Arts & Recreation

When I was young by Richard Barber

Submitted in April 2009 & May 2010

In the days when I was a young lad knocking around Tierworker in the early 1940s there were lots of old traditions which happened in them days, some of which are only a memory now. Here are some of them.

TIERWORKER SPORTS DAY

In the early 1940s the annual Tierworker sports day was one of the big occasions of the year. Originally, it took place in the field behind the Chapel which was owned by Mr. Finnegan who owned the shop near by.

Moybologue Moat & Dance

WE SHOULD NOT LET THE MEMORIES DIE!

These verses (see below) entitled “The Moat of Moybologue” and “The Moybologue Dance” were submitted by Peter McCabe, formerly of Tierworker and now living in a suburb of Dublin. Peter and his brothers and sisters have deep roots in Tierworker.

As a former neighbour and close friend of the McCabes when I was a child living in the adjoining townland of Greaghnadarragh from 1935 to 1947, I have very clear memories of hearing Peter’s father, the late Ted McCabe, reciting these verses during his regular visits to our house almost every Wednesday evening. He would sometimes be joined by another neighbour, Andy Meleady, although Andy’s regular time for a visit was Sunday nights from about 7:00 p.m. to midnight.

Reciting verses such as these from memory was just one of the pass-times enjoyed by people in the ceidhle houses before the arrival of electrification, cars, and radios to rural Ireland. It was part of what is called nowadays the “oral traditions”. (A rough translation of ceidhle, pronounced kayley, is “visiting”).

Below are photos of two of the people mentioned in the poems:

These particular “poems” are witty social commentary and gentle satire on the people of the neighbourhood. They were probably composed in the 1920s.

THE MOAT OF MOYBOLOGUE   Author believed to be Peter (Peetie) McConnon of Coppanagh

Verse 1 ‘Tis said when St. Patrick first blessed our land On the moat of Moybologue our saint took his stand; He blessed Relaghbeg and likewise Relaghmore, He looked on Blackhills, said he ‘d bless no more; And turning his features towards heaven he cried “Shall I bless such a place? I don’t think I will” And weeping he turned away from the hill.

Verse 2 The sun never shines on that spot from on high; And the wind rushes on with a moan and a sigh. And the streams and the rivers rush on at a pace Showing clearly they’re eager to fly from the place. Where nothing is heard but the croak of a frog, Or the bray of a donkey tied down in the bog. And there the song bird never twitters a note, Save the long snouted snipe as he mbaa’s like a goat.

Verse 3 The people who live here are set in their ways. They all work for their living in various ways. One is a cooper who has managed to learn How to bottom a bucket, a tub or a churn. There’s another, a slater, a slater with straw, And one a botch carpenter, minus his saw, But while carefully using the hammer and knife He can nicely maintain for himself and his wife.

Verse 4 There’s also one there that’s more cute than the rest, He can do all sorts of labour and he works to the test; Of swift running hounds he’s possessed of a pair That can easily run down a rabbit or hare. He’s content when enough for today has been caught, For tomorrow’ll never cost him a thought.

Verse 5 ‘Twas the time th’influenza was sweeping the country, Taking a like to the poor and the gentry. Jack Flanagan stole into town in October. He drank a few bottles, but still he was sober. He stuck in his pocket a bottle of rum To be ready in case th’influenza might come. He strolled home again singing songs of green Eireann, And his shouts could be heard the far side of Cairn.

Verse 6 The night it grew dark, and would you believe it He passed his own turn and didn’t perceive it. All the ditches he crossed he swore were passed counting, Till he found himself climbing the side of the mountain. When a light from a window attracted his eye “What villain lives here?” our hero did cry. He knocked and he shouted, to open the door; When he got no response he kicked it in on the floor.

Verse 7 And there was poor Mitchell sitting up in his bed With a jar to his feet and a rag round his head. “Ara, how are you Jack? I’m glad you came in. For the past three weeks I’ve been down with the Hen. And the devil a neighbour ever put in his head To see if poor Mitchell was living or dead”.

Verse 8 Jack says to Jemmy: “You’re a horrible sight, You would frighten a ghost in the dark of the night. Didn’t you stay out all night at card playing When you should have been home in your old cabin praying? And you lay in your bed till ten in the morn When your cows were eating and tramping people’s corn. You stole Barney Weirns’ shirt and drawers too, And you sold them for nine pence to Brian the Blue.

Verse 9 It’s the way nature built you, the fault’s not your own; Jemmy, she gave you a heart like a stone. The heart of a miser she placed in your breast; Mitchell, you couldn’t be much at your best. You have a mind like a knitting needle, narrow and long; It’s taught you to do everything crooked and wrong.

Verse 10 Now, Jemmy, you’ll soon see Beelzebub here at your bed With a map in his hand of the life that you led. All your past deeds down your throat he’ll keep stuffing Hell to your soul, t’was your cow was the ruffian”. ‘Twas said through the window ole Nick would go flying, Whenever Jack Flanagan called on the dying.

Verse 11 When Jack was going home, he bid him “good night”; From around the corner, what caught his sight But a pair of long horns from behind an old chair; Jack wasn’t long guessing the devil was there. He took off his coat, and threw it one side And straight for the candlestick it happened to glide. The candle and candlestick flew out of sight, And left the two lads in the dark of the night.

Verse 12 At this point, poor Flanagan flew into a rage. “You’ve come here already your battle to wage. You can take Barney Weirns by the scruff of the neck, Or humpy Pat Andy to hell if you like. You can slip up to Rowntrees for Mussey or Pritchill, But damn it to hell if you’ll get Jimmy Mitchell”. Jack roared at Jemmy to kindle the light, And he’d soon put an end to this one sided fight.

Verse 13 At this stage poor Mitchell got terribly perplexed, For he knew that his turn would surely come next. And as he was trying to crawl out of the tick, Jack threw out a wild box and a kick. And the last words he heard as he shot through the door Was “take him to hell, but don’t hit me no more “. At this time poor Mitchell vacated the bed, And the blanket and sheet he pulled round his head.

Verse 14 He sprang down the mountain, a perch with each bound, His speed never reached by the Countryman’s hound; Till he came to the cottage of Owen McEntee And there, from the beginning, he told his story. Owen sat listening and spoke not a word; Sometimes he thought ‘twas a nightmare he had, And more times he was partly believing the lad.

Verse 15 Owen said “Sit down there until the cock crows, And then with you to your cabin we’ll go. When we see the appearance of things at your cot, We’ll soon ascertain if you’re raving or not”. The two boys sat there until the cock crew, And with sticks and a lantern started the two. When they reached Jemmy Mitchell’s they found such a sight; ‘Twas enough to give them a terrible fright.

Verse 16 There were chairs without legs and legs without chairs. The clothes and the blankets were bundled in layers; There were large pools of blood here and there on the floor, And the face of the wag-of-the-wall at the door; The wheels and the weights were scattered over the ground, And a trace of the pendulum never was found. There were large cakes of plaster which happened to fall When Jack missed the devil and hammered the wall.

Verse 17 As the sun it was rising o’er Agheragh ‘s height, To quench the last struggling resemblance of night, Mitchell found a buck goat in the street in the morn, With blood on his hooves and Jack’s shirt on his horn.

THE MOYBOLOGUE DANCE   Author believed to be John Farnan, also known as The Bandmaster, and writer under the pen-name of Paul Posey – a regular contributor to the Anglo-Celt, the Meath Chronicle and Old Moore’s Almanac

Verse 1 It was on the Cavan Border, in the late Hibernian Hall Where the natives of Moybologue held an unsuccessful Ball; Yes, very unsuccessful, as usually they do, Where honest men are hard to find, and fools are quite a few.

Verse 2 I went up to the doorway of the late Hibernian Shrine Where a jewish looking darkie did ungracefully recline; I asked him what’s the admission as I furnished up my fob, The jew he shook his shoulders, and, says he, it is two bob.

Verse 3 I paid my darling florin, and I boldly entered in Amongst those prancing lunatics where all was noise and din; There was shouts from every corner, from the mouth of every lug To the rattling and the scraping of a music killin’ jug.

Verse 4 There were rowdy cheers and whistles from Moybologue’s own dragoon You’d talk of ancient savages or distant camaroons; And there were savages from Balloughly Who trod on Mary Curran where her bunions used to be.

Verse 5 Mary got so nasty in the moment of her pain, She cried out with a vengeance that she’d never dance again. And there upon a hoarding sat the big and gracious Hugh Like the statute of St. Bernard that was made from gum and glue.

Verse 6 Hugh sat in admiration, at his sister he did stare While she tripped among the beggars in her costly underwear. Then there was Gallagher, the scraper, with the roisin and the thread And his darling little cuckoo sang beautifully and read.

Verse 7 There was present Jemmy Mitchell of the slander slinging tongue Not leaving out Hugh Carolan who still goes free unhung. There was John and Matthew Tully,, the apostles of the way, And little Jimmy Conway with his daughters Kate and May.

Verse 8 And modest Matt Meleady with his back against the wall, Singing out the praises of the late Hibernian Hall. There was Farnan, the deceiver, with the superfluous airs, The sort you’d see with Asses is all I can compare.

Verse 9 The dancing and the prancing went on till half past three When Molly Lynch, the Tailor, cooked another slop of tea, There upon the stage of errors and beside the gracious Hugh Where the savages ate supper for another bob or two.

Verse 10 Well I finished up the dancing and left a wiser man; Sure the natives of Moybologue were a rough and tumble clan.