Scoil: Ballinamona

Ar an leathanach seo

1. Account of Poet (ar lean)

   

   Roinn Roinn Postáil

   (ar lean ón leathanach roimhe)

   Song composed by Peter O'Connell Lisnaboy (Tierworker district) locally known as "The Tierworker Poet"
   I
   In this Island of Saints there's a spot to be found
   Where a very large number of sinners abound
   Unfortunately wretches both women and men
   Who are born, nursed, suckled and reared upon sin
   It was said when St Patrick was blessing the land
   On the Moat of Moybollogne the Saint took his stand
   He blessed Relaghbeg and he blessed Relaghmore
   And he turned to Blackhills both Upper and Lower
   And his hands he let carelessly fall by his side
   And lifting his featured towards Heaven he cried
   Can I bless such a place? "no" I don't think I will
   And weeping he turned away from the HIll
   II
   There the sun never shines on that spot from on high
   And the wind and the air sweep on with a moan and a sigh
   And the streams and the rivers rush on with a pace
   That shows clearly they are eager to fly from the place
   And nothing is heard but the crow of a frog
   Or the bray of a donkey tied down in the bog.
   And there a song bird never twitters a note
   Save the long snouted snipe that ma's like the goat
   And to add to the wilderness that hangs o'er the place
   It is seen in the inhabitants every grimace
   When they laugh it's a laugh that listeners must doubt
   Which people say there is something peculiar about
   (III)
   For it sounds like a yell from the regions infernal
   Or some poor spirit sentenced to torments eternal
   So they bravely face death knowing well what then follows
   When they quit the Blackhills it's to enter Black-follows.
   And wretched and few are the crops that they raise
   But they work for their living in various ways.
   The coopering trade one has managed to learn,
   And can bottom a bucket, a tub, or a churn
   Another had mastered the hammer and last
   And for cobbling and charging is seldom surpassed
   While another's a slater that a slater with straw
   And one a botch carpenter with hammer and saw
   (IV)
   Who by easily handling the hatchet and knife
   Can nicely maintain both himself and his wife
   But another's more active and cute than the rest.
   Who all kinds of labour and work does detest.
   Of swift running hounds his possessed of a pair
   When content with enough for the day he has caught
   For to-morrow it never will cost him a thought

   (leanann ar an chéad leathanach eile)

   

   Tras-scríofa ag duine dár meitheal tras-scríbhneoirí deonacha.

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