John McCullagh September 29, 2008
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In an attempt to cushion the blow for Santanta, on his imminent return to his ‘ain native toun’, we publish this earlier tract from another Ulsterman.


Forkhill 1940s

My Ain Native Toun            by      David Herbison

 

Since I was a boy in my ain native toun

There’s naeting but bigging an pu’ing wa’s doun;

The streets are grown wider, the houses are high

And half o’ the windows peer into the sky:

Their doors wad let in ony cart from the street

Their owners ne’er think o’ a shoe for their feet

They a’ maun hae boots ere they venture abroad;

Their claething appears to an auld body, odd:

How changed from the times when our forefathers lay

In houses weel streekit wi’ heather and strae!

Happy hames, happy hearts, we had ilka place roun’

When I was a boy in my ain native toun.

 

The castle is gane and its garden destroyed

Nae langer about it our Easters’ enjoyed:

Its banks an’ its braes are a’ weedy and fogg’d

And felled is the tree where the rebel was flogg’d:

There’s naething I see has the same hue it had

When I was a boy in the arms o’ my dad

Except the wee house whare the poet was born

It still braves the blast o’ the wild wintry morn

Was’t for it now, as I saunter alang

I wad scarce know the place whare I first sung my sang

Its chimneys and windows and scraw-covered croun

Are a’ that I see o’ my ain native toun.

 

 

 

 

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