Free As I Rode by Granard Moat by Benedict Kiely Page B

fightin’,
    We fought in a heap on the flure.
    That an’ all we got grate afore mornin’,
    We wor frens throughother ye see;
    John yocked just afther wir brekwis,
    An’ we stharted for Robert’s, iz three.
    But we nivir thought what we wor in for,
    Heth naw, we dhrive up at a throt,
    But the welkim wos sharp, ’twos a pitchfork,
    An’ that’s all the welkim we got.
    Boys, ye nivir seen sichin a han’lin,
    I wos thunnersthruck wathchin’ the birl,
    The oul’ da limpin’ out wi’ the pitchfork,
    An’ the frens makin’ glam for the girl,
    They dhregged her out over the tailboord,
    She screamed, but I darn’t intherfair,
    An’ they sliped her – aw lominty father,
    They sliped her right in to the stair.
    The gowls of wee Robert wos tarra,
    The veins riz like coards on his skull,
    ‘How dar ye? How dar ye? How dar ye?
    I’ll take ye to coort, so I wull.’
    He miscalled me for all the oul’ thurfmen,
    All iver ye heerd he went through,
    Sez I, ‘Ye may go till the bad place,
    I’m as good jist as she is, or you.’
    An’ sez I, ‘Me oul’ boy, yir as ignornt,
    As a pig let loose in a fair,’
    Oul’ Tamson broke in an’ he toul’ him
    He cudn’t fetch guts till a bear.
    Well, boys, he wos frothin’ with anger,
    The spittles flew from him a parch,
    But what good wos that? We wor done for,
    We just had to lave him an’ march.
    I come home. I sot down in the kitchen,
    Thinks I, ‘I’ll go through with it now,’
    So I riz an’ went back till oul’ Tamson’s
    (He wos puttin’ a ring in the sow),
    An’ sez I, ‘I’ve a five naggin bottle,
    Put a coat on ye, John, it’s like rain,
    Iz two’ll go up to Long Francey’s
    An’ tell him I’ll take Liza Jane.’
    Sez he, ‘Ye’ve no call to be hasty,’
    Sez I, ‘Aw yis I hev call,
    When the biz gets out through the country,
    I’ll not get a wumman at all.’
    Sez he, ‘Liza Jane – who wud she be?’
    ‘The fat wan,’ sez I, ‘she can plow,’
    ‘Be me sowl,’ sez oul’ John, ‘it’s a tarra,
    But no matther, I’ll go with ye now.’
    So that’s how I got me big wumman,
    We settled it quick, so we did,
    I’m content, she’s a brave civil crathur,
    An’ quate, an’ diz what she’s bid.
    Not hard to keep up, that’s a good thing
    When times isn’t good on the lan’,
    She’s young, but she’s settled, an’ more too,
    She can work in the bog like a man.
    She has no backspangs in her ether,
    No harm in her more nor a hen,
    If I take maybe wan or two half-wans
    She nivir gets up on her en’.
    Sarah Ann can now hannel a potstick,
    If that’s any affset – a mane
    Takin’ wan thing jist with the other
    I’m thankful I picked Sarah Jane.
    We talked then of our friend Michael J. Murphy, folklorist and storyteller, whose wonderful book At Slieve Gullion’s Foot (1941) told of old ways and happier days. And we sang an old ballad we had first heard from Michael, its words as rough and unhewn as the rocks of that mythological mountain:
    THE BOYS OF MULLAGHBAWN
    On a Monday morning early my wandering steps did lead me
    Down by a farmer’s station, through meadows and green lawn,
    Where I heard great lamentations the small birds they were making
    Saying: ‘We’ll have no more engagements on the hills of Mullaghbawn.’
    I beg your pardon ladies, and ask you as a favour,
    I hope it is no treason now what I’m going to say.
    I’m condoling late and early, my very heart is breaking
    All for a noble lady that lives near Mullaghbawn.
    Squire Jackson he is ranging for honour and for treasure,
    He never did turn traitor nor betray the Rights of Man.
    But now we are in danger by a wicked, deceiving stranger
    Who has ordered transportation for the Boys of Mullaghbawn.
    Far and near the seas were roaring, the billows they were flowing,
    As those heroes crossed over I thought the sea would yawn.
    The trout and salmon gaping, the cuckoo left her station,
    Fare you well old Erin, and the Boys of Mullaghbawn.
    These days, alas, there can