About Me

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I am Miss Pancake Taylor. I have come from very far away to take care of my family Craig and Zita and Niamh and Emmet. Sometimes I have helpers; my friends the Blackthorn-Badgers. They are very old Scotsmen. I am very glad to meet you.

Wednesday, 20 June 2018

 The Canadians

With arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs,
With the trampling sound of twenty that re-echoes in the roofs,
Low of crest and dull of coat, wan and wild of eye,
Through our English village the Canadians go by.

Shying at a passing cart, swerving from a car,
Tossing up an anxious head to flaunt a snowy star,
Racking at a Yankee gait, reaching at the rein,
Twenty raw Canadians are tasting life again!

Hollow-necked and hollow-flanked, lean of rib and hip,
Strained and sick and weary with the wallow of the ship,
Glad to smell the turf again, hear the robin’s call,
Tread again the country road they lost at Montreal!

Fate may bring them dule and woe; better steeds than they
Sleep beside the English guns a hundred leagues away;
But till war hath need of them, lightly lie their reins,
Softly fall the feet of them along the English lanes.
The Death Of Ben Hall

Ben Hall was out on Lachlans side
With a thousand pounds on his head;
A score of troopers were scattered wide
And a hundred more were ready to ride
Wherever a rumour led.

They had followed his track from the
Weddin Heights And north by the Weelong yards;
Through dazzling days and moonlit nights
They had sought him over their rifle-sights,
With their hands on their trigger guards.

The outlaw stole like a hunted fox
Through the scrub and stunted heath,
And peered like a hawk from his eyrie rocks
Through the waving boughs of the sapling box
On the troopers riding beneath.

His clothes were rent by the clutching thorn
And his blistered feet were bare;
Ragged and torn, with his beard unshorn,
He hid like a beast forlorn,
With a padded path to his lair.

But every night when the white stars rose
He crossed by the Gunning Plain
To a stockman's hut where the Gunning flows,
And struck on the door three swift light blows,
And a hand unhooked the chain -

And the outlaw followed the lone path back
With food for another day;
And the kindly darkness covered his track
And the shadows swallowed him deep and black
Where the starlight melted away.

But his friend had read of the big reward,
And his soul was stirred with greed;
He fastened his door and window board,
He saddled his horse and crossed the ford,
And spurred to the town at speed.

You may ride at a man's or maid's behest
When honour or true love call
And steel your heart to the worst or the best,
But the ride that is ta'en on a traitor's quest
Is the bitterest ride of all.

A hot wind blew from the Lachlan bank
And a curse on its shoulder came;
The pine-trees frowned at him, rank on rank,
The sun on a gathering storm-cloud sank
And flushed his cheek with shame.

He reigned at the Court; and the tale began
That the rifles alone should end;
Sergeant and trooper laid their plan
To draw the net on a hunted man
At the treacherous word of a friend.

False was the hand that raised the chain
And false was the whispered word:
'The troopers have turned to the south again,
You may dare to camp on the Gunning Plain.'
And the weary outlaw heard.

He walked from the hut but a quarter mile
Where a clump of saplings stood
In a sea of grass like a lonely isle;
And the moon came up in a little while
Like silver steeped in blood.

Ben Hall lay down on the dew-wet ground
By the side of his tiny fire;
And a night breeze woke, and he heard no sound
As the troopers drew their cordon round -
And the traitor earned his hire.

And nothing they saw in the dim grey light,
But the little glow in the trees;
And they crouched in the tall cold grass all night,
Each one ready to shoot at sight,
With his rifle cocked on his knees.

When the shadows broke and the dawn's white sword
Swung over the mountain wall,
And a little wind blew over the ford,
A sargeant sprang to his feet and roared:
'In the name of the Queen, Ben Hall!'

Haggard, the outlaw leapt from his bed
With his lean arms held on high,
'Fire!' And the word was scarcely said
When the mountains rang to rain of lead -
And the dawn went drifting by.

They kept their word and they paid his pay
Where a clean man's hand would shrink;
And that was the traitor's master day
As he stood by the bar on his homeward way
And called on the crowd to drink.

He banned no creed and he barred no class,
And he called to his friends by name;
But the worst would shake his head and pass
And none would drink from the bloodstained glass
And the goblet red with shame.

And I know when I hear the last grim call
And my mortal hour is spent,
When the light is hid and the curtains fall
I would rather sleep with the dead Ben Hall
Than go where that traitor went.


William Henry Ogilvie
The Raiders

Last night a wind from Lammermoor came roaring up the glen
With the tramp of trooping horses and the laugh of reckless men
And struck a mailed hand on the gate and cried in rebel glee:
“Come forth. Come forth, my Borderer, and ride the March with me!”

I said “Oh! Wind of Lammermoor, the night’s too dark to ride,
And all the men that fill the glen are ghosts of men that died!
The floods are down in the Bowmont Burn, the moss is fetlock-deep;
Go back, wild Wind of Lammermoor, to Lauderdale¬—and sleep!”

Out spoke the Wind of Lammermoor, “We know the road right well,
The road that runs by Kale and Jed across the Carter Fell.
There is no man of all the men in this grey troop of mine
But blind might ride the Borderside from Teviothead to Tyne!”

The horses fretted on their bits and pawed the flints to fire,
The riders swung them to the South full-faced to their desire;
“Come!” said the Wind from Lammermoor, and spoke full scornfully,
“Have ye no pride to mount and ride your fathers’ road with me?”

A roan horse to the gate they led, foam-flecked and travelled far,
A snorting roan that tossed his head and flashed his forehead star;
There came the sound of clashing steel and hoof-tramp up the glen.
…And two by two we cantered through, a troop of ghostly men!

I know not if the farms we fired are burned to ashes yet!
I know not if the stirks grew tired before the stars were set!
I only know that late last night when Northern winds blew free,
A troop of men rode up the glen and brought a horse for me!


Will H. Ogilvie

Monday, 18 June 2018


McConville's
 

I work down at McConville's, it's the pub behind the square
If ever you're in Portadown, anyone can point you there
We have lagers ales and porters, but the thing that brings them in
Is the whiskey that McConville brews that where this all begins
IN all the years I've worked there and for fifty years before
Not a bottle of the sweet stuff ever walked outside the door
Cause McConville laid the rule down, it was honoured till today
Drink your fill while at the bar, but the bottle has to stay

Six or seven years ago when young Jimmy first came by
He was looking for a local, we were the third place that he'd tried
Her looked around, no ferns..., no telly blaring from the bar
And once he tried the whiskey he never strayed too far
He'd come in after dinner for an hour maybe more
Play some cards and talk and joke, 'cause that's what a local's for
Before he'd leave most nights, because the bottles had to stay
He'd ask me for a whiskey just to see him on his way

Three days ago his mate come in, he said Jimmy took a fall
From a roof that he was working on, he had no chance at all
And today after the funeral, after burying young Jim
They came here to his second home, the mourners crowded in

Then I did a thing I never thought I'd do 'til it was done
I took a bottle from the shelf, I held it up for everyone
Rules are made for breaking, tonight the whisky leaves the bar
An auction for the family, who'll give me £50 to start
At £500 the bidding stopped, yes, you couldn't hear a sound
But for the roar as Jimmy's mates stepped up and laid their pay packs down
And I can't believe I did it, never thought I'd see the day
That I'd hand someone the bottle and then watch it walk away

As I was heading home tonight I passed the grave yard by
I sure that I heard singing and silhouetted on the sky
Were Jimmy's friends and they were pouring something on his grave
A little offering for young Jim to help him on his way-- 


James Keelaghan
 The Fires of Calais

The fishing boats roll out across the dark green Channel water
As they gather speed for Flanders they cut their nets away
It's not herring they'll be pulling from the waters on this morning
They'll reap a bitter harvest from the Fires of Calais
Twenty leagues from France I saw the amber soaked horizon
In our lee, the Cliffs of Dover fall beneath the Channel waves
Where waters used to sing a song to sooth the hearts of fishers
Now, we hear the rolling thunder from the Fires of Calais

As we pull in tight to shore, this armada bent on rescue
We curse the men behind the desks who sell our lives this way
Never signed on board to save them from this bloody lack of planning
That strands these fine young men beneath the Fires of Calais
On the beach, allied confusion will they stand or are they running
If it's run, where will they go to between the sea and the melee?
On the flanks, the troop's advancing and with heavy guns, they're firing
And not a mother's son could save them from the Fires of Calais

In scattered groups along the shore some look towards a safer harbor
Some fix their eyes upon the flames, that turn the night to day
Some yet standing, bold and ready, to stoutly guard the rear from "Jerry"
They'll need no flares to see 'em 'neath the Fires of Calais
I've fished these channel waters since was man enough face them
For the herring and the flounder I have often hauled away
But a catch like this I've never had in forty years of sailing
Saving "Tommies" as they flounder 'neath the Fires of Calais

The fishing boats roll out across the dark green Channel water
As the gather speed for Flanders they cut their nets away
It's not herring they'll be pulling from the waters on this morning
They'll reap the bitter harvest from the Fires of Calais--



James Keelaghan
Mo Ghile Mor

Lá na mara
Lá na mara nó rabharta
Guth na dtonnta a leanadh
Guth na dtonnta a leanfad ó
Lá na mara nó lom trá
Lá na mara nó rabharta
Lá an ghainimh, lom trá
Lá an ghainimh


(The day of the sea
The day of the sea or of the high tides
To follow the voice of the waves
I would follow the voice of the waves
The day of the sea or the ebb tide
The day of the sea or of the high tides
The day of the sands, the ebb tide
The day of the sands)


Can you feel the river run?
Waves are dancing to the sun
Take the tide and face the sea
And find a way to follow me
Leave the field and leave the fire
And find the flame of your desire
Set your heart on this far shore
And sing your dream to me once more


'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh I gcéin mo ghile mear


(He is my hero, my dashing darling
He is my Caesar, dashing darling
Rest or pleasure I did not get
Since he went far away, my darling)
Now the time has come to leave
Keep the flame and still believe
Know that love will shine through darkness
One bright star to light the wave


'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh I gcéin mo ghile mear
Amhrán na farraige
Ór are na seolta
Amhrán na farraige
Ag seoladh na bhfonnta...


(Song of the sea
Gold on the sails
Song of the sea
Sending the melodies...)
Lift your voice and raise the sail
Know that love will never fail
Know that I will sing to you
Each night as I dream of you


'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh I gcéin mo ghile mear
Ag seinm na farraige
Ag seinm na farraige
(Playing the sea
Playing the sea)
Seinn... Play...


'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh I gcéin mo ghile mear


Gile mear, the wind and sun
The sleep is over, dream is done
To the west where fire sets
To the gile mear, the day begun


'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh I gcéin mo ghile mear
'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh I gcéin mo ghile mear
Ó chuaigh I gcéin mo ghile mear


(Since he went far away, my darling)
Amhrán na farraige
Ór are na seolta
Ag seoladh na bhfonnta
(Song of the sea
Gold on the sails
Sending the melodies)
Stone Cutters

If you're down by Queen and Britain Streets
You'll find Stonecutters Lane
The house that my grandfather built, where I was born and raised
My granddad was a mason, my father in his time
My time came I signed as an apprentice lad

The early 1900s were a rich, bad afternoon
We were cuttin' stone like demons
No work was done too soon
We were hired out on seven jobs, so to take the slack
Put out advertisements for apprentice lads

Never find a better crew
They knew what work was
Cornices and lintels
They laid stone like they were gods
Hear the hammers ring out, think it was a song

August 1914 in the sultry summer heat
Took a boat in Ottawa
The drums began to beat
Honor glory also then, the story doesn't change
To a man they all enlisted my apprentice lads

I couldn't say that I agree
'Cause I knew what war was
It was worker killin' worker for some politician's cause
Off to battle they all marched, gassed in that Cambrai
Dogs of war, done for my apprentice lads

1916 fire broke out, Parliament was razed
A call went out for masons to rebuild and to relay
It was the contract of a lifetime, the House upon the hill

So they came out from Vancouver, they came down from Montreal
Master masons everyone, they were answering their call
There was no man under 30, a man's work I didn't know
The fields of France had swallowed the apprentice lads

It's 1921 now, I'm standing at the peak
About to cap the Peace Tower off, there's no one here can speak
The mortar for that stone we mixed,the clay from Flanders fields
We laid it in its place for those apprentice lads
Yeah we laid in its place for those apprentice lads-- 


James Keelaghan