By the Light of the Moon

That last poem (W Allingham’s The Fairies) brought back another old favourite in the same vein.  I thought I’d share it with you!  This one is by that perennial favourite English exile in Greece, Lord Byron.  I cannot remember which primary teacher introduced it to me, but I thank him/her for doing so.

So we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night
Though the heart be still as loving
And the moon be still as bright

For the sword outwears the sheath
And the soul wears out the breast
And the heart must pause to breathe
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving
And the day returns too soon
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

12 Days of Christmas

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On the first day of Christmas, my true love said to me
We were right to buy fresh turkey and a proper Christmas tree.
 
On the second day of Christmas, much laughter could be heard
As we tucked into the turkey, a most delicious bird.
 
On the third day of Christmas, we had guests from right next door
The turkey tasted just as good as it did the days before.
 
On the fourth day of Christmas, with the in-laws, as of old
We finished off the Christmas pud – and served the turkey cold.
 
On the fifth day of Christmas, outside the snow flakes flurried
But we were nice and warm inside, and ate the turkey curried.
 
On the sixth day of Christmas, the festive spirit died
The children fought and bickered and we ate the turkey fried.
 
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love he did wince
As he sat down at the table and was offered turkey mince.
 
On the eighth day of Christmas, our cat had run for shelter
When I served up turkey pancakes, with a glass of Alka Seltzer.
 
On the ninth day of Christmas, by lunchtime Dad was blotto
The only way, he reckoned, he could take my turkey risotto!
 
On the tenth day of Christmas, the only drink was homebrew
Not strong enough to help digest, those plates of turkey stew.
 
On the eleventh day of Christmas, the tree’s pines they were moulting
The sweet mince pies were hard and dry, the turkey was revolting.
 
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love licked his lips
The guests were gone, the turkey too, we dined on fish and chips!
 
 

Still!

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Our foolish neighbour farther up the hill
Already twice before the Bench, again
Has earned more trouble with his private still
He wore a pad to like a well-trod lane
Running his neck into law’s ready noose,
Who only made poteen for table use.
 
It had been something if he’d flashed the stuff
At every c

A Town in Down

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A town in Down, but it isn’t
Two rivers that flow, but they don’t
A people of humour, a people of pride
A place in my youth that I cast aside
 
Bordered around by high mountains
Two which are known to all
A bay and a view, a yew tree or two
It’s a town that I love to recall.
 
Money was scarce in those days
And ‘ma’s’ waved goodbye to their sons
Then wept as they poked at the fire
While children made their own fun.
 
They played hop-scotch, catty and marbles
Rounders, and ropes, on a light
Bogies that clacked on the pavement
Slides, on a winter’s night.
 
I was sent to the Convent, and Abbey
Played handball, and tig in the yard
Sat on a bench for my dinner
The skin on the pudding was hard!
 
Free milk we got in wee bottles
All lined up, on the pipes
The bottoms were mostly luke-warm
While the tops were as cold as ice.
 
I remember a market where cattle were sold
Not far from the West End Bar
And watched them herded past William Street
On the way to the old abattoir.
 
I’d call at Falones for tea and a chip
Then off to the Point, by steam, for a dip
Tanner in hand to the station I went
Back to the Bridge and money well spent.
 
Boats that were docked in The Basin
Carried coal and various goods
The unusual thing about them
They were mostly named after woods.
 
The Oak, the Olive, the Ebony
The Walnut, the Rowan, the Pine
No more will I ever see them sailing
Towards the Locks, down the Fathom Line.
 
Men with wide-mouthed shovels
I saw stood with those, by the score
Their faces streaked with coal-dust
Outside Jimmy Casey’s door.
 
I’d head for the Bucket on Castle Street
Where I learned to dance to a rock-and-roll beat
For the price of a shilling, paid at the door
We’d jive and twist, on a dusty old floor.
 
Then under a Teapot, painted in gold
Not far from the clock in the Square
I’d meet with my friends, the stories they told
If only I could be there.
 
O’Hanlon, McGawley and Bernie McCann
Campbell, Magee and Liz Scott
A singer of ballads, who isn’t no more
Young Rory -I never forgot.
 
But I will return, I’m certain
‘Cause I’ve laughed, with tears in my eyes
As I stood on a station that isn’t
The night that I said my goodbyes.
 
Bordered around by high mountains
Two which are known to all
A bay and a view, a yew tree or two
It’s a town that I love to recall.