Memories Of The Irish Travellers
The travellers parked their horse drawn vans at the Shannaknock cross when I was a young boy
And recalling such good memories is a thing I still enjoy
And though their colorful Romany caravans are no longer to be seen
Good memories last a life time and we recall what has been.
I loved their colorful pinto horses with white patches through the brown
On March the first they bought and sold them at the horse fair in Millstreet Town
In the early sixties the increase on automobile traffic brought an end to the horse drawn van
And jeeps and motor vans became the transport of the born to wander clan.
At the cross road around their camp fire on a starry Winter's night
They played their tunes and sung their songs under the pale moonlight
And something lost forever that won't be found again
And only the fond memories of the past now does remain
Of Ireland in the fifties and the early sixties long before I reached my prime
When the travellers travelled in their horse drawn vans that is going back in time
They added so much colour to the green old countryside
As the byroads of the County they travelled far and wide.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Now A Memory Of The Past
The travellers parked their romany horse drawn vans at the Shannaknock Cross when when frosted fields were bare
But despite the cold and damp weather they did not seem to have a care
Their pinto horses with ropes tied to trees munched on bunches of hay
And old Clara Hill wore his hat of snow on a cold February day
The coldness of the Winter chill was in the frosty air
A week before the first of March and Millstreet Town Horse Fair
The by roads of Duhallow they had travelled up and down
On their way to the big horse fair that was held in Millstreet Town
Time does not wait for anyone and leaves us looking older and gray
But the good memories of our childhood years till death with us will stay
I loved them for their love of poetry, song and music and life they did enjoy
But the sixties brought great change to Duhallow where I lived as a boy
The late twentieth century to Ireland brought great changes and few things seem to last
And their romany vans and pinto horses now a memory of the past.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Fond And Happy Memories
In the middle of February they always came to Annagloor
And parked their horse drawn vans by the by road the travelling Irish poor
They came for the March horse fair in Millstreet Town horses they bought and sold
And a beautiful Pinto to them was a horse worth more than gold.
The coldest part of the Winter is in mid February
And a cold wind blew across the sky in temperatures low as minus 3
Their horses they did not tether on the by road they ranged free
And though that was close to fity years ago those memories remain with me.
And though many Seasons have come and gone since then the memories remain evergreen
Around their camp fire they drunk their illicit booze the stuff known as poteen
And the accordionist played the old tunes and with him they sang along
And they were bound through their cultural links to music dance and song.
Their ancestors were the dispossessed that Cromwells's army had put on the road
That led them to the wandering life of the 'no fixed abode'
Their mothers gave them life in their horse drawn vans and in their horse drawn vans they died
And from birth till death they roamed around the Irish countryside
Outcasts in their own country and homeless and downtrod
But through their music dance and song linked to a greater God
And though they too had their human frailties so too don't we one and all
And fond and happy memories of them I can recall.
Their children and grand children don't live in a horse drawn van
For the late fifties brought great changes to the lives of the wandering clan
Yet by the by road at Annagloor around their camp fire in the moonlight
I still can hear them singing on a cold and frosty night.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Fond Memories Of The Irish Travellers
The wanderlust was in them and they moved from place to place
In their horse drawn gipsy caravans but they were a happy race
Of people for they had the gift of music and they had the gift of song
And to the dispossessed of Cromwell their ancestry belong.
I loved their pinto horses in their coats of white and brown
As they trotted down the byways towards another country Town
They parked by a quiet crossroad a few days prior to the horse fair
And around their camp fires they sang their songs and drank their grog in the chilly night air.
Their nickname it was 'Tinker' since they were tinsmiths by trade
And their women travelled from door to door for to sell the tin pots and cans their husbands made
But they did not like the Tinker name when to them it was referred
The tag of travelling people they very much preferred.
The late fifties brought much change in Ireland for those of no fixed abode
And the sharp increase in motor cars and trucks forced their horse drawn vans off of the road
And though nothing last forever it has always been that way
Fond memories of the Irish Travellers till my end with me will stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Farewell To The Travelling People
Farewell to the travelling people their fame it was known far and wide
Their horse drawn vans are no longer to be seen on the by roads of the green countryside
Their descendants live a different sort of a lifestyle with the passing of the decades few things stay the same
And so it is for the children of the wanderlust people who too are often called out of name.
Farewell to the travelling musicians on their culture they too took great pride
They used to play beautiful old tunes but sad to say their old tunes with them died
A thing of beauty is lost forever and the Seasons they come and they go
And across the countryside they travelled in the winds of change ever does blow.
They knew about discrimination the under class of their Homeland
But they had their own ways and cultures that others could not understand
Their love of their coloured pinto horses their great love of music and song
Lost to the winds of change forever their culture to history now belong.
Farewell to the travelling people fond memories of them do remain
They travelled the by roads of Ireland their likes we will not see again
They played their music by their camp fire and sung in the glow of the fire light
And their romany vans drawn by their pinto horses made for such a beautiful sight.
poem by Francis Duggan
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March Horse Fair Day
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet Town.
In Ireland on March the first the sun doesn't often shine
In fact the day is seldom ever fine
Old February till latter March remain
You take your hat and coat expecting rain.
Near 10 A.M. it makes a heavy shower
And it keeps on raining maybe for an hour
And horses and their owners soaked right to the skin
But rain doesn't worry tough horse loving men.
The deals were clinched with hand slap and hand shake
Your bond your word and your word you would not break
The Town Square packed with people young and old
And deals were done and many horses sold.
And people there from many walks of life
The travelling man with his children and wife,
And the man who owns forty acres of moor
By any standards he's considered poor.
And wealthy farmer down south for the day
To buy good horse and make the journey pay
And horses changed hands when the deals were made
And Uptown pubs were doing a roaring trade.
My thoughts return to happier days gone by
When I was younger and a school going boy
And March horse fair was always school free day
The better memories with us tend to stay.
And I too went to Millstreet old Town Square
For to watch the dealings and the barterings there,
The slap of hands, the handshakes deals were done
And old friendships renewed and new friendships were won.
A nip of winter in the morning air
As people made their way to the horse fair
A shame about the weather some did say
But rain or sleet did not keep them away.
A time of year between winter and spring
Too cold and early yet for birds to sing
Old February till latter March remain
And you take your hat and coat expecting rain.
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Just a Horse
From time to time,
People tell me 'lighten up, it's just a horse.'
From time to time
People tell me, ' a lot of money spent'
From time to time
People tell me, 'it's just a horse.'
If you really think it's
'Just a horse, '
Like 'just a promise, '
'Just a friend, '
Than you can't see
The beauty of it all.
You just can't see.
The distance traveled,
The time spent,
And the costs involved for
'Just a horse.'
The reason to rise,
Early in the morning,
Taking those long walks,
Even when it's pouring.
It's my proudest moments,
My only company,
The saddest moments,
And the gentle touch,
That gave me a reason to go on.
It's the hopes and dreams,
And the coming of the future.
The fond memories of the past,
And the unforgettable joy of the coming day.
So...
If you really think it's,
'Just a horse, '
Like 'just a promise, '
'Just a friend, '
Than you can't see,
The beauty of it all.
You just can't see.
'Just a horse'
Brings out the best in me,
'Just a horse'
It gives me who I am and
Keeping me from being,
'Just a girl.'
'Just a woman'
'Just another passing being'
I'll smile and nod to agree,
knowing deep down I don't.
you may think it's 'just a horse, '
but it never will be for me.
If you really think it's,
'Just a horse, '
Like 'just a promise, '
'Just a friend, '
Than you can't see,
The beauty of it all.
You just can't see.
poem by Jess Schwarcz
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Old Black Tom
My dad sold black Tom our old work-horse when he had known a better day
But what happened to him after that I do not know for to say
Suppose he was slaughtered for dog meat few work-horses of old age do die
To say that all work-horses become children pets would be telling a lie
Any way old black Tom would never have been any good as a child's pet
A few nips he gave to me I never will forget
Old Tom he was surely not gentle or quiet
And given the opportunity he surely would bite
Five out of ten for him would seem a fair score
He was a good work-horse that and nothing more
Not the finest equine west of Millstreet Town
For Tom the old rogue horse no such a renown
He was sold to a horse dealer more than three decades ago
And what happened to him after I cannot say I do know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The White Horse...
on that early dawn
they arrived. I will not tell you
exactly how many were they.
they brought the wild horse again
this time it is white and coy
they did not speak to me
my attention was focused on the
beautiful horse
i did not show that i liked it
i did not talk too
then they brought the horse inside
the house
and then the windows and doors
were closed
and then the white horse started to
dance
and i liked it more
it was then that i realized
what are they really
and why are they here bringing me
a beautiful white horse
will they take my antique chairs
made of rosewood?
will i bargain my house
for a horse?
just for a horse
and they whose names i do not really know
shall laugh
after they had finally taken the whole of what i have
just for a white horse whose talent is just
to dance?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Were I A Horse
A balding man my hair is gray decades ago it was brown
Were I a horse I'm sure by now that I would have been put down
I feel so very stiff and old father time is catching up on me
And I for one don't fear life's end what is to be will be.
I was not any good at sports I cannot dance and sing
I'm just your average ordinary bloke not much good at anything
They say only the good die young and I still linger on
And better people by far than I deceased, forgotten and gone.
Were I a horse I'd have been put down that may seem crude to say
But that's what happens to most horses when they have had their day
Most horses save for the lucky few not allowed to grow old and die
I feel grateful to be still around more living I'll enjoy.
Were I a horse I'd have been put down for dog or cat food maybe
The knacker takes the worn out horse the Reaper will claim me
The years on me begin to tell my fastest pace is slow
And I was in the prime of life some thirty years ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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For Me Far Too Much Foofaraw
For me far too much foofaraw
Your own conclusions on them and their work draw
Though modern poets and their poems in poetry the in thing
And their praises the literary critics sing.
I am not an up with the times man
And of them and their work I am not a fan
For I do love old fashioned rhyme
And my love for it goes back some time.
It gives me joy to sing along
With the singer of the old ballad or song
The sort the travellers at the horse fairs sung
Decades ago when I was young.
A beautiful memory I recall
Of the Millstreet Town horse fair in the Fall
An ageing Irish Traveller sung Burns 'Afton water' what a joy
For a nine year old country boy.
In the poems of modern poets too much foofaraw for me
Though with that many would disagree
I love the music in the rhyme
The poetry of another time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Verses On Night And Day
In the forest at night
my good old horse
has lost his way.
His head nods sleepily –
perhaps he dreams
of fields green by day.
The owls are hooting,
the night is cold,
the ground is hard,
but all night long
my good old horse
will stand his guard.
Daylight will come
to light the woods
at break of day,
and at that time
my horse will know
to find the way.
The night and darkness
are as nothing
to my old horse,
for he knows to wait
as time shall pass, and life
shall take its course.
poem by Rory Hudson
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Old Dan
Old stories he told and old ballads he sung
The Tans were in Ireland when old Dan was young
He was twenty six years in nineteen sixteen
And the bitterness and grief of war he had seen.
I knew him when he was in his mid sixties in his life's early Fall
And he said his Civil war memories were his saddest memories of all
When the signing of a Treaty caused families to divide
And brother at the hand of brother had died.
He had fought in war but the praises of war would not sing
He said war to Ireland death and sorrow did bring
A heroic freedom fighter of which he never did brag
He said far too many lives lost for the colour of a flag.
With the deceased of Munster for decades he lay
I knew him as an ageing man his hair silver gray
He told stories and sung songs of his younger years
Of the Ireland he loved Land of bloodshed and tears.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Cloud Chief Horses
I never had a horse at Cloud Chief
Even though horses were in season
My dad would say I ate like a horse
So to save food that was the reason
I guess it was either me or a horse
My dad had an horse in early days
Must of had more food in his time
Good reason to love his yesterdays
poem by John McCornack
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Eddie O Mahony
He never more will walk in the Town of Millstreet in St Mary's cemetery at peace he lay
Perhaps in his mid forties to his early fifties he did die young and it would be fair to say
Of him that he was really a nice person he made so many friends along life's way
And one day his lot it will be our lot as for each of us there is a final day.
In his younger years Eddie O Mahony played Soccer and Gaelic Football in Brian Sullivan's Mal Paso pub he was well known
His family and his many friends will mourn him and Murphy's Terrace and Millstreet Town has lost one of it's own
He seemed so young for to go to the reaper but suppose he was not meant for to grow old
But in the Mal Paso pub his old mates will recall him when stories of the good days will be told.
A youngish man he had so much to live for he did not live for to die as an old man
The reaper takes the young and old and ageing though short in time is the longest life span
One can only hope for Eddie that his end was peaceful that at his end he did not suffer pain
He was well known and well liked around Millstreet and with those who knew him good memories of him will remain.
Pre-deceased by his beloved father Dan O, Eddie is one his friends always will recall
In his younger years as i can well remember he played Sports, Soccer and Gaelic Football
He died as a young enough man that seems so sad of years he did not even reach three score
And he will be sadly missed from the Mal Paso and may he rest in peace forever more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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A Horse-Drawn Carriage Ride
Oh what fun it is to see
A carriage drawn by a horse
Still after all these years
You can find them still, of course
For in special towns you can find
A horse drawn carriage to travel in
In New Orleans for instance, folks
So very beautiful with lots of trim
But can you imagine just how
Exciting they were in their day
Perhaps a roof and maybe not
Like riding atop a trailer with hay
So many wonderful styles there were
You can see in museums and such
Fancy some of them really are
With an old-fashioned classic touch
So if you get a chance to see or ride
On a horse drawn carriage some time
Jump at the chance ‘cause you know
It’s the most exciting day you’ll find!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Those were the Days
The horse drawn hearse impresses me
Drawn by a pair of well matched blacks.
Moves slowly onward sedately.
With an attendant at the back.
The coachman in dark livery.
A black crepe bow adorns his hat
Controls his horses easily
There can be little doubt of that.
It is a sight we rarely see.
In the busy world of today.
A horse drawn hearse traditionally.
Was seen to be the only way.
To embark on your last journey
To the local cemetery.
Tuesday,17 April 2012.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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What is a Horse?
What is a horse?
A horse has eyes as dainty as a mink.
The grace is interrupted merely by a blink.
A horse is beauty.
What is a horse?
A horse is a tree in a storm that never goes down.
A horse is a weathered rock that stays around.
A horse is ancient.
What is a horse?
A horse waltzes like breeze over rivers.
She curvets and leaps like rain shivers.
A horse is a marionette.
What is a horse?
A horse is determination, that never stops flowing.
A horse is fondness, that never stops growing.
A horse is poetic power.
poem by Lily Whittaker
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On The Passing Of Dan Leary
Dan Leary was a legend of old Millstreet but he'll never more be seen in Millstreet Town
Or in the Townpark on a Summer's evening With a pair of greyhounds walking up and down
He was a sterling corner back in his prime a stalwart of Millstreet Gaelic Football
Fearless and hard but fair he never shirked a challenge as those who played against him do recall.
For many years he was a Millstreet butcher the Learys of the West End were well known
And Dan the Millstreet schoolboys of the fifties did look up to we were so proud he was one of our own
In Cork County Championship Games in Coachford and in Macroom Dan Leary at his best was often seen
One of his Club's greatest defensive players it was with pride he wore the Millstreet green.
It was with sadness I read of his passing in the flesh one that we never more will see
But for as long as I have the power to remember he surely will live in my memory
He was so down to earth and unassuming and to his friends he always remained true
'Tis not because he's dead I sing his praises in words I only give the man his due.
Dan Leary a legend of Duhallow Gaelic Football now with the dead of Millstreet Parish lay
'Tis sad to think we never more will see him but good memories of him with us bound to stay
The best forwards in Cork Gaelic Football against him always found it hard to score
It was with pride he wore the green of Millstreet and may he rest in peace forever more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Good Memories Of What Was
I was not any use at Gaelic Football or Soccer though I played in Millstreet Townpark in the rain
And I played Soccer in Neily Duggan's Inch Field but these things I will never do again
With my young friends for us it was enjoyment but few things in life stay the same
The fire of youth in us was burning but it now is a flickering flame
We never thought about growing older the gift of youth is a great thing
Though of the past we have our memories and till death to them we will cling
The thought that we age with the Seasons does seldom enter the young mind
But the years leave us frailer and older eternal youth not for air breathing kind
But for as long as we have the gift of memory of our prime years good memories we retain
And often in our flights of fancy the past we do visit again
I still recall the joy and laughter as we chased the football up and down
On Summer evenings often wet and windy in the Townpark of old Millstreet Town
The years leave us all looking older and the clock on our lives ticking on
But the good memories of what was bring us comfort of the past to the forever gone.
poem by Francis Duggan
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