There was a gasun hurdin’ in the bog one day and didn’t three gentlemen from the Big House come with two big brindle hounds lookin’ for a hare an’ a chase.
‘Is there no hares at all here?’ says they to the gasun.
John McCullagh
Agnes: Poverty Ended
Dear Agnes,
You are doubtless aware of the so-called Poverty Report published today that alleges some 8% of children in Northern Ireland live in poverty.
Have you ever heard such rubbish? Everybody knows there is no poverty any more! My goodness, it’s all some want to talk about at our Coffee Mornings and Candlelit Dinners!
It goes on that a quarter of them live in houses without gas or electricity! Well, that really lets the cat out of the bag, doesn’t it? Are we supposed to believe they’ve all got AGAs, for heaven’s sake?!
And it says one in seven don’t eat three square meals a day!! Well, I ask you, who does?? I never could get our only boy Cyril to eat his greens before he went up to Cambridge! Since I took up aerobics, poor Tristan, my husband cannot even remember when last he got a five-course meal!
I read on teletext (what would we do without it?) that this so-called Save The Children outfit estimate 32,000 children here live in ‘severe charity’. Well, I’d like to ask them, who do you think collects all that charity money at our Coffee Mornings?
Of course there’s a few people who don’t have a second car or a little pad in the country. But that’s life, isn’t it, Agnes? We’re quite comfortable, thanks to Tristan’s hard work, and many are much better off than us, but do you hear me complain?
Even Jesus said, ‘the poor are always with us’.
Tell the truth, Agnes, don’t all these ‘bleeding hearts’ just get on your goat?
Yours truly,
Charity Bigginsere
Dear Charity,
I’ve tried hard, God knows, to think of one redeeming feature of you, but the best I can say is that your mother clearly had a sense of humour that you unfortunately did not inherit!
I don’t own a goat.. nor much else besides. I’m concerned for poor Tristan who must be wasting away deprived of his 5 Course Candlelit Dinners!
I am prepared to accept an invitation to your next Coffee Morning.
I am certain that your social circle would benefit enormously from a radical dose of harsh reality!
Agnes Dayee
Santa the worse for wear
As with most other unpaid, voluntary or occasional occupations, it is becoming increasingly difficult to recruit suitable applicants to play the role of Father Christmas now deemed essential at this time of year for SMEs, institutions and the like. Beggars can’t be choosers and you make do with whoever you can get.
I suppose it was fortunate he was addressing pre-school age children who surely must have been unaware that he was a little the worse for wear when he arrived. ‘Water! Water!’ he gasped as he walked in. Suitably refreshed, he advised the infants to instruct their parents to leave out some bottles of Guinness for Santa on the fateful night. ‘Santa’s very fond of Guinness!’ he chuckled. Then he settled into his role.
He veered recklessly from encouragement to admonishment when he learned what the children expected to receive from his Christmas Eve visit. He told of his grand-daughter who expected a computer but it couldn’t be afforded. She can want all she likes, he added. Looking to the astonished teachers he began to discuss relative prices in various town shops.
He clearly took a shine to one little girl, whose demands were very modest.
‘Wouldn’t you like a bicycle?’ he smiled.
‘Oh, can I? Can I?’
‘Of course. I’m sure you deserve a bicycle!’
I don’t know why I found this amusing! There’ll certainly be ructions in one Newry household when Santa’s promises are not fulfilled.
I think the teachers were relieved when he finally left. For anyone who works in a school nowadays, every word must be carefully weighted against the possibility of litigation.
Everybody bar Santa, it seems!
Killeavy Placenames
Dromintee
fairy bushes
Drinans or Bushes of the Shee
Garriba
Tail of Slieve Gullion
Dhraicklemore
rocky outcrop Armagh/Louth border
great teeth
Monribba townland near Forkhill on Bog Road
Clougharevan Cloch Fhuarain, fountain rock, Bessbrook
Cloughreagh Aghnecloghreagh, place of grey stones, Bessbrook
Cloughinny Cloch Eanaigh, marsh rock
Crankey Baile Mhic Rangain, Rangan’s town
Cross Baile na Crosie, town of the crossing
Cullentragh Cuileanntracht, holly district
Duburren Dubh bhoireann, dark rocky place (Sturgan)
Derrymore Doire Mor, great wood
Derrywilligan Doire Ui Mhaolagain, Mulligan’s Wood
Duvernagh Dubh Bhearnach, the Black Gap
Drumbanagher Druimbeannchair, the peaked ridge
Enagh Ma Eanaigh, the swampy plain
Eshwary Baile an eas’mhoir, the town of the great waterfall
Fews Glossary: S 3
Dialect ‘S’ 3 of 7
Shorten the road have company while walking: ‘Will ye shorten the road wi’ me?’
Show loan, give, ‘show me your spade an’ I’ll larn ye till dig’
Showing Sunday Sunday after their wedding, the couple attend the church in which they were wed
Shows refuse from flax
Shiggy-shoo see-saw
Shook for a word at a loss; ‘He’s not shook for a word, that boy!’
Sift enquire, ‘he will sift it for you’
Sipple drink, ‘a wee sipple now, just what’ll wet the glass’
Signed branded
Skedaddle vamoose! ‘We skedaddled while we cud’
Skelf a wood splinter
Skelp slap, blow, ‘Clear aff or I’ll give yer backside a skelp!’
Skelly squint, ‘God love her, she’s skelly-eyed’
Skiff small shower of rain
Skinning the field breaking up the lea, ploughing
Skirl scream
Skirted run, ‘They had all skirted before the polis came’
Skite a light blow; to splash or throw
Skite 1. fool: 2. ‘he won’t be long skiting across’, running
Peter’s Away with the Fairies
About a hundred years ago a certain Peter Malone lived at the corner where the Stang Road meets the Castlewellan Road. One Halloween Night he was coming home from Stang Tops at a late hour. It was a bright moonlit night and as Peter hurried along he could hear sweet sounds as of music coming from a field a short distance from the roadside. He paused for a moment to listen and this is the refrain he heard, coming from a chorus of voices:
‘Saddle and Bridle; Saddle and Bridle,
‘Saddle and Bridle; Saddle and Bridle.’
Peter listened for a while, then carried away by the music he chimed in;
‘Saddle and Bridle for me!
‘Saddle and Bridle for me!’
Instantly he was surrounded by a company of fairies on horseback. Then one of the fairies led up a gray mare with a saddle on her back and a bridle on her head and motioned Peter to mount. Up Peter got and off they all went at full gallop over hill and dale and never slackening for a moment till they arrived in the sunny land of Spain.
On and on they galloped over high mountains and through deep valleys until at length they arrived in a large town. Tightening their bridles Peter and the fairies cantered through the main street till by and by they struck up with a funeral procession heading towards a grand church in the centre of the town. The fairies and Peter followed the cortege and dismounting from their steeds walked respectfully into the church behind the coffin. They took their places in the pews and looked on while the priest recited the prayers. Then someone called out, ‘Who will lift the offerings?’ At this the chief mourner pointed to Peter.
So Peter took the plate and collected the offerings. This done he pocketed the money. And just as he was putting the last coin into his pocket he found himself at his own gate in Stang, his coat pocket bulging with money. It was now far into the night and the family were all in bed so Peter crept softly up to the door and knocked.
After a few moments delay the wife unbarred the door and seeing it was Peter began to ‘give out’ about the bad hours he was keeping.
‘Now don’t be going on like that, woman dear,’ says Peter.
‘Wait a moment till I show you the big heap of money I have brought home to you from Spain.’
Then he put his hand in his coat pocket. But no money was there.
Instead of coins, Peter drew out a handful of clabber.
Agnes: Computer Woes
Dear Agnes,
I know you are a computer expert and perhaps the very person to help me. I’ve had a lot of trouble with mine!
The man said I could fax with the machine so I held the paper up to the TV (or is that the monitor?) and hit ‘Send’ but it didn’t. I can’t find the ‘ANY’ key that it keeps telling me to Press.
Then it started to tell me I was ‘bad’ and an ‘invalid’. Isn’t that just rude?
I tried printing but the machine said it couldn’t find the printer. I turned the TV thing round to face the printer, but it still couldn’t find it. I called the helpline but the fellow just wanted to know if I was operating under windows. I told him the light was fine, I could see well what I was doing! He told me to type ‘P’ to bring up the Programme Manager. I told him I couldn’t find the ‘P’.
‘P on your keyboard’, he roared. Now, I wasn’t going to do that!
Then my coffee-cup holder broke! You know that drawer that keeps popping in and out. Well, no sooner did I rest the full cup of coffee on it that didn’t it pop in again and spilled the hot liquid all through that big tower box. I filled the bath-tub with soap and water to clean it all out. But it did no good!
Agnes, do you think he was taking the p*** outa me?
Yours truly,
Henry Pratt
Dear Henry,
Box it up and send it back.
You’re too stupid to own a computer.
Agnes Dayee
Mummers’ Cast
To the child’s eye, the Mummers were characterised by fantastic hats and costumes, flowing beards, long coats – many worn inside out, black and painted and masked faces, oddly behaved and strangely dressed women, underwear worn on the outside, sword fights in tiny kitchens and a vague sense of threat. They were, I suppose, the precursors of our modern amateur drama groups but the general gist of their scripts were ancient and handed-down. There was also ready room for improvisation and adaptation, copied now in the drama of pantomime.
In his notes, the collector T G F Patterson refers to the similarities and differences of Cast and Performance of two groups with which he was familiar between the wars. The Drumcree Players (yes, that Drumcree) had the following cast:
St George red tunic, white trousers, sword, plumed hat
Turk black tunic, white trousers, green beret (turkey feathers) sword
Old Woman red flannel petticoat, shawl, stick
Cromwell red coat, white trousers, sword, huge false nose
S Patrick gilt crozier, robe decorated with gold and silver paper
Beelzebub black coat, white trousers, club in hand, frying pan
Big Belly huge padded trousers and wearing long beard
Divil Doubt red coat, white trousers, blackened face, besom in hand
John Funny all in white, red hat, carrying money-box
Locals note in bygone days the characters wore plaited straw hats with coloured streamers and feathers and had their limbs encased in straw ropes; shirts or coats were worn inside out. This fairly describes the costumes of Sheetrim, Cullyhanna of later (1930s-1940s) times.
Patterson said that the Ballymore-Mullavilly Rhymers (not far removed) were dressed more in that traditional way, long shirts over their ordinary clothes tied at the waist by a twisted straw rope or coloured scarf and all carried swords made from the backs of scythes. Hats were usually made from old-fashioned strong white (7-14 lb) paper flour bags adorned with coloured streamers. Others wore ‘dunce’s-cap’ headgear similarly decorated. The bottom half of bodies were neatly encased in ‘leggings’ of straw ropes or in long women’s stockings. Their characters were similar to those of Drumcree with the addition of Turk’s Father and Big Head with Divily Doubt substituting for his namesake above!
SAINT GEORGE
I’ll beat him up,
I’ll hack him as small as any fly
An’ throw him to the divil
To make a Christmas pie.
TURK
What are you but St Peter’s stable boy
Who fed his horse on oats an’ hay
For seven days, then ran away.
That’s a lie, St George!
Take out your purse to pay, Sir
Take out your sword to try, Sir,
I’ll run my dagger through your heart
Or make you run away, Sir.
They fight. The Turk falls. A doctor is called.
I can cure, the plague within, the plague without
The pip, the pop, the palsy and the gout
Lumbaga, sciatic and dicktolleroo
Moreover I can make an oul’ woman on critches
Burst her britches
Leppin’ over stones hedges and whitethorn ditches.
An’ what medicine do you use, Sir?
DOCTOR
I use the heart and liver of a creepy stool
The brains of an anvil
The giblets of a dish cloth
Put that in a wran’s bladder
Stir carefully with a cat’s feather
Take that fourteen fortnights before day
An’ if that doesn’t cure ye, I’ll ask no pay
Moreover I’ve a little bottle on the end of my cane
Hocus, pocus, Sally Campane
Rise up, dead man, and fight again!
Newry from the air now
The areas depicted in these recent photos include Sugar Island, Merchant’s Quay, Town Hall, Sands Mill, Edward/Monaghan Street, Canal Street and Catherine Street. Much of this area of the centre has remained relatively unaltered. The principal changes are to the South of the town, especially Buttercrane Quay and The Quays. More of that later!