Clogherhead as it used to be ......

There is a song, or parody perhaps would be more correct, entitled "Is Clogherhead as it used to be?", which got much publicity and popularity in singing lounges in the past, the authorship of which was erroneously attributed to me. The first time I had heard it many years ago, it applied to Drogheda, in fact it can be referred to any place of choice. The theme of the story is of an exileof long standing who had met an old friend that had arrived of late from his native place to this foreign land, is all the information the song gives. So in order to vindicate the fallacy, I, herewith attempt to illustrate in verse 'Clogherhead as it used to be', 'when I was a boy'.

p.s. The maze or maise of herrings is the equivelent of 50 dozen. The price is not exagerated at 2/=, as ofter they had to be dumped, because of lack of buyers and little consumption.
Nicholas Sharkey
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Clogherhead as it used to be
by Nicholas Sharkey

I can still see the ghosts of the horses and drays,
With loads of fresh herrings at two bob a maze
The rumble of barrels still echo my ear,
And fishermen walking with lamps to the pier,
And fine healthy women, with spades in the hand,
Beating the tide, digging bait on the strand,
And the boys at the corner in arguement hot,
About horses and ponies, and how they could trot.
Then for a change they would discuss sailing yawls,
And the stunts of the playboys who climbed the old walls,
And many a lie about spuds they would tell
On Sunday, when gathered around the Big Well
The hurry to dinner, to hear the band play,
A treat once a year on Patron Saint day.
Here hard chaws from Drogheda knocked dust from their boots,
'Mock' Banks and 'Swab' Duffy and other hard roots.

Then into the cooler, their throats to anoint,
With Cairns porter at tuppence a pint.
No bus or T.V. then with colourful views,
The breadman with Argus, brought us the news,
And Owney the basketman told of the fair,
And 'Jack-the-Rag' sang of the fox and the hare.
The showman's balloon was the centre of fun,
While old Mickey Teelan made bets with his gun;
Next came Drogheda jarveys, with bells on their nags,
Looking for quarters to hang their food bags,
Then went to the pier at the end of the day,
To take home the dancers, so merry and gay.

Street singers, musicians, their skills did impart,
With reels, jigs and ballads raised many a heart,
And the lusty fruit sellers, who stood by stalls,
And trice-o-loop men, who lined by the walls.
You would hear Micksy Kelly all over the town,
Sing out 'Carlow onions, a penny a pound';
And bells on their horses, with men hawking coats,
They've all gone to their rest, let us pray for their souls.
Now the place is all tarmac, by'gum we've got posh,
No ducks or no geese or no water to wash,
For the streams in the gullets in sewage went down,
Alas! we've developed half into a town.

By Town Planning vandals the Big Tree has fell
And next to a scandal, they closed the Big Well,
No barrels now rumble, when making a dash
To get first in turn when the mill came to thresh.
And where are the boys with nails in their boots,
That often dug praties below at the roots
And women in shawls, who had toiled in the fields,
When the hem-line extended right down to the heels;
And the man-able gassons who used to spin tops
And the modest girshas that played scotch-hops;
And fishermen hefty, who used hook and line,
And strained on their cars from the Bay to the Boyne;

And what of the 'childer' that hid from the priest,
When a ha'porth o'-sweets was reckoned a feast.
The snuff-box no longer goes round at the wake,
When gentle and simple, a pinch had to take,
The pipes and tobacco puffed peace to the dead
And games superstitious were played round the bed.
Then often at Christmas, when thick ice got tight,
The slides on the 'Big Hole' were all our delight;

Or catching the linnets with old herring net,
Of songsters we boasted and claimed a great pot;
We had candle-lit windows and flame in the street
In vigil, the homecoming wedding to greet,
And the scout at the cross-road, made haste running smart,
To signal the Mullagh, the bon-fire to start.

Then Hollowtide eve, as the old folks used say,
The spud digging finished, stored safely away;
The pot o' colcannon provided the feast,
But the intended young bride that got the set-back,
When one of the kids got the ring in the brack,
And often the mammy would speak with 'tut tuts'
At the mention of lovers, when cracking the nuts.

Then long summer evenings, with all hushed in peace,
To the fish pond we rambled, pulling grass for the geese.
That dabbled and gabbled on Callystown green,
And the asses and ponies that were the main-stay,
To take us to town with the spuds on market day,
Then competing with lies, or their gains and their loss,
Discussed tho next day, after Mass at the cross.

Those were the joys tho humble and poor,
To keep fear of famine away from the door;
They worked late and early in Fear of the Lord,
With a now Life Eternal, I'm sure He'll reward.

by Nicholas Sharkey
Source: Clogherhead through the years by James Garry 2000