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Written by John McCullagh
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Monday, 21 March 2005 |
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He handles his feet bravely he dances well
He’s like a Daddy-Long-Legs on the skite [?]
Childer and chickens must always be picking
Don’t be there till ye’re back
You might as well look for blood in a turnip a vain proposition
You’re not sugar or salt till be melting a rain shower won’t wash ye away
You’ll be glad of your bed, I’ll warrant ye
Them that wouldn’t fight for their mate [meat] wouldn’t fight for their country
‘Grannie, I don’t like you in your grandeur – you don’t smell nearly so strong’
Just by chanst, as the cow kilt the hare
The Universe is walking in and out through all the windows
Ye’d o’ thought she was laying a duck’s egg, be the squeals o’ her
He’d put ye in mind of a goat eating whins [said of a mumbling man at prayer]
She’d a face on her like one chewing wasps
She’d a neck on her like an Antrim goat
She cud ate beans from a churn
Ye’d have me believe that goose’s dung is strawberries
He’s a big baghel of a man
Beetleheads tadpoles
Grabboughs rough and stony waste land
Whommel to turn over quickly
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Culture 
