this page unreadable).

http://libcat.corkcity.ie/ipac20/ipac.jsp?session=TV0970O222984.430607
&profile=gp&uri=full%3D3100001~!484315~!0&booklistformat=

It seems there's a CD called The Donegal Traveller & the Turf Spade that features a song called the Turf Spade by Aussie Bryson. If you fail to get it, I cold borrow it from the library (it's out on loan at present, due in on 28th May). Try your own library or music websites first.

[sledge hammer]

cheers hardy. must have a look round for the cd. wouldnt even mind just seeing the words printed out, would like to learn it off.

[downredblack]

Not this song by Tommy Sands?

Is that yourself? - Indeed it is.  - Well you're a stranger here.
I don't know when I seen you last, it must be more than a year.
How are you doin'? - I'm not so bad, and what about yourself? -
No use complaining I suppose, as long as we've got the health.

Where are you now? - I'm still at home, it's the brother that went away.
My father said that if one of us left, the other would have to stay.
Sure jobs are gettin' very scarce, the unemployment's a curse.
But still I suppose as the fella says, it's bad that couldn't be worse.

Terrible weather altogether, it's never going to clear -
Do you know what I'm goin' to tell you though, it's not bad for the time of the year.
Sure a sup of rain never done very much harm and the grass could do with a drop.
I'd pass no remarks on a skift or two, as long as there's not a slap.

A slap's the last thing that we need, for our wee meadow's in hay.
Do you mind the trade we had last year comin' up thon bit of a brae? -
The mountain's comin' very close, I don't like the look of the sky.
The forecast talked about a change, but you mightn't believe thon boys.

(spoken) I think I'll ask him now . . . I think I'll ask him . . .

I suppose I'd better be headin' on, I've held you back enough.
I was clearin' up at the back of the house, the garden is very rough.
I broke the spade and it's awkward when you've only got a graip
And unless I can get the loan of a spade, the garden will have to wait.

Aye a spade's an awful missly thing, there's the sun again.
But it's only a pet, it will never keep up, I felt a spit of rain. -
Would you be usin' your spade today? - To tell you the truth I'm not,
For I lent it to you a year ago, and since then I never saw it.

Jaysus ,it's a while since I heard that song . Must try and find it, my Da used to have it in the car . Good memories .

[Niall Quinn]

There's a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There's a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
While the yellow god for ever gazes down.

He was known as 'Mad Carew
By the subs at Kathmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell,
But, for all his foolish pranks,
He was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along
With the passion of the strong,
And that she returned his love was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one,
And arrangements were begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present
She would like from 'Mad' Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad:
And jestingly she made pretence
That nothing else would do ...
But the green eye of the little yellow god.

On the night before the dance
'Mad' Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him
As they pulled at their cigars,
But for once he failed to smile,
And he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night.. beneath the stars.

He returned, before the dawn,
With his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temples... dripping red.
He was patched up right away,
And he slept all through the day
While the Colonel's daughter
Watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked her
If she'd send his tunic through.
She brought it and he thanked her with a nod.
He bade her search the pocket,
Saying, 'That's from "Mad" Carew,'
And she found ... the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew,
In the way that women do,
Although her eyes were strangely hot and wet,
But she would not take the stone,
And Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height
On that still and tropic night,
She thought of him ... and hastened to his room.
As she crossed the barrack square
She could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide,
With silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slippery where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried
In the heart of 'Mad' Carew ...
'Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.

There's a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There's a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
While the yellow god for ever gazes down.

[Antrim Coaster]

Sledge Hammer, I have a copy of the Donegel Traveller CD, Vol 1+2,  with a few other humourous yarns from Aussie Bryson and Patsy O'Hagan. I could burn you a copy but would have no idea how to get it to you. Its good value. The Turf Spade yarn goes down well though.

[charlie linkbox]

I used to do a bit of singing in the Fleadh. One song I always liked was this:

Come all ye romantic young fellows
Who thinks for to work on a farm
Come listen a while to me story
It may serve you to keep you from harm.

When I was a dashing young fellow
My age it was just seventeen
I hired myself to a farmer
At the horse fair of Ballinascreen

The farm was way up in the mountain.
It was amongst the heather and bog
And the stock that I had to look after
Was a donkey, a goat and a dog.

The master and me and the mother
We lived in a tumble-down shack.
The 'oul woman was well over ninety
And her bones were beginning to crack.

She sat on a chair by the fire
She never would go to her bed
And when I arose every morning
She was sitting there nodding her head.

We had three old hens and a rooster
One day they all died of the croop
We plucked them and boiled them and salted them
And we lived for a week on the soup.

Misfortune may never come single
Next day the 'oul nanny goat died.
We skinned her and boiled her and salted her
And he made himself shoes from her hide.

I thought that his mind was affected.
I thought that his mind was insane.
When poor Fido he died of distemper
I was sent for the salt once again.

When I saw what had happened poor Fido
I couldn't sleep a wink all that night.
And when I arose the next morning
I got the most terrible fright.

The 'oul woman was lyin' by the fire.
As I ran for the door he cried "halt".
Sayin "where are you going so early.
Come back here and fetch me the salt".

Well I ran out the door like a rocket
And down the mountain like a hare.
I never stopped running for a fortnight
And I've never been since at a fair.

[sledge hammer]

antrim coaster - sent you a pm

[Antrim Coaster]

Sledge Hammer. Received your PM and will burn the CD's at the weekend if I have the time. Will let you know when I have them for you.