Songs & Poems - The 'Bridge & its Townlands

A Lament For The Sixmilebridge Massacre
Ballycullen
Belvoir Groves
Castlelake
The Butlers Of Castlecrine
The Kilmurry Band
Oatfield
The Beautiful Vale Of Belvoir
The Boys Of Kilmurry
The 'Bridge and Newmarket
The Fair Of The 'Bridge
The Fleadh in the 'Bridge
The Oatfield Hurlers
The Pride of Sweet Rossroe
The Sixmilebridge Cattle Mart

A Lament For The Sixmilebridge Massacre

You Roman Catholics I pray draw near,
Some dismal verses you now shall hear,
It is concerning a most brutal deed,
That would make the hardest hearts to bleed.

Upon the twenty first day of July,
Those fine young youths were compell’d to die,
In Sixmilebridge in the County Clare,
To see the elections was what brought them there.

About twelve that day as we have been told,
The streets were crowded with both young and old,
When the thirty first were marching by that day,
But their Orange officer made them delay.

Then like wolves bloodthirsty that lost their prey,
Those vile assassins without delay
Commenced to fire, the (Cromwellian Corps),
And left many weltering in their gore.

The most heart rending it was to see
So many murdered innocently,
By those cruel barbarians without fear or dread,
Fathers, sons and brothers, they were shot dead.

The Rev. Father Clune was wounded sore,
That blessed divine they left him in his gore,
Amongst the dead and dying he was seen to fall,
For they grazed him temple with a musket ball.

Such a dreadful carnage was never knew,
As was committed by that wicked crew,
When they shot the father they then began
With their bayonets fixed to guillotine the son!

It would draw tears then down from you eyes,
To hear the widows and the orphans cries,
Likewise the mother for her son insane,
Each seeking out their own amongst the slain.

Now the friends and parents of the murder’d dead
May weep and mourn o’er their grassy bed,
And in the night’s dead silence offer up a prayer
For the innocent victims of the County Clare.

That cruel and cold-blooded massacre
Of Sixmilebridge will remembered be,
When young and old that day lost their life
By a most infernal barbarian tribe.

Now let each good christian with heart sincere,
To the Almighty offer up their prayers,
That their soul in Heaven may happy be
To the end of time and eternity.

BALLYCULLEN
(M.Kennedy)

‘Twas on a summer’s evening I went to Ballycullen,
I longed to see the castle and that’s why I went,
The castle isn’t beautiful or the land around it dutiful,
I wonder if the people for it pay any rent.

Now whether they pay the rent or not, it’s nothing to me anyway,
I rambled on to Flannery’s and called for a drink,
To see the youn Miss Flannerys, and all their shopping graneries,
I was proud of my journey, it was time well spent.

The Miss Flannery’s are beautiful, flaxty haired and dutiful,
You can see the rule of cleaness passing by the door,
The parlour and the pantry, the sitting room and scullery,
If you want to dance a caper there’s a board upon the floor.

Bellvoir Groves

Belvoir woods where oft I’ve rambled,
Scenes of all my hopes and fears,
Shady groves where oft I’ve wandered,
Beneath the scenes of boyhood’s years.
Now my heart is filled with sorrow,
Greater far than tongue can tell,
‘ere the sun will shine tomorrow,
I’ll bid you all a long farewell.

CHORUS
Groves of Belvoir! Groves of Belvoir!,
Groves of Belvoir! Fare thee well,
‘Ere the sun will shine tomorrow,
I’ll bid you all a long farewell.

CHORUS

Many is the pleasant day and hour,
I have spent with comrades dear,
Thronged by memory’s magic power,
Around my heart, while lingering near.
Friendship’s ties I now must sever,
Comrades whom I love so well,
Perhaps for years, perhaps forever,
I’ll bid you all a long farewell.

Soon I’ll see the land of freedom,
Where the starry banner flies,
Far across the broad Atlantic,
Beneath Columbus’ sunny skies,
And when with my friends I’m greeting,
Far across the Atlantic swell,
‘Tis then I’ll think of those I’m leaving,
Groves of Belvoir, fare thee well.

CASTLELAKE

I have travelled many a part of Clare,
And them I do admire,
I’ve seen a lovely place of late,
Convenient to Belvoir.
How pleased it was my duty,
A song of it to make,
It is the charming homestead.
Of sweet Old Castlelake.

When first I saw that charming place,
‘Twas early in the Sprint,
The warblers in their thousands,
All o’er the wood did sing,
They sang with pride and eloquence,
They make the valleys quake,
The song they san was home sweet home,
In sweet old Castlelake.

The entrance gate is charming,
Well kept and up to date,
With lovely lawns around it,
In everyway sedate.
With lakes and rivers flowing,
Full of wild duck and drake,
They get a hot reception
In sweet old Castlelake.

THE BUTLERS OF CASTLECRINE

What a pleasin’ duty if I were able,
On a walnut table to apply my pen,
I’d with gratuity describe the beauty
Of that lovely homestead of Castlecrine.

I doubt if royalty has a grander gateway,
Or a neater avenue to tread upon,
An artificial lake where duck and drake,
Sing cead mile failte to the gentle swan.

The grand old tower, and the woods around it,
Leaves me dumbfounded for words to say,
The flowery passes for lads and lasses,
Would be an Eden on a summer’s day.

There are big landowners and princely donors,
And interested in all things fair,
They are kind and gentle and the best of neighbours,
Those noble Butlers of County Clare.

KILMURRY BAND

Last new year’s eve was very bright,
The moon shone bright o’er sea and land,
When down the hill of Castlecrine,
Came Sheehan with Kilmurry Band.

The tunes they played were “Up Sinn Fein”,
They played a “Nation Once Again”,
They swore they’d smash the galling chain,
And free our own dear native land.

At the last election here in Clare,
The Kilmurry boys both front and rear,
From Cratloe woods to O’Connell’s Square,
Were the dashing boys of the Kilmurry Band.

When the boys got down to Kilmurry town,
A Christmas dinner they put down,
A fine fat goose, a duck, and drake,
And Cis Liddane’s sweet currant cake.

OATFIELD
(M. Kennedy)

Near the mountains of Oatfield there is a fine lake,
‘Tis a nice place in summer for wild duck and drake,
When the winter sets in, the wild geese are seen,
Coming over for Christmas to the lake of Coolmeen.

As I was out hunting with my gun and my dog,
Across the blue mountain and the wild heather bog,
I spied a fair colleen so charming to be seen
Crossing over for water to the lake of Coolmeen.

Now go show me the girls so spiritely or sweet,
As the girls of Oatfield to court or to meet,
At a dance or a concert, a fair or a ball,
Sure the girls of Oatfield are the pride of them all.

THE BEAUTIFUL VALE OF BELVOIR

As I stood upon Glenwood’s blue mountain,
All alone with my back to the gale,
There’s a beautiful valley before me,
Many miles spreading over the vale.

And the fine wood so neat and so handsome,
Entwined with wild woodbine and briar,
No wonder they shelter bold Reynard
In the beautiful Vale of Belvoir.

As I stood on that blue rugged mountain,
Oh! What was it caused me to stand ?
It was surely the beauties of nature,
Many miles spreading over the land.

I thought ‘f a poet beside me,
The scenery would surely inspire
To sing a love-song on a mountain,
To the beautiful Vale of Belvoir.

The vale with fine lakes is well dotted,
And bright gentle brooks therein grow,
In obedience to nature and duty,
Perpetually strong where they flow.

In the heart of that vale there’s a mansion,
That a painter no doubt would admire,
And a neat holy chapel beside it,
In the beautiful Vale of Belvoir.

The fox hounds are heard in the cover,
For many miles over the land,
In full tally-ho after Reynard,
Like the sweet sounding tone of a band.

Through the vale sings the smith’s bell-toned anvil,
As the sparks they fly out from the fire,
And the birds in the woods sing melodious,
As if all were belonged to one choir.

How sweet sounds the voice of the teachers,
How keenly they push their desire,
For to bring up the youth in good morals,
In the beautiful Vale of Belvoir.

Oh! The people are jovial and hearty,
In their homesteads by night and by day,
In their homespuns they dress up on Sunday,
To Kilkishen they go for to pray.

Now all the young men and young maidens,
Around Ballycullen’s tall spire,
Assemble for singing and dancing,
To the beautiful Vale of Belvoir.

Goodbye to the blue rugged mountain,
Goodbye to the valley below,
And if ever I want recreation
Oh to that Vale I will go.

I know that in the Isles vales are larger,
For poets to describe and admire,
But there’s no place in Ireland more charming,
Than the beuatiful Vale of Belvoir.

THE BOYS OF KILMURRY

Oh! List to the tale of the boys of Kilmurry,
With honour and glory in story and song,
Forget not the day they moved off in a hurry,
To bring back the laurels from rivals so strong.

‘Tis true that the lads from the Bridge and Kilkishen,
Made naught of the test where a good man might baulk,
And long may they live in the country that bore them,
Our bold gallant heroes that won in Dundalk.

At home and away we can boast of our heroes,
While many are they who delight in the talk,
And all those young ladies from Quin to Tuamgraney,
Adore those young heroes who won in Dundalk.

The boys from the Mills are a boon to our nation,
They have reared the young hero well known is his face,
Timmie Smith is the man who deserves the oration,
In far foreign lands they all know his name.

Though my footsteps are heavy I’m off to Kilmurry,
And from tat to Kilkishen ‘tis a nice little walk,
To honour those heroes I think it’s my duty,
Who brought back the laurels from far away Dundalk.

THE BRIDGE AND NEWMARKET

There was a look of gloom o’ver Tulla and the rain came down in sheets,
When the Bridge and Newmarket hurlers in the final game did meet,
The crowd were all excited as their transport thundered in,
And the Bridge boys hastened to the pitch determined to win.

In the pep talk the night before, they were told to play the game,
And if the opponents tried their tricks then they must do the same,
But meanliness and skill will count, so hurl clean and bold,
And your parish will be mighty proud of the good old blue and gold.

T’was on the stroke of six o’clock the hurlers took the field,
And Murray their fine captain looked calm and so serene,
The shout went up, “come on the Bridge”, hard furrows you must plough,
To bring the cup to Sixmilebridge, so we’re counting on you now.

The referee’s loud whistle blew each hurler to his place,
There was no doubt at that stage but a tough time they must face,
Newmarket opened with a goal and Casey then was seen
From the forward line to secure a point, such hurling sweet and keen.

Young Crowe and Lynch, two “Flannans” boys, came out that night to play,
With their early years of training it helped them on their way,
When Crowe slammed in a tidy goal, “good lad”, the crowd did sing,
Sure it couldn’t be done better by our darling Christy Ring.

O’Connell, the wing forward, he did his part quite well,
And for Casey, centre forward, the boys in praise did yell,
Then Murray in his rare old style and playing with great skill,
Drove in that ball into the net like the famous Thady Quill.

Then Hickey this young trier they tell me he’s a star,
The making of a hurler who could end up in Croke Park,
And Roughan like a stone wall stopped the balls without a moan,
He’s a goalie that any team would be proud to call their own.

And when the game was over the supporters leaped with joy,
The Cup was coming to the Bridge so t’was three cheers for the boys,
And we hope that in the coming years they’ll keep up the winning role,
Bringing honours in each hurling grade to the good old blue and gold.

THE FAIR OF SIXMILEBRIDGE

Mick Tobin, give over the reels and the jigs,
For tomorrow will be the big fair of the Bridge,
If you’ll bring the cattle, sure I’ll bring the pigs,
We’ll go down by the river O’Garney.

We’ll get a big price, Mick, and sure for to sell,
For there’s dozens of dealers in every hotel,
Then you’ll be a gent sir and I’ll be a swell,
When we get a few drops of John Barley.

We’ll then give a step to the beautiful mill,
That’s run by that gentleman, Mister O’Flynn,
With hundreds of beautiful women and men,
Rolling and spinning their yarns.

Don’t talk of the mills that you meet with elsewhere,
O’Flynn’s are the mills for the people of Clare,
They turn out a tweed that a horse wouldn’t tear,
Down by the river O’Garney.

There’s Finicey’s motor shop just in the square,
The best we have in our travels through Clare,
There they turn out good motors, in style and repair,
Fit for the flower of the army.

There’s O’Regan’s big saw-mill, sir down the parade,
Where Rohan, the foreman, will show you some trade,
With everything useful, well finished and made,
‘Tis a blessing, they say, to the farmers.

The motors, and trains, Mick, are managed with care,
Bringing all the big dealers right down to the fair,
They can drive you around by the beauties of Clare,
Or spin you right down to Killarney.

You can drive to Kilmurry, or up Gallows hill,
Through the Vale of Belvoir, or around Castlecrine,
Ballycullen Hotel you may give a step in,
For a drop of the juice of the barley.

The town has attractions for touring young swells.
For it’s dotted all over with lovely hotels,
And beautiful churches to ring wedding bells,
Down by the river O’Garney.

Labour and trade, sir, are ruling the town,
They are far better off, Mick, than if they were ploughing,
We’d think more of a penny than they would of a crown,
Down by the river O’Garney.

No wonder the Bridge was a very good fair,
There is no nicer town throughout County Clare,
There’s a half-dozen roads leading into the square,
Near the beautiful river O’Garney.

The river is teeming with salmon and trout,
While the town is overflowing with Guinness’s stout,
And most of the colleens are on the look-out
Coaxing the boys with their blarney.

Before we go back, Mick, we’ll take a few swigs,
Since we got a big price for the cattle and pigs,
And sign a son to the fair at the Bridge,
Rolling home by the river O’Garney.

‘Tis a beautiful village and a beautiful fair,
There’s no nicer village in all County clare,
With Casey and Keane and they dancin’ their jigs,
Aus fagfaimid siud mar ata se.

THE FLEADH IN THE BRIDGE ’68

Attention pay to what I say about our village fair,
Situated ‘neath the Windy Gap in the south side of Clare
It’s all about a mini fleadh t’was decided to hold there,
By a hard working band of women and with Donlon in the Chair.

When news got round the fleadh was on, the traders looked glum,
Said some it wouldn’t work at all t’would be trouble for everyone,
But Gleeson in his friendly way went round for them to sign,
To get the extention for the pubs so the boys could have some wine.

There were buntings tied across the streets by Gorman and his men,
And banners on the outskirts to make the crowd come in,
O’Dowd he got it on the news, he Ciaran and O’Grady told,
And the people came from far and wide the young and the old.

Competitions were the features that was most important there,
With numerous prizes on display on a window in the Square,
From accordians and tin whistles the music floated o’er,
And the singing was the finest ever heard around our shores.

And when the fleadh got under way the publicans thawed out,
They opened up their premises to sell beer and stout,
There was a song sung in every pub enjoyed by one and all,
And crubeens to finish up the day from white trays on a stall.

I spied a lot of well known folk, some newsmen and the like,
The Curry group from overseas were in one place that night,
Some came from Dublin and from Kildare and one from Cork I knew,
I felt so sad when time was called and we had to bid adieu.

I near forgot the bunch of men that came from London town,
The Hopper, Whack, Athlete, and “Jim”, the chauffeur of renown,
We heard it was for hurling they were coming across the sea,
But when they landed in the Bridge they all went on the spree.

And so the fun is over and we must say goodbye,
Some may have lots of cribs I’m sure but most the fleadh enjoyed,
But next year we hope and pray united all will stand,
To make it more successful and the best in Ireland.

THE OATFIELD HURLERS

The Oatfields are airy and sometimes contrary,
They like to be hurlin’ and eatin’ good food,
I bet you a bullock they will tackle Pullough,
They seem so uneasy since Sallybank won.
It was six o’clock when I heard of the hurlin’
And the sun it was setting over sweet Oatfield town,
I thought for a minute we’d tackle d’ould jinnet,
And myself and John Maoney would take a stroll down.

When we were landed the jinnet was stranded,
‘Twas up at Jim Graces we did leave the car,
Then down to flannery’s lively we walked it,
And Johnny left in the half gallon jar,
When we arrived in the field the lads and the lassies,
Assembled together this hurlin’ to see,
The Oatfields stepped out in their ganseys and tights,
And the ball was thrown in and Joe Clune refereed.

The game was excitin’ I thought they’d be fighting,
The Oatfields held tough for the first half an hour,
‘Til they turned their faces right opposite James Graces,
And the goals and points they went out in a shower,
The Oatfields are fine but their team is annoyin’,
They have not the practice and that is a sin.
And as we were passin’ the Flannery’s were laughin’,
And we tackled d’ould jinnet to come home again.

THE PRIDE OF SWEET ROSROE

Here in the Vale of Granuale, I spent my childhood days,
I paid my rent, I lived content with pleasure, peace and ease,
No pleasure, peace, love nor ease I really didn’t know,
Until I won that fairest one, the pride of sweet Rosroe.

Every day of birth and pain she lived convenient by,
Her step and mein like a queen on her I cast my eye,
When walking round I would be found when even’ sun goes low,
To meet my pride my darlin’ bride of charming sweet Rosroe.

I rose next day, I went away to her father’s door,
I knew no fear, for Mary dear was standing on the floor,
Her father rose to let me in, my fate I soon should know,
Being not afraid I asked the maid of charming sweet Rosroe.

He stood awhile, began to smile, and said I was to blame,
That I had gone really mad, no wile, or sense or shame,
My roofless cot, my humble lot, my station mean and low,
To think I’ll get his darlin’ pet the pride of sweet Rosroe.

Then Mary dear on drawing near, unto her father said,
It’s not his roofless cot, himself I’m going to wed,
Rebukes and laws I desregard with all it’s pomp and show
I’ll end my life or be his wife in charming sweet Rosroe.

That very day we went away to have the marriage done,
The priest was there and did prepare to join us both in one,
The word being said, the marriage read, I kissed my darling’s brow,
And I blessed the day I ran away with the pride of sweet Rosroe.

Now all of you that has in view a damsel rich and fair,
Never flinch a half an inch or never do despair,
But work in time both day and night your luck you wouldn’t know,
To coax her from her father the same as I did in Rosroe.

THE SIXMILEBRIDGE CATTLE MART

I’ve been to many openings of festival and fair,
But the best I’ve ever attended was one opening in Clare,
Of the cattle mart located just a mile outside this town,
Where I met many farmers and the Councillor of renown.

When I was returning from Bingo, with the music I was enthralled,
And alighting from an automobile, Pa Roughan, loudly called
“Come in”, says he we’re having a spree and the best you can enjoy,
And entering the big wide door the Councillor caught my eye.

He handed me a fine big glass full of whiskey of the best,
And as I took the first sip the bossman called out in jest,
“The bar ye must vacate me boys, to the lounge you’ll have to go.
Ye can dance all night ‘til broad daylight, but the work must go on ye know”.

One man a bit frustrated refused to leave the bar,
We could see from his demeanour he was having quiet a jar,
The Squire being at hand just then this client tried to chat,
Saying, “you know we must be ready for the opening of the mart”.

It wasn’t long after this that I heard the clock strike two,
I winded my way homeward and bid the boys adieu,
But I took with me happy memories of a very pleasant night,
At the cattle mart outside the Bridge that will last me all my life.

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