From my chin a hair is sprouting

My cracks need a bit of grouting

I’m often seen plastered

This ladylike thing I haven’t quite mastered

But I’m good for a bit of craic

Of laughter there is no lack

I’ve been told I’m incorrigible

But I think I’m loveable

I’m always going to be a rogue

Peoples Achilles heel I have to poke

Sensitive souls mightn’t like my humour

But that might be a nasty rumour

Then again I’m a bit of a divil-may-care

So if you don’t like it stay outta my hair

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,
'Come out and be christened, you divil!'

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'

'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.

'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!

Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan?
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse: whoy, Doctor's abean an' agoan;
Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale; but I beant a fool;
*** ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to break my rule.

Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what 's nawways true;
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do.
I 've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere.
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year.

Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' ere o' my bed.
"The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'isen, my friend," a said,
An' a towd ma my sins, an' s toithe were due, an' I gied it in hond;
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond.

Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn.
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Marris's barne.
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an' staate,
An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate.

An' I hallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead,
An' 'eard 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock ower me 'ead,
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but a thowt a 'ad summut to saay.
An' I thowt a said what a owt to 'a said, an' I coom'd awaay.

Bessy Marris's barne! tha knaws she laaid it to mea.
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understond;
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond.

But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a says it easy an' freea:
"The amoighty 's taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea.
I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 'aaste;
But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste.

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then;
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um mysen;
Moast loike a butter-bump, fur I 'eard 'um about an' about,
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled 'um out.

Keaper's it wur; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laaid of is' faace
Down i' the woild 'enemies afoor I coom'd to the plaace.
Noaks or Thimbleby--toaner 'ed shot 'um as dead as a naail.
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it opp at 'soize--but *** ma my aale.
Dubbut loook at the waaaste; theer warn't not feead for a cow;
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now--
Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' feead,
Fourscoor yows upon it, an' some on it down i' seead.

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall,
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all,
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan,--
Mea, wi haate hoonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond o' my oan.

Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' mea?
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an yonder a pea;
An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all--a' dear, a' dear!
And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year.

A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 'aapoth o' sense,
Or a mowt a' taaen young Robins--a niver mended a fence:
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now,
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to plow!

Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a passin' boy,
Says to thessen, naw doubt, "What a man a bea sewer-loy!"
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin' fust a coom'd to the 'All;
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall.

Squoire 's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite,
For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea that muddles ma quoit;
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes,
Naw, nor a moant to Robins--a niver rembles the stoans.

But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's oan team.
Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet,
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it.

What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring me the aale?
Doctor 's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taale;
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy;
*** ma my aale, I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy.

People think that Dublin, Ireland's fair capital city
Is a place of merriment, overflowing with craic and whiskey,
Whose narrow streets are filled with poets and singers and also
Pretty girls with wheelbarrows selling cockles and mussels;
A city redolent with history, whose gutters run with half-digested Guinness
After closing time, and the drinkers have been hurled into the gutter
By jovial bouncers who can recite "Ulysses" from start to finish
From memory, and where the Liffey, sweet Anna Liffey, flows peacefully,
With only an occasional splash when a pedestrian topples gaily in.
                  
But there is a darker side to famous Baile Atha Cliath, oh yes,
And the following anecdote is a sad but true indictment of the evil,
The omnipresent evil, which lurks in the black soul of the city.
I was trolling along the banks of the old Royal Canal one summer's evening
With my drinking companion, my Afro cousin, Black Paddy McSpigot,
Pausing only to glance briefly at the copulating couples on the towpath
(We were slightly amused by the small crowd watching one couple
who were engaged in the athletic congress of the ****-backed whale
underneath the bridge by Rose Street, a favourite spot for young lovers),
When a terrible shriek rent the air and a horde of renegade drunken nuns
Poured out of a late night underground folk-music drinking den
(the hugely amplified noise of the massed uilléan pipes was deafening
and had probably driven the poor dears into a religious frenzy).

Seeing Black Paddy, and mistaking his gay rendition of "Skibereen"
For an excerpt from the Satanic Mass, they yelled out polyphonically
"Tis the divil himself, so it is, an' all, an' all, let's get the focker",
And without further ado they leaped on him and ripped him to shreds,
Hurling lumps of his poor, poor body into the crocodile infested canal,
Where they were immediately masticated by the terrifying reptiles
(the mighty creatures had been stolen from the Zoological Gardens
by a group of drunken Animal Rights campaigners out on a ******,
and were the toast of the town in every gay bar in the vibrant city).
I cowered in terror at the horrific spectacle, thanking my lucky stars
I was wearing my archibishop's fancy dress uniform that evening
(it was the only way to jump the queue to get into Davy Byrne's Bar).
Dear God, I'll not visit the dear Emerald Isle again in a hurry, to be sure.

THE BECOMING OF ME

I'd be the first to admit
I was present at

my own
birth.

As was everyone
at theirs.

But I attended mine
with full consciousness

even if it was
my mother's

who in the telling
and re-telling of the tale

making me experience it
as it happened

down to the tiniest details
and so it was I was

born again and again
in her voice

in the tale of me until
her memory become my own.

So there I am
watching myself being born.

The labour ward radio
singing Ce Sera, Sera

either to sooth or
to drown out the screams.

My mother pleading with Doc. Cahill
"Oh will it be a boy...please make it a boy!"

And the Doc. answering in the demotic:
"I don't *know Ita...whatever will *be...will be!"

Then I put out a toe
to test the world and

Doc. Cahill is able to tell her
it's a boy at least!

And here I come
all 2 lbs of me!

All energy.
Speedy.

Popping out fast
heading for the end of the table

only to be caught by
an even speedier nurse who. . .

"Got ya....ya
little divil ya!"

It was '56 and I had come
prepared to rock 'n' roll man

sideburns better than
the King himself.

Only to be sung into being
by Doris that day.

"Oh he's got such a little *** ***!"
my mother moans.

"Don't worry..!" smirks the nurse
with the big big hands.

"It will grow!"
As indeeds it does.

And so they myth of me
begins.

I a tiny pebble in the stream
of my mother's voice

giving me her memory
for me to see

the me
of me.

"What are ya gonna call
this little fella?"

I get the kiss
and the caress of the Irish

"He will be
a Dónall."

A big name
for the little fella.

And see how the Irish
elevates me.

I, now no longer
a nameless entity but

"World Mighty
Spear Power!



It was almost like being there for me even thought I of course can't remember it for myself but I became my mother's memory and lived it vividly. Every birthday I would call her up and thank her for having me. When push came to shove...all I did was arrive...and she did all the work. I was tiny and she lost so much blood and nearly died and I spent my first six months in hospital with her.

THE BECOMING OF ME

I'd be the first to admit
I was present at

my own
birth.

As was everyone
at theirs.

But I attended mine
with full consciousness

even if it was
my mother's

who in the telling
and re-telling of the tale

making me experience it
as it happened

down to the tiniest details
and so it was I was

born again and again
in her voice

in the tale of me until
her memory become my own.

So there I am
watching myself being born.

The labour ward radio
singing Ce Sera, Sera

either to sooth or
to drown out the screams.

My mother pleading with Doc. Cahill
"Oh will it be a boy...please make it a boy!"

And the Doc. answering in the demotic:
"I don't *know Ita...whatever will *be...will *be!"

Then I put out a toe
to test the world and

Doc. Cahill is able to tell her
it's a boy at least!

And here I come
all 2 lbs of me!

All energy.
Speedy.

Popping out fast
heading for the end of the table

only to be caught by
an even speedier nurse who. . .

"Got ya....ya
little divil ya!"

It was '56 and I had come
prepared to rock 'n' roll man

sideburns better than
the King himself.

Only to be sung into being
by Doris that day.

"Oh he's got such a little *** ***!"
my mother moans.

"Don't worry..!" smirks the nurse
with the big big hands.

"It will grow!"
As indeeds it does.

And so they myth of me
begins.

I a tiny pebble in the stream
of my mother's voice

giving me her memory
for me to see

the me
of me.

"What are ya gonna call
this little fella?"

I get the kiss
and the caress of the Irish

"He will be
a Dónall."

A big name
for the little fella.

And see how the Irish
elevates me.

I, now no longer
a nameless entity but

"World Mighty
Spear Power!

HOW NOW RED BALLOON?

the balloon
crossed the road
on its own

cautiously at first
then becoming
a little braver

there wasn't a human
in sight
the balloon was red

why did it cross the road
you would have to
ask a chicken

it made its way
into a nearby field
just out of reach of

a host of thistles
angry at the invasion
of their territory

a bee followed it
across a ditch bemused
at  such a  solo flight

the balloon came to rest
on the back of a huge
black and white heifer

and there it remained
as I passed
and hurried by

cow and balloon
as one
living on in

my mind
all these 40 years
later.

*

Wish I had a time machine and could go back..get out of the car and see if the red balloon and the black and white cow ran away with each other and had cow/balloon children and lived happily ever after.  

There was also, now you mention it, a laughing dog. And when we went to eat we were both dishless and spoonless. The cat on the fiddle was playing the Divil came down to Cork.