We thank Gerdi Buckley, Aubane for kindly sharing the following poem which most likely was composed many decades ago by a very talented Poet from Ivale in the Kilcorney area – John Twomey. (S.R.)
Back Home in Millstreet
I
When you’re far away from turf & hay
On some busy street or junction
Where in the rush you’re shoved & pushed
You sometimes stop & wonder.
How things remain in the “old domain”.
Will ‘progress’ alter ever
Those hills & vales where oft we strayed
And I now recall with pleasure.
2
There’s Gurraneduff for wakes & snuff
The Terrace for the lasses.
There’s Tullig cross for colds & coughs
And round the Glebe for asses.
Main Street ne’er failed for flour & meal
Coole Cross for travellers’ horses
Knocknapogue for pigs & stores
And Minor Row for matches.
3
Ardrivale is the best of all
Kilmeedy for its Castle
There’s Claraghatlea for bread & tae
The Station Road for cattle
Then famed Dooneen for pigs crubeen
The Star for lads & lasses
There’s old Liscreagh where asses bray
The Hospital for glasses.
4
Go to Gneeves for turf & breeze
And down Lough Bog for rushes
The “Whistler’s Cross” for pitch & toss
Toorenbawn for thrushes
There’s Cloughoulabeg where they’ll pull your leg
Ballydaly maids for blushes
About Shanaknuck we could fill a book
The Bridge for beds & brushes
5
Of course there’s Keim & high Mill Lane
Pound Hill where Protestants lie sleeping
There’s Liscahane & Coomlogane
Keale Bridge for anglers meeting
Go to Curragh Glen for giants of men
Cockhill is nice & airy
There’s Mushera high whose girls are shy
While his men are strong & hairy.
6
There’s Rathduane & of course Drishane
With its castle & its fountain
Hats off to thee O Carriglea
Who sleeps ‘neath Clara mountain
I’ve heard it said that for ‘curranty’ bread
Tis you Dineen can bake them
But in Altamount you can always count
On spuds & hairy bacon
7
From Dromsicane up to Aubane
The spuds will soon be stalking
At Lackabawn they rise at dawn
Tis hay to day they’re talking
And to Killowen the fox goes home
With a duck from Laught he’s walking
By the Tanyard side our dead ones lie
For your passing prayer they’re waiting.
8
To those townlands I’ll raise my hand
Call in the tea is making
You can go to Maine, to Greece or Spain
But in Sráid your friends are waiting.
Strange lands don’t know where the Fionnabha flows
I suppose ‘tis hard to blame them
But God knows well where your Priests sons dwell
And pagan outposts know them.
Poet Francis Duggan in 2017 shared a poem which he had composed about “John Twomey – the Poet of Ivale”. http://www.millstreet.ie/blog/archives/106607#more-106607
