John McCullagh March 21, 2005
Ballagh05.jpg

He handles his feet bravely  he dances well

 

He’s like a Daddy-Long-Legs on the skite   [He’s ‘all over the place!]


Childer and chickens must always be picking

Don’t be there till ye’re back   {return soon}


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  [you’ve worked hard]

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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