i heard a recitation a few years ago, think it was on the radio. As far as i know it was called The Turf Spade, was recited by someone with a great donegal accent.
just wondering does anyone know if you can hear it on the internet anywhere or is there anywhere that has the words printed.
i may have got the name wrong, but it was a very humourous recitation anyway.
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.
Humorous Hardy, humorous. :P
no hardy its not that one, know that one well though.
i can only remember a few lines of it. i can remember that he was talking about leaving a bike outside the pub and then when he came out of the pub "there was the bike just where i had left it, GONE!"
i wish i could remember more of it, or at least the name of it.
THE MAN THAT SHOT THE DOG - MICHAEL QUINN
I was born a collie sheepdog with a white ring around my neck.
And for nine days my eyes were closed and I couldn't see a speck
I had four lovely sisters, me being an only boy.
And for six weeks we played around, our mother's pride and joy.
Till a gentleman from Mullaghbawn, to me a liking took,
He held me in his arms, then my masters hand he shook.
He took me to his motor car and started for the road,
So in less than twenty minutes I was in my new abode.
Well the first thing that my family did was to look for me a name
And they called me this and they called me that, but it sounded all the same.
Till my master he came round the house and this to me he said,
Consider now yourself a dog, henceforth your name is Ned
My one great distinction was I had a bunty tail,
And I wagged it for my master as we walked o'er hill and dale.
I rounded sheep and cattle and likewise the nanny goat
And my master often threatened that he'd cut my flaming throat
As the months went by and I grew up and learned to do my chore,
I growled at postmen, soldiers and likewise the man next doo.r
They loved to see me working and said it was a treat
And before we got into the car, I always washed my feet.
But sometimes dogs grow lonesome and I longed to have a pal,
So I met a great big labrador and she said her name was Sal
She said that she was lonesome too that she had a pedigree
I said 'that ain't a problem Sal, you just leave that to me.'
When her master overheard the news, and found out with her I slept,
We didn't use protection, so out across the fence he leapt.
Saying 'You bunty tailed black so-and-so from heyant in Conway Park
I'll stop your gallivanting around my house after dark.'
With his gun up top his shoulder, a careful aim he took
And the noise that came out of it the valley round if shook.
It left me hide a burning as the bullet tore my head
And the woman says, 'He shot that dog that belongs to Michael Ned'
When my master he did hear the shots and it happened just by luck
He stepped up to the gunman and he said 'You Newry Knuck'
Then he let him have the one two three up in the ould phisogue
Saying 'That's the medicine I dish out to any man would shoot my dog'
Then he brought me to his kennel, and now on the straw I lie,
And I hear the neighbours asking 'will poor Ned live or die?'
'I'm getting great attention, for my body's full of lead
And for the first time in my life I get my breakfast here in bed'
My master's all forlorn, as he sits and strokes my head,
And he searches round my body for those little balls of lead.
He's using awful language, as he sits there on the log
And these are some of the things he says about the man that shot the dog.
'May scabs like crabs grow up in flabs round everything he feels,
And green snothers flow down to his toe and hacks come on his heels.
May his hair fall out may his woman pout, may his farts smell like a hog
And the divil's luck fall on that Newry knuck, the man that shot the dog.
May piles surround his big backside, like strawberries on their stalk
And everytime he lifts his gun that his stomach it may baulk
And as he goes a hunting over heather, hill or bog
May the diorrhoea skite with all it's might from the man that shot the dog'
Now to conclude and finish, I'm on all fours once more
And I feel that urge coming over me that did one day before,
And I'll slip out some dark evening in mist or the thick fog,
And leave another half a dozen pups with the man that shot the dog.
just keep them coming. im sure we'll come across it sooner or later.
maybe some of the donegal lads will know it.
Could be the 'Magic Spade'. Think I have a version of it written down at home somewhere. Will have a look later.
Just to keep it goin, while you're waiting:
CHANTAL DU CHAMPIGNON ( (C) Brian O' Rourke)
One night in a bar I was having a jar
When my destiny it beckoned,
For a vision burst in on top of my thirst
And flattened me pint in a second.
'Twas a lady fair with short blonde hair
And her beauty would shame all queens,
With her glistening lips and her twisting hips
In her slim-fitting Levi jeans.
I slid off of me stool, observed me first rule:
I checked me fly and me fainne,
And got ready for a story, all glitter and glory,
Like Diarmuid agus Grainne.
Well, me opening line was, "Hiya, Sunshine.
How's it goin'? Me name is John."
And with a toss of her head this goddess said,
"I'm Chantal du Champignon."
"Oh, bedad," I said. "You're a thoroughbred.
You're no cavewoman from Cavan.
You're operatic, aristocratic and very aromatic,
So tell us what are ya havin'?"
From the furrow on her brow, I could see just how
She was torn between a short and a long.
"I'll have an Irish Coffee and a pint of Murphy,"
Said Chantal du Champignon.
She'd been hitching around and as yet she hadn't found
Any savages scouting for scalps.
She had scaled the peaks of Kildare and Leix,
Which left her homesick for the Alps.
She'd seen nearly all of Donegal
And learned "Slainte" and "Slan agus Beannacht",
When some racial purist who couldn't stand tourists
Told her go to hell or to Connacht.
So here she lands with a week on her hands
Before flying back to France,
And she'd like to get to know Galway and Mayo,
So, boys, I saw my chance.
I said, "I'm your man. I've a Hiace van,
And I've damn-all to do just now,
And me five-acre farm won't come to no harm.
Sure the calf can milk the cow.
"Oh, to you I'll show Galway and Mayo,
My privilege and my pleasure,
And for fear you'd grumble, sure I'll do like Cromwell,
And throw Clare in for good measure.
So to hell with the silage. Lets clock up some mileage.
You'll be as safe as with your Daddy."
She said, "I like you more than I did before.
I'll have a Smithwick's and a Paddy."
So next day we drove by creek and cove,
All along the western seaboard,
And the music of her voice was twice as nice
As the notes from any keyboard.
For example: "Oh, John, you turn me on.
You completely fill up my senses.
I can see in your eyes all the stars of the skies
Shining out through your contact lenses!"
I pulled up the van and she said, "Oh, John,
Please don't take it amiss."
I said, "That's not, you'll find, what I had in mind.
All I want to take is a kiss."
Well, her eyes shone bright and her teeth gleamed white
And her breath it smelled of garlic,
And she tore into me lips like fish and chips
In the shadows of Croagh Patrick.
Well, after such happiness, there was no stopping us.
We clocked up hundreds of miles.
We spent thousands of hours around round towers
Of various slants and styles.
Near passage graves and lakes and caves,
In historic and holy places,
Near saint and hero, we reduced to zero
The distance between our faces.
And 'twas in the county Clare, I do declare,
We drank many's the tasty beverage,
And the intensity of our propensity
Was way above the average.
Down in Curkambro where the gales they blow,
And the rain fell fast and furious,
By all the gods above, she swore "undying love",
And I thought, "Jay, this is serious".
And at Poulnabrone, under twenty ton of stone,
We drank rainbow-coloured wines.
Oh, inside that dolmen, sure I pitied King Solomon.
He could keep his concubines.
Then I offered to show her the Cliffs of Moher
And she showed me a thing or two too,
And in O'Connor's of Doolin, she said, "I'm not foolin'.
I want to spend my life with you."
Well, the days flew fast and the week soon passed
Between one thing and another,
And she'd a plane to catch back to Paris-Match
To see her father and brother—and her two sisters and her mother.
So we loaded up the van with cheese and ham
And some six-packs from the fridge,
With a Guinness keg for the final leg
Of our amorous pilgrimage.
In the ruins of Clonfert we had a little flirt.
I thought I heard Saint Brendan cheerin'.
And we discovered new joys in Clonmacnoise,
Courtesy of Saint Ciaran.
We drew into Dunlavin about twenty-five to seven
And dropped in to see my Uncle Ted,
And we hit Glendalough around eleven o'clock
And we slept in Saint Kevin's bed.
Well, next morning we were yawning as the day was dawning
And it dawned on me - Oh, she's going,
So we drove to the smoke where these words she spoke
Before she boarded the Boeing:
"I'll acquaint my parents with what's transpired,
And my paltry possessions I'll pack,
Then I'll return on wings of desire
And up with you I'll shack."
So that night I flew low through Athlone and Ballinasloe.
I was home in an hour and a half!
And although it was kinda late, I just had to celebrate,
So I killed the fatted calf,
And next day I booked a room for my upcoming honeymoon
Where no-one would be any wiser,
And in raptures and ruptures, I published me nuptials
In the Galway Advertiser!
For six days or seven, sure I thought I was in heaven.
I was trying it out for size,
But like every other lover, I was shortly to discover
'Twas an amadán's paradise,
For while I was thinking that the Kingdom had come,
And was chantin' "Alleluia,"
Chantal was listening to a different drum
And singing, "Johnny, I hardly knew ye!"
Well, I danced and I sang till the night she rang.
She said, "John, sit down on the sofa,
For I've got some news that will give you the blues.
In a nutshell, cherie, it's over.
On the plane coming back, I was told for a fact
By a man who was once your friend,
You spent two years in the loony bin,
Without marbles, round the bend."
"Oh, Chantal," says I, "you were told a lie,
Although it's neither here nor there.
'Twas five years I spent in the oxygen tent,
With a hole in me ozone layer.
But 'twas want of whoopee that had me loopy,
And sure you've sorted out that trouble,
So apply some fire to them wings of desire,
And get back here on the double."
"Oh, John," said she, "I quite agree
That you could do with a woman,
But if you think I'll be your shrink,
You've got another think coming.
Consider, besides, if I was your bride,
In forty years, I would 'ave no fun,
For I'm no more than twenty-four
And you are forty-one!
"Oh, yes, I know I'll miss your eyes and your kiss
And your fingers running through my hair,
But if I lost ze head in St. Kevin's bed,
I got it back in ze clear French air!
I got off that jet and my parents I met
And I got my act together.
I saw the line they would draw at a son-in-law
Who was a middle-aged Irish header.
"Oh, but as sure as I'm blonde, of you I'm still fond,
And I might even write - we'll see -
And I don't regret and I won't forget
Our petit coin du paradis.
Now, I'm in a little hurry - be happy, don't worry -
And think how much you have grown."
And when I opened me face to plead me case,
She put down the frigging phone!
Well, I staggered to the mirror and confronted there with terror
A pathetic poor put-upon paddy of a peasant,
So I made smithereens of her Levi jeans
That she gave me for a weddin' present.
And I made mincemeat of her other little treat:
Two lovely blue pottery goblets,
And I sat down and I wrote a suicide note,
And swallowed thirty-five quids' worth of tablets.
A week later I awoke and my heart it nearly broke
For I suddenly chanced to remember
I was in a proper mess for I hadn't her address,
Not to mind her telephone number.
So I took a quick look in the French phone book.
It was most unsatisfactory.
After all me research, I was still left in the lurch,
For her daddy was ex-directory.
Well, the days went by and there was I,
A wreck by any reckoning.
Sure I lost two stone sitting by the phone,
But the silence from France was deafening.
Oh, me breath I bated. For the post I waited,
All day and all night long,
But ne'er a letter nor a card came up the yard,
From Chantal du Champignon.
And then I tried to make a pass at her via our ambassador.
I explained I was besotted.
He was very sympathetic but said something about ethics,
And he told me to "get knotted."
Then I hired a spy whose fees were high,
To assist my research along.
Well, he collected his fees but came up no leads
On Chantal du Champignon.
Oh, was she down at heel in the town of Lille
Or at large in La Rochelle?
Lettin' down her hair in the Follies Bergere,
Belly-dancing her way to hell?
Was she singing ze blues, below in Toulouse,
Or picking pockets in Perpignan?
And, mein Gott! but what if her name was not
Chantal du Champignon?
Well, I'd lost the scent so gung-ho I went
To phone Monsieur Mitterand.
But I couldn't get through to the President
Although I threatened his aide-de-camp.
Then the towel I threw, I resigned, withdrew,
Although I had done no wrong.
Oh, I thought I had her taped - but the vixen she escaped
Like Marie de Robinson!
Now, an awful lot of water has been led to the slaughter
Since she led me this merry dance.
And I never took a wife, for I wasted me life
Looking out for a letter from France.
Oh, Chantal, Chantal, sure I love you still,
More than in the times that's gone.
Although you're going on eighty-four
And I'm tipping a hundred and one.
I've outlived all me mates, and I've lost all me slates,
And I'm back in the oxygen tent,
And me ozone holes are scoring own goals
In me pitch-black firmament.
There's more tears in me eyes than stars in the skies.
I've lost contact with me lenses.
But I'm sure I could get through a dark night with you
And recover my soul and me senses.
Now come all you middle-aged Irish nutters,
And a warning take by me.
Take care when you go out to get scuttered
In your local hostelry.
Don't be a fool. Stay up on your stool.
Sit tight and drink yourself stupid.
Give your number one to whiskey and rum
And don't waste your vote on Cupid!
And if by chance some goddess from France
With luminous short blond hair
Lights up your horizon - stick to your poison.
In two simple words - Beware!
Make no overture. Give no misguided tour,
'Cause Diarmuid agus Grainne went wrong!
And after all your mileage, she'll leave you sitting in your silage
Like Chantal du Champignon.
Oh, now, although you're jarred, please disregard
The advice I gave you just then,
Or you'll be stuck in first gear for a hundred years
Like a bloody old farmyard hen.
For when all is said and done, I once flew near the sun.
For one week, I was a swan.
I was on the wing and I learned to sing
With Chantal de Champignon.
Oh, Chantal, Chantal, I hope you're still me pal,
And don't think this song a blunder,
For I adore far more than I ever did before
The ground you walk on - or maybe lie under.
Oh, don't take a dim view if I laugh at you.
What do you think I'm doing to me?
And, please God and Saint Kevin, we might find again in Heaven
Our petit coin du paradis.
Absolute classic, fair play for taking the time to post it. Deserves a bigger audience
thats a good one hardy. still havent found the one im looking for though. hopefully donagh will be able to turn something up.
Ah it was just a cut and paste.
Was talking to the oul fella there. He thinks it might be 'The Magic Spade' as well. Says his brother shared a wing with the author/collector in Belfast Gaol in the '40's and that yer man Donncha on Radio 1 on Sat nights plays him now and again.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2W8KHz5Gbvk (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2W8KHz5Gbvk)
GETTING DRESSED - PATSY O HAGAN
If there's wan thing on earth that makes me depressed,
It's sitting waiting on the wife getting dressed.
I swear till watch her would make you insane.
Some of he antics I'll try and explain
Now we're asked out till this fancy 'do',
And I'm sitting shining from my head till my shoe.
I've shampooed and I've shaved and had a wee shower
All done you might say, in a third of an hour.
But Maggie, she's different, I'll have you to know.
I can't think of a word that's slower than slow.
She won't have a shower in case she might slide,
So the bath is filled up and Radox applied.
She slaps and she splashes and she sings and she laughs
You'd swear there was a crocodile let loose in our bath.
She rubs and she scrubs and her hair she got set
Is tied back with a scarf in case it gets wet.
Then she dries herself with four towels or more
And the powder she uses is like snow on the floor.
I believe she's a magician, because from her wee bag with a flap
Our Maggie can produce a full chemist's shop.
There's creams and there's lotions and colours so bright
And wee dainty paint brushes, boys it's a sight.
There's lipstick and polish and bottles of spray
And wee things to pull out those hairs that turn grey
Now her make up is on and she's powdered her nose,
But the worst bit of all is when she's choosing her clothes
There's no saying on earth I bet will compare
As a woman complaining that she's got nothing to wear.
.
Now in front of the wardrobe she laments and she whinges
And the bloody thing is stuffed to the hinges,
With dresses all sizes and colours so gay
Some meant for the sunshine or a cold winters day
So with wan hand on her hinch and wan on her chin
She examines the contents that's hanging within.
Then the clanging of hangers rings loud in my head
As a dozen or so outfits are flung on the bed.
I just sit and say nothing for I know that is best.
I'm sitting ready, she's the wan that's not dressed.
Now in front of the mirror she'll stand and she'll grin
The first wan tried on as she pulls herself in.
She'll pivot, she'll smile, she'll pose and she'll sway
'That doesn't look right' as she throws it away
The next wan's the same she tries then she throws
Still complaining 'I've got no bloody clothes'
By now I'm convinced our Maggie's not wise,
When she's picking her clothes does she not think of her size
I sit and say nothing, not wan word have I said
As another dress is flung on the bed
It's maybe just me I'm easy depressed
Or is this the done thing when a woman gets dressed.
She has me all confused. I'm in a terrible state,
The Do was at nine, it's now ten and we're late.
The Ballad of Hudy McGuigan (The first man who ever flew) - James McEldowney
When I was young I went to school, in a wee place called Tirkane,
Where they toul me that Davinci designed the aeroplane...
And me' history book said Orville, and the brother Wilbur Wright,
Their names were on the page, as the pioneers of flight...
But in last week's Ireland's Own, they said that wasn't true,
And 'twas a man from county Derry, was the first man ever flew,
His name was Hudy McGuigan, and he cam from Ballinascreen,
And to rise up like a bird, was Hudy's life long dream.
For when the other wanes were playing, on the ropes and on their swings,
Wee Hudy, he'd be praying to God, to give him wings...
And when they went a huntin' for the rabbit and the fox,
He'd be up around the mountain, talkin' to the hawks.
But when he toul them of his plan, the neighbours laughed out loud,
They said he was an eejit, and his head was in the clouds,
And the wife she was affronted, and she was sittin' in the draught,
And there was dung around the flure, and she was always givin' aff.
Fro the hens were in the cottage, at the fire getting 'warmed,
For Hudy had the two half dures, wan strapped til every arm,
him headin' for the doughal, the rooster roared and screamed,
As civil aviation was born in Ballinascreen.
Now the first flight it was short, for he forgot to flap,
He went flyin' past the cart, and hit the byre wall a slap,
But after a fit o' cursin', he straightened up the back,
And out came the wooden feathers , as he headed for the stack.
Like Icarus the Greek, he was destined for the sun,
But his legs were getting' wake, for the dures they weighed a tonne,
And the second flight was shorter, he was like a wounded sparra'
And the sow went runnin' squealin' as he collided with the barra.
But when he got the aff the crutches, all warnings were ignored,
And Hudy tuk his flying dream, back to the drawin' board,
And as the candle, it got duller, his ideas they got brighter,
The weight was in the wood, he needed somethin' lighter.
So he bought a pile o' geese and ducks and drakes in Draperstown,
And every time they lost a feather, sure it never hit the ground,
He was that determined, to better his design,
The farmyard, it was shinin', not a stick nor twig nor twine...
But the wife was still complainin' of her neck and of her head,
For Hudy had the pillas stripped aff the iron bed,
And he was robbin robin's nests, and all the feathers he could get,
And the hay was lyin' rotten and the farm goin' into debt.
As he fiddled and he futtured, and he hammered and he nailed,,
In the stable, on a table, he made himself a tail...
He shaped it like a fan, it was light, but it was strong ...
Twas six or seven fut in length, and as broad as it was long.
And the country people gathered, from Moneyneenagh to the plum,
As Hudy tuk his tail, and tied it to his bum,
Wi' a lovely pair o' wings, for the half dures they were cracked
Now the wife was standin' cryin' "Hudy, when will you be back?"
Now the rooster didn't know him, he was feathered and he was tarred,
He was like a bloody peacock, struttin' roun' the yard...
But the neighbours now luked up to him, to the steps beside the barn,
As he viewed the lovely Sperrins, from Slieve Gallion to the Carn..
And he gave the tail a wag, as he bended at the knees,
Then liftin' up his wings, he waited for the breeze...
And be God, this time he flew, he went floatin' through the air,
Flutterin' like a butterfly, dartin' here and there...
Swoopin' like a swalla' and sweepin' like a swift,
But the thorns were comin' closer, and he hadn't got the lift...
But Hudy was delighted, awe, he was on a high,
When they dragged him from the holly bush,
"DIDN'T I TELL YOUSE I COULD FLY!"
Now that was years and years ago, but twas never written down,
But Hudy, he's our hero, here in Draperstown...
And that's why we drink so much, for we're still in celebration
Of his humble contribution to modern aviation.
So when next you're on a plane, and they smile like Mr Sheen,
Tell them painted ladies, about the man from Ballinascreen...
And tell the pilot too, before he touches down,
If it wasn't for Hudy McGuigan, they'd never get aff the ground!!
The Folksingers Lament (David Diamond)
Come all you floor singers, here in this throng,
I'll sing you a ditty that's turgid and long,
With rhymes that don't rhyme and with metre that's a little bit wrong,
And it's not what I'd sing when I'm sober.
But I'm ready to sing, now I've had one or two,
So you swine at the back needn't run for the loo;
You can put up with me like I've put up with you
And I'd like you to join in the chorus.
Although my guitar I relentlessly bring,
It's never in tune when you ask me to sing
So I'll go a capella with this little thing,
And it's not what I'd sing when I'm sober.
There are ninety-four verses I'll stop to explain
And I learned them this morning with infinite pain.
I'll just mumble the ones I've forgotten again,
And I'd like you to join in the chorus.
The verses, of cuckoos and valleys so deep
My intent from the ears of the innocent keep,
But you know what I mean if you've not gone to sleep
And It's not what I'd sing when I'm sober.
And after the sex comes the violence and gore
With murders and stabbings and blood on the floor
But before all the squeamish ones run for the door
I'd like you to join in the chorus
I go round pretending I gathered this lay
From an ancient agrarian covered with hay
On the floor of the pub where the old fellow lay
'Cause it's not what I'd sing when I'm sober.
But the truth is to tell that I stole the refrain,
The characters' motives I cannot explain,
And next week I'm planning to sing it again,
And I'd like you to join in the chorus.
I scribbled it down on the back of this sheet
Which I tore from the roll as I sat on the seat
At the back of the pub where the folk-singers meet,
But it's not what I'd sing when I'm sober.
I carry it round to the clubs where I go,
And I ask at the door can I join in the show,
And this was the first one that didn't say 'no',
And I'd like you to join in the chorus.
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.
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!
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.
Quote from: Antrim Coaster on May 22, 2008, 12:38:33 PM
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?
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.
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.
Quote from: Hardy on May 21, 2008, 12:05:50 PM
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 .
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.
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.
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.
antrim coaster - sent you a pm
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.