A Poor Man's Petition

Noo hear the pair man’s peetious wane
His woes remind me o’ ma ain
What prangs tae me it wud hae coast,
Had a’ beheld the motly host,
Whaur penury, disease and pain,
Wur al assembled tae complain;
Wretches like, in tattered rags;
Sprains, rheumatisms, brauken legs;
Ears that canny hear a soon,
An een in utter darkness boon;
Scurvy, scrofula, epilepsy,
Consumption pale, an bursting drapsy;
Wae a’the life embitterin clan
That persecute the life o’ man.
Whaur sich calamities appear,
Whau cud refuse tae drap a tear?
E’en Satan, mans inveterate foe,
Micht melt at sich a scene o’ woe.
So choosin tae avoid the sicht,
A’ borra’d pen an ink tae write,
A faithful list o’ ah that’s mine –
That in below a’ wull subjoin;-
First then, a' never learnt a trade,
Bit daily wield a flail or spade,
Endeav'rin tae preserve in life,
Six naked children and a wife,
Ma mansion is a clay-bigged cot,
Ma hale domain a gairden plot
Fur this, each ennual first o' May,
Full thirty shillins a' hiddae pae:
Ye who in stately hames reside,
Th' abodes o' luxury an pride,
May deem it faalse whun a' assert,
Ma hoose wud harly load a cairt,
Sae little stray defends the roof,
Agin the rain it is nae proof,
But a' its failins tae declare,
Wud waste mair time than a' can spare,
So, wae yir leave, a' wull begin,
Tae tell what it contains wae'in:
A spade, bae weairin much abus'd,
A spinnin-wheel, but little used,
Three stools, yin bigger than the rest,
oor table whun we hae a guest,
A basket variously employ'd,
Tho' nearly bae oul age destroy'd,
It houls the prittas raw, or boil'd,
An serves tae rock oor youngist child;
A leaky tub, a pot unsoon,
Wae iron hoop encircled roon.
A jug, in what wae daily bring,
oor humble bev'rage fae the spring,
In oarder, on a shelf o stane,
(For chest, or cupboard a' hae nane)
A dish, an three al plates ere plac'd;
Three noggins, much bae time defac'd;
A mug, fae whaur the ear is pairted;
An al knife, bae its heft deserted;
Twa tae-cups, yin o' them is crack'd;
Three sassers, each wae some defect;
A tae-pot, bit the lid is loast ;
A beechen boul, bit so emboss'd
Wae clasps, it isnae unnerstud,
Whauther it's made o' ir'n or wud.
An in a corner bae the wa'
We hae a bed that cannae fa,
But dinnae let this create surprise,
Securely on the grun it lies:
Tae furnish it nae flocks o' geese,
Wur plunnered o' their downy fleece,
Plain strey it is . . an on oor bed,
The ruins o' a quilt ere spread.
Noo nithin else tae me belangs,
Except a braukin pair of tangs ;
an fur a shift, tae a' get them ment,
We use a brench o' wulla bent.
Yin minnit yit, a' beg yil spare,
An jist luk ivver ma bill o'fare,
Which wae my furniture accoards,
An little variety affords,
The cruel butcher's murd'rous knife,
Fur me deprives nae beast o' life;
Nae angler wae ensnarin wiles,
Fur me the finny race beguiles;
Nea sailor braves the dangerous sea,
Tae bring hame luxuries tae me -
Bit words a' wullnae multiply,
Prittas al oor meals supply;
A drap o' milk tae them we add-
An salt, whun that cannot be had.
That man tae honour shair is loast,
Whau o' his wretchedness can boast;
Yit gain sae rules the human breesr
That men o' competence possest'
Cud ivry qualm o' conscience blush!
An sweer wae'oot a single blush,
Bit be ashaired nane sich em I,
Tho' very pare, a' scorn a lie;
An al thats represented here,
Indeed a' can tae truly sweer'

PHILIP McCLABBER, Dec 18th 1807.

The Wreck of the Caesar

Ye seamen of Eirn, so merry and gay,
Come, listen the poet and hear the sad lay,
Ye nymphs of the village assist me to sing,
The news from Parnassus on the doleful string.

On the 21st of October 1813 at the break of day,
The Caesar, from Greenock, drove into the bay,
The wind being eastward as she tacked about,
She struck on Skulmartin on the clearing out.

The sea rose like mountains, which increased their fear,
Their masts cut away, pale death did appear
Their boats broke the hawsers, drove on to the strand,
But there was none to assist them upon the long sand.

Be calm O ye breezes : be still O ye deep;
Ye mariners (do) join those you made for to weep,
Since memory has printed where time's course will stand,
Where five noble seamen (were) lost on the long sand.

They were five noble seamen excelled by few,
Their hearts were undaunted, their principles true,
With courage they launched their boats on the waves,
And intended the crew of the vessel to save.

But fate had ordained that they should lose their lives,
For a tremendous breaker their boat did capsize.
Some shouted, some swam, some waved their hands,
But there was none to assist them upon the long sands.

There were ROBERT ADAIR and JOHN BOYD by name,
Their families and friends may lament for the same,
And DAVID ALEXANDER, that seaman so brave.
Along with the rest found a watery grave.

Lament ye Freemasons, your loss still deplore,
For alas! WILLIAM NIBLOCK, alas! he's no more,
And likewise JOHN ASKIN, that handsome young man -
These were the five seamen lost on the long sand.

Ballywalter may lament for her unfortunate swains,
No more will they sport on their dear native plains,
No more they will wander nor carelessly stray,
Nor go for a dander along Mathew's Bay.

Asmy Purse.

CORRESPONDENCE 9'th March 1929
TO THE EDITOR OF THE CHRONICLE
 

"The Dully Beach"
Ballywalter

Whut's wrang in Ballywalter toon ?
My native spot is upside doon,
And there's a buzz, like bees in June,
Is't true, dear sir,
Some supercihous farmer's coon,
Is causing stir.

Wi' your permission, Sir would I,
Tae hard worked farmer" make reply,
Wha seems nae better than the kye_ Yin he's at hame,
Hoo can he perpetrate a lie,
And no think shame ?

Some fishermen are showing fight,
Against this blatent blather skite,
For taking gravel near the site,
Whar they dry dulse,
Fair-minded folk think they ir right,
Tae this repulse.

He brands them lazy-that's a lie,
They merely "bask° till dulse is dry,
Or watch some rain-cloud passing nigh,
Fur fear o' loss:
Gainst this the farmer makes outcry,
Gets dour an' cross.

He through your journal cracks his joke,
Upon-an inoffensive folk,
Veracity, the brainless folk,
He desna prize,
Forgetful that a lethal stroke,
May end his lies.

I canna sir, quite understand,
Hoo yin can cart away the sand,
Tae undermine sea-walls and land,
Then is it just, Fur ithers fauts,
Cash tae demand,
And pay we must.

He needna be sae greedy, sir,
Nor sling at " dullymen " a slur
If sae advised, he shud, demur
Fur efter a'
He'll only get this snarling "cur"
Six feet by twa.

These men ir right protest tae make,
Their means o' livelihood's at stake:
"Hard working farmer " shudna take-nor ony ither,
The bread and butter of the plate,
O' his ain brither.

His meagre mind scant knowledge shows,
As seen mendacious prose:
The class he slights, the master choose
Tae spread his name,
"Hard working farmer" shud compose,
His brilliant brain.

Noo at his lodgic tak' a keek,
This lenient lad o' lint and leek,
He says these "dullymen" shud seek,
Their bread abroad,
But, fish that thrive in water deep,
Die on the sod.

Why pit a guid thing past himself,
Why no his sheep and ween rigs sell,
And in that o' plenty dwell "
It wudna pay"
Then "dullymen" we himes as well,
Can gau or stay.

This addle-headed nincompoop,
May hid behin a stack or shook,
But can he manage sir tae jook,
An inky stab?
He'll hae tae ken mair o' his book,
Or cleanse his bag.

Some farmers think mair o' their dog,
Than sin-marred images o' God,
Ir sympathetic as a log,
Or hard whunstanes:
Twud tak far mair than a pen's prod,
Tae pierce their brains.

He's "Dead Nuts" on the harbour scheme,
Not that he kens whut it des mean:
He butter kens fae margarine:
Twigs clockin' hen
But wrack fae dulse_the odds between
He desna ken.

There's sandy-gravel at the quay,
I hear that yin, can tak' it free:
If this is false, twus told to me,
Gainst this he’ll kick, He'll tak the stuff,
But wants a fee !
See ye the trick?

I wunna make my rhyme extensive,
Just these three words on my defensive,
Against a Farmer, witless, senseless_
Nae ither aim:
He shud hae been far less offensive,
Twud saved his name.

The upright farmer I respect,
Without him, life wud be a wreck:
Tae keep a falsehood wheel in check,
This rhyme is written. The cause is just,
Noo the effect,
 

The biter bitten. “SEACOB".

THE BALLAD OF BALLYWALTER

(On the death of a distinguished Irish soldier
belonging to Ballywalter who was killed in the Great War.)

A sudden shot and a hasty grave,
The wind came shuddering o’er the wave,
And as it came, a groan it gave—
The’ moan of Ballywalter.

Gaily our troops went to the war,
Our pennons were waving near and far,
How could they foreshadow the fatal scar,
The’ moan of Ballywalter.

Oh, many a wreck this coast hath seen,
On the reefs and the breakers that lie between,
And the fishermen’s fate hath often raised, I ween,
The’ moan of Ballywalter.

But here was a young life in lts pride,
The darling of all the countryside,
Yet the German rage would not be denied,
The’ moan of Ballywalter.

Alas, o’er the land hath the moaning spread,
We mourn o’er the dying and o'er the dead,
And beauty's eye with sobbing’s red,
The’ sob of Ballywalter.

Oh. Germans, Germans, stay your hand;
Will ye never sheath your bloody brand,
Till ye take your toil of all the land,
To the’ moan of Ballywalter.

O’ we are hardy, and we are free,
And we bless even the sometime cruel sea,
For it foams next us and the German’s glee,
At the’ moan of Ballywalter.

Whilst nemesis holds up a shining sword,
And threatens you cruel German horde.
With the warth of an awful and outraged Lord,
And the’ curse of Ballywalter.

O’ Prussia, the note of your doom and dread,
Was sounded amongst the Living and dead,
When the wailing went up for the young life sped,
The’ moan of Ballywalter

For nought but the night is for you decreed,
For straight, to the pit your foot shall speed,
And your moan shall, echo for sons that bleed,
The’ moan of Ballywalter.

Ah, Christ, must once more the Lord’s will be done,
As it was in the Garden with Thee, God’s Son,
Ah, greater the anguish there begun,
Than the’ moan of Ballywalter.

EDMUND F. VESEY ROSS. 8th October, 1915

From Australia
 

Benny McCullough, who was brought up in Ballywalter,
and who lives in Australia, looks back on good times
in the village with the following poem.

A beautiful village by the shore,
About three miles from Carrowdore;
My granny lived at 3 Moyle Hill,
In a house that stands there still.

Now in the summer the village was crowded,
With holiday makers from around and about it;
The fishermens' dulse on the beach,
Easy for young and old to reach.

The taxi man was a man called Balmer,
He was a shopkeeper not a farmer;
And Lord Dunleath he was the squire,
A man of dignity we could all admire.

The village band it was the best,
With flutes and drums it showed the rest;
The village chippy was extra good,
Well run by Suzy, Billy and their brood.

The village shoemaker was a man called Dunn,
From Greyabbey his family did come;
A milkman called Davidson was in the town,
Who give great value for your pound.

A bloke called Woodman ran The Inn,
Very particular who he let in;
A man called Bell he was the Barber,
Who lived in sight of our lovely harbour.

On Saturday night the swifts would play,
At Sandend or miles away;
A man called Fowler who sold the paper,
Be it a 'Saturday Night' or a 'Spectator'.

The grocery shop did very well,
Hank and Sammy put on a good sell;
Now the lime kilns were a lovely sight,
To meet your lover on a moonlight night.

Now the names have changed,
But the place is the same,
O' memories felt with a pang of pain.

The Gannaway Burn.

Yir banks silver Lagan rich beauties discover,

An commerce expands her braid wings on the tide;

Tall ships fae thy port roam the universe ower,

Between yir twa heidlans a navy micht ride,

Tho blithe ah hae wannered on yir banks noble river,

Yit visions o'boyhood wud affen return,

An tell me in wuspers that here ah micht nivver,

Be blist as wun wannerin on the Gannaway Burn.

Yis, dear native streamlet, whaurivver ah wanner,

Tho a native beauties afore me were spreed,

Ye come oer ma sowl wae a feelin sae tender,

That baak tae thy margin again ah em led.

There early kenned abjecks, bae memory hallowed,

Awaaken fand memrys whaurivver ah turn;

Fir natures dictates ah carelessly follied,

Amang the rich vales o the Gannaway Burn.

The spot whaur the earliest Mayflooers ah gethered,

On memories vista ah merk wae delicht,

The bank whaur ah watched tae the nestlins wur feathered,

An wept whun ah fun they taen their flight;

That pool whaur the quick fleetin minnas pursuin;

Ah paddlet, nor wisthoo the time glided by,

That neuk waur ah lingeret, the green rashes pooin,

Tae the gloamin had spreed her dark veil o'er the sky.

That Ford yit is precious, tae fand recollection,

Whaur fairies wur said tae dance roon the aul tree,

Yit, fearless whun guided bae early affection,

Ah crossed it at midnicht, ma lassie tae see.

Oh sad is ma sowl whun ah think o yon maiden,

An brood o'er the joys that can nivver return.

Purer love nivver glowed since its birthday in Eden,

Than that what we felt at the Gannaway Burn.

The dark grove o pine whaus mergin o'er sheddaed,

Fand memry wull cherish whilst life warms ma breest.

There aften ere sorra ma bosam invaded,

Ah strayed wae blithe camraids, in innocence blist,

But that grove is laid low an ma freens a sae cheery,

Air gan tae that country whaur nane can return

Whilst them as survived, wanner hertless an weary,

Like me, far away fae the Gannaway Burn.

 ALEXANDER McKENZIE — THE BARD OF DUNOVER

McKenzie was only saved from a pauper’s grave by the kindly action of another poet who had him buried in Shankill graveyard.

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