Big Pat


Around the Bridge, on a winter’s eve

A whisper blew between the trees

A chance so rare, to meet and see

A local, world celebrity

Read moreBig Pat

Originally posted 2008-11-06 08:59:57. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Mum’s Baking


I came upon this recently and reflected how true the sentiments and situation were for me and for generations before me.  I don’t know the author.

‘The rain poured down in bucketfuls as I cycled home from college some four miles away from our cottage.  It was a most welcome sight as I turned into the boreen leading to it.  I threw my bike against the wall and ignored Shep’s welcoming barks.  The warmth of the kitchen fire met me as I entered. 

Read moreMum’s Baking

Originally posted 2004-05-25 00:00:00. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

For Fear of Little Men


I will, as I promised, soon return to our analysis of ‘steps’ (of 100Ma!) in Earth’s history.  I’m afraid however that, while strolling in Narrow Water Quarry, I was taken with a compulsion to walk once again through the Fairy Glen.  So I did!  And thought of William Allingham’s poem, beloved of our childhood and school days.  You remember it!

The Fairies

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushing glen
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk
Trooping all together
Green jacket, red cap
And white owl’s feather.

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake
With frogs for their watch-dogs
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King rests
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits;
With a bridge of white mist
Columcille he crosses
On his stately journeys
From Slieve League to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow
They thought that she was fast asleep
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake
On a bed of flag-leaves
Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hillside
Through the mosses bare
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men
Wee folk, good folk
Trooping all together
Green jacket, red cap
And white owl’s feather!

Originally posted 2004-01-09 00:00:00. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

On the Buses in Kent


Perhaps other Newry exiles in England and abroad have had early experiences of work similar to my own, which follow. 

Or could anyone else possibly have been as stupid as me?

None of this seemed funny at the time but I shall leave you to judge.

We were pretty desperate for work then in the early 60s and were prepared to travel to England in search of it.  

Read moreOn the Buses in Kent

Originally posted 2006-02-23 21:27:00. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

My Land


On the ninetieth anniversary of the Easter Rising, it may be appropriate to reflect on the words of an earlier patriot, recently referred to by one of our regulars on Discussions – the Protestant patriot Thomas Davis.

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Originally posted 2006-04-15 21:59:11. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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