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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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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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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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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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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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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Back There In Millstreet County Cork
Back there in Millstreet County Cork the frosted fields are gray
And old Clara wears his hat of snow on this cold January day
And cattle in the farmyard shed are bellowing for hay
Back there in Millstreet County Cork far north and far away.
Through old fields west of Millstreet Town the Finnow bank high flow
Through Inchaleigh, Coomlogane and Claragahatlea by many a bare hedgerow
Robins, blackbirds and sparrows by back door eat crumbs of bread
Before the Spring for them some hard and hungry times ahead.
Back there through Millstreet County Cork harsh winds of January blow
The days and nights are wet and cold quite cold enough to snow
In Duhallow I was born and raised though far from there I may die
And that I still feel nostalgia for the place of that why should I lie.
Back there in Millstreet County Cork the wintery winds blow chill
Across the bleak unsheltered face of Clara's bracken hill
And on the high fields by the hill beneath a darkened sky
The hungry fox out hunting utters forth a wild shrill cry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sean Radley Is To Millstreet
What Pele was to Brazil or Caesar was to Rome
Sean Radley is to Millstreet the place I still call home
And he's not been a warrior or been known for football
But in that Town by Clara hill he's best loved one of all.
Sean Radley is a hero for kindness he has shown
And all around Duhallow by everyone he's known
And about him those who know him have no bad word to say
And to help out other people he go out of his way.
To the Millstreet Museum Society some of his spare time he devote
And about the history of Millstreet some fine articles he's wrote
As a humanitarian and historian Sean Radley earned his fame
And all around Duhallow his is a well known name.
What Caesar was to Italy or Pele was to Brazil
Sean Radley is to Millstreet that Town by Clara hill
And he's not been a warrior or been known for football
But in Millstreet in Duhallow the best loved one of all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Wave From Jimmy Sullivan
A wave from Jimmy Sullivan in Millstreet far away
A nice and spontaneous gesture that did help to make my day
From Clara road one must presume in view of Clara hill
It brought back the old memories as if time had stood still.
When we played Soccer and Gaelic football some twenty years ago
Though our old legs ageing back then nowadays are far more slow
But Jimmy looking fit and well despite the march of time
He was a quick and elusive player when he was in his prime.
One of those lucky people who has a sense of place
In Millstreet Town and Parish his is a well known face
He never will leave Millstreet in Millstreet he will stay
And in his beloved Town of Millstreet he will grow old and gray.
From life i do feel hardened and i feel too old for tears
But that wave from Jimmy Sullivan it took me back the years
To when we were young and fitter and we chased the ball around
In the Inch field at Claraghatlea back then our football ground.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Perhaps I'll Never Again See Old Clara Mountain
I'm getting on in years and looking older even than my age of two years with three score
And perhaps I'll never again see old Clara Mountain and climb the high fields up through Claramore
In Claraghtalea I started my life's journey but I'm not to know where and when that journey will end
In sixty two years I've known a lot of people but not everyone I've known I'd call a friend
I often think about the Town of Millstreet where mine once was a fairly well known face
Though there today I well might be a stranger a stranger even in my old Homeplace
I am one of many migrants from Duhallow for to try my luck in the big World out there
Duhallow people are known to be travellers and one from there one could meet anywhere
I often think of those I went to school with many of them the grandparents of today
Perhaps the years have left them looking older even some of them with the departed lay
It has been many years since I've last seen them the years eventually do tell on all
On looking back our young years went so quickly and for everyone of us a final Fall
Perhaps I'll never again see old Clara Mountain or walk in the fields where the rank rushes grow
In Claraghatlea I began my life's journey but where and when that journey will end I'm not to know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Mick Cashman
In the Cork County Senior Football Championship Final of 1957 I still recall the day
The last time I see Mick Cashman for his home club Millstreet Play
At the Cork Athletic grounds that day the Duhallow men were beat
The City Club St Finbarrs proved too good for Millstreet.
The Barrs fans celebrated the victory was sweet
But Mick Cashman played a great game he was gallant in defeat
In the biggest day in Cork County for the game of Gaelic Football
And though Millstreet lost to go that far they did well overall.
Mick Cashman was ordained a priest and for New Zealand he was bound
Far from Millstreet in Duhallow and Tullig his home ground
In the green and gold of Millstreet he was never seen again
But what was a loss to Ireland was surely New Zealand's gain.
Mick Cashman was a gentleman and of him 'twould be fair to say
That to help out other people he went out of his way
A Parish Priest in New Zealand where he was known far and wide
And his success in his adopted Country to Millstreet a sense of pride.
He is buried in New Zealand far south and far away
From Tullig above Millstreet Town where he first saw light of day
Last saw him in a Cork County Final for Millstreet playing Gaelic Football
A good memory till my own end that I surely will recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Remember The Time
I remember the time when the Gaelic Footballers of Millstreet
In the Cork County Senior Championship for the best were a hard team to beat
But time does bring change as some like to say so
And that is going back a few decades ago.
Nowadays with Duhallow's best junior footballers Millstreet cannot compete
The downturn for them one can say is complete
But in sport as in life few things stay the same
And Gaelic Football after all is only a game.
The glory days for Millstreet Gaelic Football may be gone
But in the Town in view of Clara life as usual goes on
Though Millstreet glory days in sport Millstreet people like to recall
There is far more to life than Gaelic Football.
Of the North Cork Gaelic Football Clubs Millstreet were to the fore
And against the County's best they often kicked a winning score
And though no Gaelic Senior Football team in Millstreet today
Life as usual goes on in the Town far away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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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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Millstreet's Ageing Heroes
I never was a Millstreet sporting icon or in any field of sport knew of renown
But I'm the one who is left to sing the praises of the sporting greats of Millstreet my Hometown
Many of Duhallow's finest sports people are from Millstreet they did the green and gold of their Club proud
In every Public Bar around Duhallow the poets and singers sung their praises loud
Nowadays not many sporting greats in Millstreet in Athletics or Gaelic Football
Of late so very few sporting successes for future generations to recall
Of sporting greats Millstreet had it's golden era but nothing lasts forever as they say
The youth in sports perhaps not interested and the former heroes have grown old and gray
In Gaelic Football as well as in Athletics Millstreet has produced many a famous name
The ageing heroes have grown stiffer and slower they had their time and they enjoyed their fame
We can only remember them with fondness lets hear it for the heroes of the past
But life goes on and only Nature is forever and nothing else does ever seem to last
Back there by the old mountains of Duhallow the people like the Seasons come and go
The heroes of past decades getting older the years have left them feeling stiff and slow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When People Ask Me Where I Come From
I am just a peasant fellow without pretension to renown
But in some ways I feel lucky I was raised near Millstreet Town
And if anybody ask me where are you from anyway?
I tell them I come from Millstreet from a place called Claraghatlea.
Claraghatlea that sounds a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them a Town in North Cork inland distant from the sea
In green and fertile Duhallow with high mountains all around
Where you can view the finest scenery when you climb the higher ground.
Of Millstreet you paint a good picture but how do it compare to here?
We only read of wet Ireland where the skies are seldom clear
Not much point in pretty scenery if the weather's seldom fine
Give me Queensland and warm weather, golden beaches and sunshine.
With them I don't try to argue each to their own point of view
And what they read of Irish weather in some ways is partly true
But I have often been to Queensland and thought the climate hot and dry
And even in cooler Victoria risk of skin cancer is high.
When people ask me where I come from my heritage I don't deny
I tell them I come from Millstreet twelve thousand miles north as plane fly
Winter months were wet and frosty and in Spring some heavy showers
But from May onwards so much beauty, fields and gardens full of flowers.
It is Spring now in Victoria and today is such a pleasant day
And the grey shrike thrush is whistling in the wood across the way
it is almost perfect weather a high of twenty degrees
And the nestling birds are chirping in their nests high on the trees.
Wish today could last forever but wishing cannot make it be
In the Summer temperatures soar to a high of forty three
And this a cool part of Australia further north it's hot all year
And to some parts rain is a stranger and the drought can hit severe.
When people ask me where I come from west of Millstreet Town I say
In green and fertile Duhallow in a place called Claraghatlea
This Claraghatlea sounds such a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them by Clara mountain inland distant from the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Snow In Duhallow
The fields and hills and towns of Duhallow are covered in snow
And ice on the pools where the Blackwater flow
On it's way through icy North Cork to the Atlantic Shore
Something not seen or not often heard of before.
Sean Radley with his camera in Millstreet Town
The images online of where he walked up and down
Snow on the rooftops and snow on the street
'Tis not a place where one could walk on bare feet.
Andreas Zenker with his camera did display some skill
In his graphic images of snow clad Mushera Hill
In Mushera in Winter the silence is profound
When the frosty winds are blowing across the high ground.
Michelle O Keeffe's photos of the frozen Blackwater at Dooneen
In the snow covered countryside around could not see any green
In her portrayal of the reality she did rather well
Every picture 'tis said it's own story does tell.
'Tis true enough the camera does never lie
Many wild creatures in the harsh Irish Winter will die
There may not be many birds left to welcome the Spring
In groves and in woodlands fewer songsters to sing.
A hero to the children of Ireland though that may be brief
Is the Minister for Education the Cullen born and raised Batt O Keeffe
By order he has closed down the schools till the thaw does set in
At least for the children in it there's a win.
From Millstreet Michael Cashman, Eily Buckley, John Tarrant and Hannelie O Connor not much joy to report
Only cancellation of events and cancellation of sport
Road bowling and soccer, hurling and gaelic football
And the fiftieth anniversary celebrations in Ballydaly Hall.
I lay here in the sunshine improving my tan
Whilst telling myself I am a lucky man
I could be in Duhallow gazing at Clara Hill
With chattering teeth in the harsh Winter chill.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Will Take You Home To Millstreet
I will take you home to Millstreet when the may is in her bloom
And the green meads cloked with wildflowers scent of nature's sweet perfume
And the dark winged barn swallows white unders and throat rust brown
Wheel above the lush green pastures bordering Millstreet's country town.
I will take you home to Millstreet to the town by Clara hill
When the dipper sings her sweetest on green bank of babbling rill
And the male snipe late at evening with his wings make goat like sound
As above the silent rush fields he goes flying around and round
I will take you home to Millstreet when soft grass growing breezes blow
And relive again the old days with old friends I used to know
And give a call into the Bush Bar for the dance and the sing song,
I will take you home to Millstreet if with me you'll come along.
Will you come with me my darling to green valleys far away
When the birds in leafy woodlands pipe their sweetest notes of May
To the Land I still call Homeland, to the country of my youth
Ireland, North Cork and Duhallow where my manhood first took
root.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Cormac Dinneen
They wanted him in Kerry to play with their football team
But Cormac he loved Millstreet and he wore their famous green
And he too wore the red Cork jersey with passion and with pride
A legend in his playing days and he was known far and wide.
I watched him play as a veteran when he was past his prime
Way back in the late fifties some forty years in time
Against one ten years younger he more than held his own
A marvellous defender then one of the finest known.
The Millstreet fans they loved him a player they did revere
He never shirked a challenge a stranger to all fear
He never was found wanting when he was put to the test
And in the Cork County colours he played against the best.
When Millstreet's elder gaelic football fans talk of the Millstreet greats they've seen
A player they always mention is the great Cormac Dinneen
To them he was one of Millstreet's best and they still heap upon him praise
For he was one of their heroes in Millstreet's glory days.
And though time catch up on everyone and the years have made him slow
He was a Cork and Millstreet great some fity years ago
And in forty eight when Millstreet won the County he lived up to his name
As one of Ireland's best defenders then in the Gaelic football game.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Toots Kelleher From Millstreet
In the late forties and all through the fifties and that's going back in time
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet was in his glorious prime
In the game of Gaelic Football the great man knew great fame
And through the length and breadth of Ireland his was a well known name.
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet was one of Ireland's best
And he never was found wanting when he was put to the test
The poets and song writers they sung his praises loud
And in Duhallow we revered him of him we felt so proud.
For Cork and his Club Millstreet some marvellous games he played
And despite the passing decades the memories do not fade
Of Toots Kelleher from Millstreet fearless in the field of play
A legend in his life time and a legend still today.
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet is at rest forever more
But often in flights of fancy I can hear the mighty roar
Of the Munster final crowd in Killarney when Toots had the football
A memory to cherish and a memory to recall.
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet his praises have been sung
Often watched him play for Millstreet years ago when I was young
Exuberant in victory and gallant in defeat
One who was hero worshipped but never knew conceit.
A Champion Gaelic Footballer we honour him today
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet at peace forever lay
His name will live forever in the history of Gaelic Football
And the Reaper who has claimed him will one day claim us all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In January In Duhallow
The cold winds of January from the north east does blow
And the weather is cold quite cold enough for to snow
And the hungry birds silent on the naked hedgerow
In the flat and rushy fields where the Blackwater flow.
January in Duhallow from here far away
In the chill of the morning the frost bound fields gray
In the farmyard sheds cattle bellow for silage or hay
Where the sun seldom shines on a January day.
The distinctive harsh caws of the silver backed crow
In the Season where grass does refuse for to grow
And few cars on the roadway that leads to the town
Near where the river flows bank high in flood waters of brown.
In January in Duhallow the old fields looking bare
With the harsh chill of Winter in the cold Morning air
And at least eight long weeks till the first breath of Spring
When Nature will bloom and her wild birds will sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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