mdingwall
Administrator
In proud and loving memory of all those who laid down their lives for the cause of liberty in battle.
“The Lad”
By the Reverend W F Marshall, The Bard of Tyrone
The’ were no great aff-set anywhere,
The scutchers o times ago,
For drink - it follaed them like a curse
That wrought amang the tow.
Plenishment they'd have little or noan
Exceptin what they'd stale,
An they'd make the childèrn go out an beg
Fur gopins of Indian male.
I knew a scutcher wance - he wrought in Shane,
He was a drunken scrub,
But he raired a son, an I mind that son
A smart wee lump o a cub.
His clothes were like wings, even his cap was tore.
An his fire was the fire at the kill.
An he went tae school on his wee bare feet.
An he niver got half his fill.
Above the mill there was this big steep hill
Where he could see to the graveyard wall,
To the market-house, an the station gates,
An the new Hibernian Hall.
You could hear him singing goin up that hill,
But God knows why he sung,
Because the people said he'd see the day
When his da was sure tae be hung.
When the Twelfth was near he'd march the road,
Wi his drumsticks in his han,
Boy, he was good at the double roll
On the lid of an oul tin can.
He played his lone, for th’ other weans
Wus ashamed of him an his rags,
So he trundled his hoop an he waded the burn
An he ginnled for spricklybags.
I mind the yeir he took up with me,
The ploughin had jaist begun,
An as I waatched him leadin the horses roun,
That drunken scutcher's son,
It was little I thought that in times to come
Ay, more than a son he'd be,
For his father died in a wattèr-sheugh
An he cum to live wi me.
He was odd in a way for I think he heard
What nobody else could hear,
An he seen what I could never see,
Although me sight was clear.
The top of a hill bewitched him still,
An the fire at the mountain's rim,
But the best of all was the runnin burn
Because he said it sung tae him.
There was them that tuk it on themselves tae say
He was sure tae turn out wile,
But that young lad grew till he grew man big
But he kept the heart of a chile.
The longer he lived about the place
The less I had tae fear.
And there was never a word frae him to me
But done me good tae hear.
But A'm lonesome now for he went away,
An me sight is getting dim;
But I didn't ask tae hold him back
When they needed men like him.
He's sleepin now where the poppies grow,
In a coat that the bullets tore,
An what use is a wheen o medals tae me
When me own wee lad's no more?
Picture - Two Minute Silence by Charles Spencelayh, 1928
https://www.encore-editions.com/two-minute-silence-by-charles-spencelayh/“The Lad”
By the Reverend W F Marshall, The Bard of Tyrone
The’ were no great aff-set anywhere,
The scutchers o times ago,
For drink - it follaed them like a curse
That wrought amang the tow.
Plenishment they'd have little or noan
Exceptin what they'd stale,
An they'd make the childèrn go out an beg
Fur gopins of Indian male.
I knew a scutcher wance - he wrought in Shane,
He was a drunken scrub,
But he raired a son, an I mind that son
A smart wee lump o a cub.
His clothes were like wings, even his cap was tore.
An his fire was the fire at the kill.
An he went tae school on his wee bare feet.
An he niver got half his fill.
Above the mill there was this big steep hill
Where he could see to the graveyard wall,
To the market-house, an the station gates,
An the new Hibernian Hall.
You could hear him singing goin up that hill,
But God knows why he sung,
Because the people said he'd see the day
When his da was sure tae be hung.
When the Twelfth was near he'd march the road,
Wi his drumsticks in his han,
Boy, he was good at the double roll
On the lid of an oul tin can.
He played his lone, for th’ other weans
Wus ashamed of him an his rags,
So he trundled his hoop an he waded the burn
An he ginnled for spricklybags.
I mind the yeir he took up with me,
The ploughin had jaist begun,
An as I waatched him leadin the horses roun,
That drunken scutcher's son,
It was little I thought that in times to come
Ay, more than a son he'd be,
For his father died in a wattèr-sheugh
An he cum to live wi me.
He was odd in a way for I think he heard
What nobody else could hear,
An he seen what I could never see,
Although me sight was clear.
The top of a hill bewitched him still,
An the fire at the mountain's rim,
But the best of all was the runnin burn
Because he said it sung tae him.
There was them that tuk it on themselves tae say
He was sure tae turn out wile,
But that young lad grew till he grew man big
But he kept the heart of a chile.
The longer he lived about the place
The less I had tae fear.
And there was never a word frae him to me
But done me good tae hear.
But A'm lonesome now for he went away,
An me sight is getting dim;
But I didn't ask tae hold him back
When they needed men like him.
He's sleepin now where the poppies grow,
In a coat that the bullets tore,
An what use is a wheen o medals tae me
When me own wee lad's no more?