Mary Vallely found three poems, signed by “E. Kelly” (her Aunt Ellie) in an old exercise book she had managed to hold on to over the years. Two of them are included here. The third “The Old Home” appears in the “Early Kellys” chapter.
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A Legend of Ballinascreen
Where sweet Moyola winds its course Thro the vale of Ballinascreen, There water and woodland mingle, and Present a glorious scene, Past many a cosy farmhouse And many a garden gay, The river runs right merrily Till it reaches far Lough Neagh. Slieve Gallon stands like sentinel To guard this scene so fair; While Buachaill Breuga opposite The vigil seems to share. Ever silently and watchfully Together in every age These hills have witnessed stranger things Than are found in history's page. The valley of old and bygone times Teems with song and story. Some tell of Patrick's ling'ring here To add to our Saviour's glory. A church he built, - 'tis gone long since, But on that spot instead The ruins of another stand, Where our forefathers prayed. About the church St. Patrick built A legend has been told, - 'Tis handed down from sire to son And is love by young and old. When Patrick chose - the legend runs - The site wheron to build, No stones were near, but willing hearts With desire ? were filled. They gathered round, the saint to aid, And journeyed miles away To bring the stones on horseback flung, No carts or drays had they. 'twas summer, and it so befell The men with thirst grew faint, No water near! They searched in vain, Then looked they to the saint. St. Patrick turned with faith to God, And sought Him that He might Have pity on His children. Lo! They scarce could believe their sight. For at his feet a fountain sprang Of water sweet and clear. They quenched their thirst; then onward marched, And soon forgot their fear. They onward went, their strength renewed; But hark! A startling sound, Like water rushing in the rear, Gave cause to turn around. A strange alarming vision burst Upon their startled sight, - Where was nought before but barren heath A torrent dashed with might! Like children they to Patrick turned To know why this should be, And begged of him his power to use And them from peril free. Upon them, cowering in their fear, The Saint's stern gaze is bent; - "A miracle by God's power was wrought And water to you was sent." "You slaked your thirst most greedily, So eager your lives to save, Then on your way you thoughtless went, No thanks to God you gave." Upon their knees the affrighted crowd, O'erwhelmed with shame, have dropped; Their prayers ascend to heaven, and soon The torrent's rush is stopped. The water settles calmly down And forms a lakelet fair, "Lough Patrick," since 'tis called by men, And pilgrims journey there. Around the lough, on bended knees, The people humbly pray; For the place is blessed by Patrick's prayers And reverenced to this day. |
Portstewart
I often dream of that sweet old place That stands beside the sea, And many a dear familiar face Comes back in thought to me. I think of the Castle on the Rock, The wild waves dashing free, The perilous climbs we undertook When our hearts were gay and free. I recall a day we wandered round The rocky shell-strewn shore, And many a pretty bauble found, And children were once more. We paused a while to watch the tide, In the sunlight's mellow glow, And saw it treacherous quicksands hide By its ceaseless ebb and flow. Such quicksands in life's path we meet, For life has too it's tide, And when our friendships seem most sweet Oft treachery they hide. Portstewart! Thy shores are grand as when, Long years since Lever came And laboured there with ready pen To wind his need of fame. Enjoyment, too, in thee he found For, in those far off days, Thy merry crowds made time fly round, -How little changed thy ways. |
Dear Maggie
Dear Maggie would you like to hear, How Ireland’s getting on, And from an old acquaintance too, Whose given name was John. Theres’s many a mile of dark blue waves, Between us both today, But what’s the odds when Uncle Sam, Has bridged the watery way. With ocean Greyhounds large and long, Whose pennant nobly flies, To bear the Irish emigrant, To new and brighter skies. I’m sure you’re often thinking, As you rush through splendid halls, About the dear old homestead, With its rude built cabin walls. We sit the same old way as yet, Beside the greasy soot, And watch the pot put out the fire, That has the broken foot. And when you’re dozing there, You’re knocked up wide awake, With some unearthly heifer’s rout, That pulled a rotten stake. You jump across the stools and chairs, And rush towards the byre, And see her two big eyeballs shine, Like two blue balls of fire. You get a hammer and some nails, To set the matter right, When some big clown puts in his head, Saying, “What an awful night”. It’s raining from the heavens down, I’m wet through back and belly, And John McKeown is out there yet, Going over to Glenelly. This very night will bleach his hide, And tax his wily plans, Unless he warms the weather well, Above at Annie Wann’s. You must lend me your overcoat, On Sunday night for sure, For a big dance in John Joe Kane’s, And one in Ballynure. The Barney Harry’s will be there, On that I’ll bet a pound, And young Frank Art is sure to come, To tease at Ally Brown. And then I didn’t tell you all, The big convoy we had, At your house when your sister left, the gathering was not sad. A lot of boys and some half tight, A very crowded house, Bit I was M.C. and I kept, Them quiet as a mouse. We left for home at four o’clock, To face the burns and ruts, And carried Patrick in our arms, Across the heathery cuts. While Mary cried some great big tears, But they are sorrow’s food, They’re not so scaresome when you know, That crying does you good. I saw your mother yester night, As nimble as a hare, She says she thinks your father will, Take Brindle to the fair. I’m going down with some wee pigs, What if we both should sell, We’ll have a glorious afternoon, We’ll both get tight as hell. The rowan trees with its berries red, The boor tree and the thorn, And the little well, half down the lane, Beside where you were born. The duck cro with it’s wee, wee door, Propped up with wooden pegs, And the hurry in the morning bright, To get the nice blue eggs. The peat banks and the cornfield, And the misty mountain lane, They are here the same as ever, You will see them all again. “After all those years he had forgotten none of the things he left as in ‘Dear Maggie’ (last verse). Bella, the last of the girls to leave, obviously travelled by hired car to Derry. For her daughter from Philadelphia, visiting the O’Kane home recently, the sadness of that parting is captured in the verse: ‘Far behind in James Kane’s cabin’ etc in ‘Farewell to Bella, a sister-in-law.’ (‘Wee Black Tin’ P 34)”
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Farewell to Bella, a Sister-in-law.
November’s cold and trailing mist, Was o’er the Irish hills, The morning you had crossed the stream, That water’s Irwin’s mills. You saw the very self same place, Shane Crossan made his lair, And all the wild and rugged hills, Where the rebels did repair. Wht changeful days have passed since then, These hills are growing old, Since Shane and his companion have, Been laid in Banagher’s mould. You saw wild Tamnanairn where, The stage coach used to go, And the old Franciscan abbey, By the winding river Roe. I wonder did your driver think To slow the motor down, And give you one last parting drink, In old Dungiven town. The lovely dells and sylvan glades Below old Camban, In the country of your kindred, Once a high and lordly clan. Limavady with its turrets, You can hear this o’er the foam, That you saw the rude foundations, Of your proud ancestral home. On the hill beside the castle, Met the ancient bards and seers, And the scions of O’Cahan dwelt, For nigh a thousand years. With corn and kine and goblets fair, And power at their command, No wonder we are longing for, Ther freedom of our land. Derry with its massive walls, Its history and its fray, Whose siege will be a landmark there, Until our dying day. The oak leaf days in Derry are, A memory sweet and fair, Of the saintly days of Erin, When St. Columbcille was there. Then the rippling heaing waters, Of the inland lough or bay, And we feel the parting kisses, When the tender leaves the quay. Moville so snug and handsome, Where you were not long delayed, Then into the open ocean, Where the swish of waters played. Far behind in James Kane’s cabin, Was a mother’s broken will, Brooding o’er her absent daughter and, I’m sure she sobbed her fill. But we cannot dwell on them things, That has been the gift of years, For the Lord has told us plainly, This would be a vale of tears. Then it’s up to you my lassie, That is only in your teens, Through the great freeland of Gordie, With its lustrous evergreens. To make tracks for fame and fortune, In the high toned rapid pace, That would hear the old traditions, Of the great O’Cahan race. You started with flourish to, The land of stripe and star, For your number won a blanket, At the parish church bazaar. Learn the true and tender lessons, That would point to the sublime, And you’ll never feel the shadows of, The underworld of crime. You that wears the raven tresses, O’er the brow so fair and high, With a little streak of beauty, In your kindly Irish eye. Do not take the time or trouble, Through the busy days engage, To be sighing for the absent, Like a bird penned in a cage. Lay this to the left hand side, And take life while you may, But always make a proctice, To be wise as well as gay. (20th Dec., 1926) “Happily, Brigid and Bella made a few memorable return visits while their parents were still alive. Another family member to be immortalised in my father’s verse was his cousin, Paul Johnnie. (‘Wee Black Tin’ P. 29)”
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Editor's note. This poem "Glengamna" has not been published before so it is a privilege to be able to present it here, thanks to Mary McKernan. (Mary appears in a photo with Brendan and Mary Kelly in the section on Brendan Kelly. There is a reference to the Neilly family, yet another ‘Kelly connection’.
Glengamna
Glengamna is a mountain glen The place where you were born, Where many a stalwart boy was raised Who was the 'heart of corn.' Fond memories hover round the place Where first we saw the light Of faces that we can't forget Though death holds them tonight. The memory too of special scenes We always treasure dear, They show us back the fields again Though misty they appear. The whins that grew on Neilly's holm The altar and the brae, There's not one whit of change around These places here today. The upper holm where oft' you played And gambolled there at will, The rock hole in the river And the Sixtowns corn mill. The crooked pass along the spink Going out at Jamie Joe's Where the goats were driven to Philip's By the lads in ragged clothes. No riches graced those early days Like a Londoner or Berliner, You went out to gather brosna For a fire to boil the dinner. Neil Cleary and his aged wife Are seventy years apiece And like to olden custom Keep the gander and the geese. The Jamie Domnick's all are gone To heaven or Tirconnel, And Hughie Boyle got married to A girl called Kate John Donald. Your elder brother Peter and His little wife Roseann They run your father's cabin On much the same old plan. They keep the kitchen tidy with The whitewash and the broom, And they made a sort of parlour Of the little upper room. They never changed the street at all, Not in the least degree. The slush comes down from Paddy's still Beside the whitethorn tree. The byre is thatched this season And before I say goodbye, The big holm is divided in Potatoes, grass and rye. The path across to Hagan's and On to old James Reid's Is always there and open To suit the people's needs. The still-house, or the place it was, Above in Charlie's field Is shaded o'er with hollies, Nature's green and prickly shield. I think you mind the season in The stormy harvest weather When you were building huts at night And thumped the sheaves together. And came home to try the churnstaff Was there milk below at all, And tripped across the supper In a pot against the wall. We had not great acquaintance But I liked you all the same And I miss the dear companions That I only have in name. No manly man would ever grieve For youthful days now past. If we were on a golden throne Those days could never last. Our early years would slip away And age would come along Our many friend would part this life And vanish like a song. 'Tis well there's one substantial plank, Our faith in God's command For life and time are mysteries that We cannot understand. Johnny Kelly Mary McKernan comments on "Glengamna"
“ ... a nice newsy poem about the McConomy? – (Conway/McNamee ) of Glengamna, written, I think, to a cousin in California, Pat.” Editor's note. The poem opposite in the right hand column, "Paul Johnnie", is the inspiration for "Screen Spirit", another book on this website. Back in 2000 I had complained that there was very little ever written about the pubs of Ballinascreen other than this "bar odyssey". Thanks to John Paul Kelly, then, you can find Screen Spirit here. |
Paul Johnnie
There’s a gentleman lives in this place, We know him very well, Paul Johnnie is this hero’s name We are not ashamed to tell. He quarrelled with his people, O’er the fortunes of a will, And he went to live with decent folk, Beside the Sixtowns mill. For five long years of honest toil, He served this gentleman, Who gave him house and keeping, Of the best in any land. One lovely harvest evening, Just as the sun went down, He heard his master had been killed, In a field beyond the town. He washed his face and combed his hair, And trimmed his shoe and sock, And on starting for the village, Took his wee alarm clock. To get her put in order, Just to know the time of night, For he knew a handy fellow there, Could easy put her right. Vexation came upon him as, He plodded o’er the stiles’ And to help a man in trouble, He went in a while to Myles. Says Myles, “This is a fearful case” Says Paul, “I do agree, And I hope he is shining happy, He was always good to me. “I brought my little timepiece, I can hold her by my side, If I get the length of Draperstown, I will leave her with McBride. Two days and nights to heavy grief, He mourned him up and down, He drunk a share and spent a share, And toured around the town. Until at length unhappy, He resolved to turn home, And see the little cabin, And the cat he left at home. And to bring his little timepiece, He being in a sour frame, He found that she was scuttled, Where no one could name her name. To search the public houses, Of the village one and all, He started down at Thomas Quinn’s, To give him the first call. “Did you see my little ticker?” “Well I will look and grope, But you would not know between her, And a pound of Hudson’s soap.” He came back to Mickey Kelly’s, And says they, “Get out of here, If you rise a row among us, You will get one solid year.” Patrick Rodgers had his eye out, And he knew his step was long, “Yes,” said he, “I see him coming, There is something terror wrong.” “Did you see my little timepiece?” “Well,” said he, “she is not here.” But he spoke him very kindly, “Give a call at McAleers’.” He was standing in the doorway, With his face a little thin, There was flour on his waistcoat, And gravy on his chin. “Did you see my little timepiece?” “You have better take a walk, Or I’ll leave where they toe mark, Around the ring of chalk.” He came back to Charlie Harry’s, And his gait was rather curt, Said he, “I’m not so badly’ When they didn’t take my shirt.” “Go round to Paddy Hegarty, He is honest, he is good, He will tell you all about it, If you get him in that mood.” He went up to Mark McKenna’s And he told his story there, Said he, “You need a woman, Paul, To keep you in repair. He went out upon the High Street, And he cursed the village well, He prayed it might be keeping time, For someone down in hell. This is but one adventure, Of the many changing ways, Through a happy roving lifetime, That he spent for all his days. If his history all was written, As it properly should be, It might lie beside O’Connell’ In the National Libaree. |