about the people & places of Co. Down. Other poetry is available at
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| Paddy Fitzpatrick's Lorry Drivers |  |
Happy were the days I spent,
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Paddy Fitzpatrick's Lorry Drivers There's a man called P. Fitzpatrick, a man that's well to do, He keeps a fleet of lorries and of drivers over ten And then there's Willie Rooney, and Willie Higgins bold. Let's not forget Dick Gibson and Christie Keogh, Then follows Danny Haughian, a man known far and wide, There's a lad they call wee Danny, who's lately learnt to drive. Then there's Bill Fitzsimons and Frederick Smith of Down, And so now in conclusion, I will leave now down my pen
| You’ve all heard of Paddy Fitzpatrick and his lorry drivers too First there is the foreman, his name it is James Doyle In order next comes James McVeigh, a great old man is he To follow suit comes Jim Pat Curran with thick black curly hair Then there’s Hughie Cunningham, his job is punctures to repair And next comes Pat McGreevy, well known to us all There’s also Kevin Cunningham, he’s always to the fore Then there is James Newell, the works carpenter to trade Then last there comes our blacksmith, he’s known as Felix Carr So now boys I must be going for I hear the boss’ horn
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| The Ould County Down | |
We indulge in the playing of music unique The lilt of the fiddle, the banjo and flute The fire it burns bright in the old fashioned grate So with all hands in tune we get ready to start The “Connachtmans Ramble”, “The Hare’s in the Corn” A kind hospitality is shown to all This time it’s “Sheehans”, “The Maid o’ the Green” Many thanks to our hosts for inviting us in Still the music goes on, but as it nears dawn
| I have travelled all Ireland from Derry to Cork
by: Kevin Cunningham (kindly donated by his niece Sheila Philips) This poems was written in the 1930's
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| WRECK PORT LONG-LINE MEN By Henry Purdy of Newcastle | DICK McKNIGHT'S FAREWELL |
| The long-line men of Wreck Port fame, Are past and gone, except the name. That their prowess be known in years to come, I'll recount some names on "finger and thumb". There was Billy Heaney and old William Sloane, Transmigrated as cormorants for ever to roam; Joe Moore-"Now-ow" with Back Brae slang, Had sheetsman bold in "Gomity Dang". Jack's Alex, John-the-Phyllis and William, "Be-Gad", Talked of sailing their freighters when the weather was bad. This John and Wee Alex and one or two more Fished mackerel, for pleasure, close in to the shore. The Dingy Cutter fished down in the "Bay", With gallant helmsman in Barney McStay. The "Crank" in the bow taft, who made the other, Perhaps it was Bernard-the well-known "Stunner". Will Purdy, "The Frenchman-I'll do the best I can", With Tullyusker as his right-hand man, Wee Dick and his sons had many a rally With Jamey Heaney in the clipper Mally. Longstone Big Harry, with sonorous voice, Had Irish Harry as his captain choice, If the morning looked bad and some thought long, Hilarity reigned with Clugson's song. The boats pulled up-that's another story, The fish were bought by Willie McGrory; For the very last penny each skipper strove, And "divided it fair" at the foot of the Grove. Near to the watch-house, as sure as you're born, On wooden leg stood Tammy Corn. Other names are forgotten, so now bye-bye, Perhaps you can get them from Johnnie McQuiy The Wreck Port at Annalong, was so called because of a boat called the "Troubador", which was wrecked off there.
| First flower of the earth, sweet gem of the ocean, No longer your green fields will I wander again; By cruel oppression, by rent and taxation I was banished afar from my own native plain. Ye Mountains of Mourne, your cataracts so beautiful, Your high lofty peaks shall I ne'er see ye more? Ye blue rippling waters that roll in succession, Recoil round the borders of sweet Mourne Shore. How oftimes I roamed that beautiful landscape, Where Phoebus went down on his course to the west O'er Carlingford Mountains that nod to the ocean, Where the sea fowl and plover resort to their nest. I will never forget that sad Sunday morning, The morn I rose from the hearth of my cot, My children around me did carelessly prattle, To me that's a moment can ne'er be forgot. Adieu, Ballykeel, where oftimes I wandered, By Walmsley's green groves oftimes I serenade Down by the bleach mill on a nice summer evening, Where the blackbird and linnet did sing in the shade. The hum of the bleach mill I oft heard with pleasure, Over Mallock's clear hills where the fountains do flow, Where the trout and the salmon do sport there at leisure, Where the violet and primrose spontaneously grow. I will never forg-et that unhappy parting, When I parted my friends upon Warrenpoint quay, The barque on the water had got into motion, The steam tug so slowly did haul us away. If it had been decreed, I'd rather have tarried Along with my friends to go back home again, But sad was my fate, when on board I was hurried, To ne'er see my friends in sweet Mourne again. So now we're safe landed in British North America, To sail up her lakes was no pleasure to me; I was houseless and homeless, surrounded by strangers, Each one who got the chance took advantage of me. Until that I met with a few friends from Mourne, So kind and so free, they took me by the hand, With their tables well spread and their arms wide extended, To welcome the stranger from old Ireland. There's plenty of work here in British North America, The sugar they take from the tall maple tree, But Mourne, sweet Mourne, the place I was born in, There's no other country has such charms for me. |
I stood at the bank of a river There were stepping stones across the river Now I felt at my side and invisible Guide So I conquered my fear, and my mind grew clear So on I stepped, from stone to stone And now I’m alone on the farthest stone, By: Marian Doyle, Co. Down. Published in old Moore’s Almanac, 2005. |
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| You boatmen all, on you humbly I call, To join in my sad lamentation About those brave hardy men Who lately have been Carried off by a weird visitation. From mountain to shore Their loss we deplore, We cannot but weep "o'er the motion". In cold death they sleep 'Neath the white water deep Far down in the depths of the ocean. On the 25th day of February, A fine ship hove in view from, the offing. Her course she did steer on Carlingford bar, While around her white billows were tossing. Upon her mast high pilot colours did fly Although on this coast she was a stranger. She couldn't make the bar Nor clear up the scar Without risking imminent danger. Our brave pilot's boat by her crew launched afloat, With his own steady hand he kept steering, With a close reefed small sail She dashed through the gale, Till Hellihunter buoy she was nearing. The pilot's command was to turn to the land, Or this day on the wild waves we'll perish. They tacked their small boat, She could scarce keep afloat, But soon she was steering for Cranfleld, When a heavy snow shower The land did obscure And each hill with a white robe was mantled. Then a wild treacherous wave, Soon made each man's grave, Seven men did this gallant crew number. Their frail craft capsized, In the deep they submerged Six of them soon did sink under. The coastguards so brave Launched their boat on the wave, While the gale it kept fearfully blowing. With a good willing mind She dashed through the wind, With their strong arms skilfully rowin Till they came to the spot Where the pilot they got In a death grip to the boatside he was clinging. But the others are gone Beneath the white flowing foam, Where the storm now is echoing and singing. Their names I will tell, I'll begin with John Shields, And the next man was young Arthur Raymond. James Coffey so true In his jacket of blue, For twenty long years was a seaman; James Morgan so fair, with his thick curling hair, Henry Chesnut, that youth tall and manly. John Cunningham too make up the boat's crew, By his friends he was cherished most fondly. What can we say about that tragic day? The Almighty had chose to decree it, They were to be lost, on the wild ocean tossed, Near Hellihunter buoy they received it, But He with his Grace Will fill each man's place, And grant us that great consolation. In his infinite love may He invite them above, And wipe their friends' tears of vexation. A pilot of fame, Henry Coffey by name, In Kilkeel Meeting House yard he's reposing. The tears trickled down In grief most profound As his grave they were gently closing. But no sod marks the grave 'Neath the dark ocean's wave, Where the other six rest from their labours. The Phantom Ship has, according to reports, been seen around the Mourne coast many times since the Cranfleld disaster. Two old men, now both dead, assured me that they had seen it. Donated by Raymond Kelly. Taken from a book on Kilkeel " An Old Timer Talking" narrated by Hugh Marks (Raymond's father's uncle.)
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(Note - sorry the last line is missing) | |
What a wonderful place this County Down
Mary E Bridges 2001 Mary - please contact me at mourneminers@optonline.net
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