Dick Claridge (Local Verses)

“Glenmore Verses from the Early Twentieth Century,” (2020) Collected and recorded by Dick Claridge, of Davidstown, Glenmore

Charlie Linegar’s Ball
 
Come all ye rambling heroes, attend both one and all,
Till I relate the hardships great, of Charlie Linegar’s ball.
We were invited to attend by letter, which we got,
And to my misfortune, I was one among the lot.
 
The night was cold and stormy, the rain began to fall,
Were it more severe, we should not appear, that night at Charlie’s ball.
We walked along through road and bog, and to run we all began
To know who’d be the first to rise the dust, and dance with Marianne.
 
When we arrived to sure surprise around, the yard there stood,
A crowd from Ballyfacy, with some reindeers from Bigwood.
T’was there I first saw Marianne, before us at the door,
To introduce us to her father who was standing on the floor.
 
Charlie he apologized, he did without a doubt,
Saying twas a girl we expected that knocked the ball about,
And as we were returning home there arose a heavy fog,
The candle light being in our eye we couldn’t leave the bog.
 
We wondered through the liberties getting every second fall,
Till Jim McBride he loudly cried, “Bad luck to Charlie’s Ball.”
T’was then Jack Grant stood on the banks, in the dark he had not seen,
He was well steeped, when up he peeked out of the Parkstown Stream.
 
And as for Will Delaney his clothes were so well smeared,
In fact we did not know him when the daylight it appeared.
And as we were on further Mick Aylward sprained his leg,
And Dick Reddy was found next morning at Rigby’s on Slievebeg.
Pat Kennedy lost his new white hat, and get it he never can,
And ever since he’s cursing on those letters of Marianne.
 
To tell you now about Marianne she’s a lassie tall and neat,
She is indeed a pattern piece from her head down to her feet.
When she goes in her Sunday clothes the boys she do entice,
She’s like the ghost at midnight rose in the liberty of Moondice.
 
So now the time to end my rhyme and big good bye to all,
Hoping to have a better night when next we’ll have a ball.
But when I’m on the ocean’s foam or out in Illinois,
I’ll think of Charlie Linigar and the liberties of Moondice.
 
Note: On the night in question there was nobody expected at Linegar’s, of Parkstown. No letters were sent from the Linegar household. The Charlie who apologized to the guests who appeared to attend the ball was really Mick Walsh, of Haggard who was better known locally as “Mick the Mason.” Earlier in the day Mick went to the Linegar house because he got drenched in a downpour. He was wearing the real Charlie Linegar’s best clothes while his own clothes were drying at the fire. Mick Walsh and his sisters had sent out the invitations in Marianne Linegar’s name. Jack Grant, Jim McBride, Will Delaney, Dick Reddy, Pat Kennedy were a few fell for the prank and arrived at Linegar’s to attend a ball.

The Banks of Kearneybay

Last winter as the stormy waves,
The Barrow shores did round,
And breached the banks at many points,
That swamped the lands around.

The farmers suffered hardships great,
Both trouble and dismay,
Until a Council grant was got,
For the banks of Kearneybay.

Now a stalwart crowd that day felt proud,
To be entered on the role,
T'was work we required we had no desire,
To be living on the dole.

Now when the morning came to start,
We went without delay,
With implements and tomy cans,
To the shores of Kearneybay.

Our working squad was twenty,
And our gaffers numbered four,
And you'll understand first in command,
Was Mick Hennessey from the Rower.

We charged the banks both front and flanks,
Dug trenches broad and wide,
But with all our engineering skill,
We could not stop the tide.

We built our banks of soil and  sand,
Filled sacks of mud and clay,
But each high tide seemed to mock our pride,
And tore it all away.

So now the grant we got is spent,
And we'll get no more pay,
Yet the Barrow's tide rolled broad and wide,
O'er the banks of Kearneybay.

For three long months we laboured hard,
And each man done his share,
We lost the job and that will rule,
The seagulls of their share.

Note: Local men such as Tom Heffernan, of Kearneybay, sought the help of other local men to work on the banks to stop flooding.  It is believed that these work projects took place in the 1930's.



Eucharistic Congress--Dublin 1932

Just as we saw the rising,
Over Clune the hills around,
We hoist our Congress colours,
Boys for Dublin we were bound.

Through a country decked with banners rare,
Beneath an azure sky,
Where a million souls assembled,
To praise the Lord on high.

Cowards threatened us of dangers,
But we heeded not the least,
With our lorry loads we struck the road,
Like the Wise Men from the East.

With courage bold and daring,
All dangers we defy,
Till we arrived in Dublin,
To praise the Lord on high.

We started through Kilkenny,
And then through Carlow town,
And reviewed some rare history scenes,
In the past had won renown.

Through Rathcoole and Naas we kept our place,
Amid the din of the traffic roar,
And our flags did wave for our driver brave,
And we soon reached Inchicore.

Those glorious scenes we will never forget, 
Until the day we die,
When we hope to meet at Heaven's high gate,
To praise the Lord on high.

Now returning from those glorious scenes,
Myself I did avail,
Of time to make a picture,
Of great Kilmainhan jail.

My mind went back to penal past,
When England ruled with pride,
And of all the glorious Irishmen,
Mouldering there inside.

Of Kelly, Curley and Brady,
Whose courage did not fail,
Whose bones are laid beneath,
The grim Kilmainham jail.

Our parties names I won't reveal,
As space would not allow,
But they stand deserving of all praise,
Both our own and Kilmacow.

Before I close these simple lines,
My praise I must extend,
To our bold, courageous drivers,
On whom we did depend.

He took us there in safety,
And home without delay,
No purer steel could hold a wheel,
Than our driver Mick O'Shea.

The Slopes of Tory Hill

By adventure wild I was beguiled,
Caught out in a heavy fog,
Or come beastly cloud like an earthly shroud,
Hung deep over moor and bog.
All round was gloom there shone no moon,
The night was dark and still,
When I took a tour at the midnight hour,
Round the slopes of Tory Hill.

And now for long I wandered on,
That rough and reckless way,
Till I realised to my surprise,
That I had gone astray.
The foxes growled and the screeching owls,
Whilst rabbits roamed at will,
But the fog that night caused all my plight,
On the slopes of Tory Hill.

I thought it best to sit and rest,
Till God assistance lent,
I had walked for hours and my optic powers,
Had lessened ten percent.
Once I thought I reached the station road,
Convenient to the mill,
But alas I found I stood fog bound,
On the slopes of Tory Hill.

In a shady rock my seat I took,
Till the mist away had flown,
From Tory high raised to the sky,
Hooked like Mt. Elra's cone.
The first land marks I saw through the dark,
Revealing Ballinakill.
Then I got to leave my Hermit's cave,
On the slopes of Tory Hill.

O'er the freshening breeze through the silent trees,
I could hear the banshee wail,
With fairy hosts and white clad ghosts,
Crowded over that mountain trail,
T'was myself alone I had to blame,
For not having better skill,
Then I cursed on Mary Doody's game,
And the slopes of Tory Hill.

Half Past Nine

Come all ye that ever loved, 
Or led that weary life.
At first you'll think it happiness,
But alas! It causes strife.
You'll never find contentment,
You are devoid of that,
You'll rue the day you went astray,
Like me at Mullinavat.

The first of my misfortune,
To you I mean to state,
It was a very handsome girl,
That worked out here of late.
And I began to court her,
As many had done before,
But now she's gone and left me,
Her loss I do deplore.

For six long months I courted her,
And loved her more than life.
Its often time she told me,
That she would be my wife.
I thought she was an angel,
until another came,
A fitter to the Creamery,
A man they called Dane.

For him, she me rejected,
Though I thought she would be mine,
She fled from me to Poleberry,
One night on the half-past nine.
The night from me she parted,
I cursed that cruel hour,
I walked around down-hearted,
And met with Paddy Power.

She passed me by unnoticed,
But I knew her scornful laugh.
The train it left the station,
When Paddy gave the staff,
It was then that I did pen,
That note within my mind,
Saying why did I not see it first,
Or damn it was I blind?

Or how it came she loved the Dane,
And thought no more of me.
Now she's gone home and I'm alone,
My curse on Poleberry.
Now young men take my advice,
Don't ever be lead astray by a Waterford girl,
Or anything she'll say.
For if you do t'will be too late,
You'll find yourself like me,
Going out to look for forty-eight,
In a street called Poleberry.

But they say tis better have loved and lost,
Than never have loved at all,
Now from my own experience,
I'll tell you the first of all.
If ever she do return again,
Perhaps she might be mine,
She'll go no more as she did before,
Away on the half past nine.