The Weaver Question

I've always had an interest in the history of hand-loom weaving in Ulster, as at least four successive generations of my Newtownards male ancestors (and some of the females) were hand-loom weavers, right up to the 1950s. Indeed, I still have a wee pram rug which my great-grandfather Hugh McDonald wove for my father in 1929. Hugh's obituary states, "He was one of the old hand loom weavers, working in his own home weaving fine linens, but latterly weaving tweeds and tartans for both local firms [including James Mairs of Newtownards and Hugh Mack of Belfast] and the Scottish house of Peter MacArthur & Co" [still trading in Biggar, Lanarkshire] Talk about taking coals to Newcastle! The family death notice also included the following excerpt from a poem entitled The Weaver by Benjamin Malachi Franklin (1882-1965)

Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

Continuing the weaving theme, here's a wee Ulster-Scots poem called The Weaver Question by Thomas Given (c1850-1917) taken from G R Buick's Poetical Works Of The Brothers Given (Belfast, 1900). Thomas was a farmer from Cullybackey in County Antrim and one of three poetry-writing brothers. There is no indication that he ever worked as a weaver himself, but it's clear that he was familiar with the terminology and the issues of the trade. As Edward Sloan's poem The Weaver's Triumph also shows, life was not always easy for the weavers.

The Weaver Question by Thomas Given

We read o' meetings to support
The risin' nerra-guage,
Which is to be the strength and fort
O' every comin' age.
We read o' controversies lang.
O' puirhoose jaw and vapour,
But seldom does the weavers' wrang
Bedeck the public paper
On ony day.

Oor wabs are lang an' ill to weave -
Sometimes the yarn is bad -
Till scanty claes, wi' ragget sleeve,
Is seen on lass an' lad.
But noo guid fortune we'll attain,
For orators sae thrifty
Will gar the dreeper clip his chain
Wa' doon tae twa-an'-fifty
On ilka day.

Queels maun be wun when claith is wroucht,
An' pickers, shears an' treadles,
Tallow an' temples maun be boucht,
An' floor tae dress the heddles.
Then meat tae gar the wee yins leeve,
Maun come as weel's the tackle,
But shure the wages we receive
Wud hardly buy them treacle
Tae meal this day.

How aisy 'tis for men tae preach
Whun riches they hae got,
An' wae self-interest's purse-hurt screech,
Ca' us a sinfu' lot.
But, haud a wee! Ye men o' wealth!
Though noo for breath yer pantin',
We ax nae favours gained by stealth -
It's justice that we're wantin' -
Nae mair this day.

I ne'er was blessed wae gift o' gab,
Like some great learned men,
Instead o' school, I wove my wab,
Before that I was ten.
Though noo I'm auld an' gray's my hair,
I've studied weel the sense o't
For work let us get wages fair,
Nae matter 'boot the length o't
On ony day.

First Newtownards BB Company Flute Band

A bit of local history for a change. A couple of years ago, I came across a load of old negatives among family papers so I scanned a few and Photoshopped them to get the positive images. This one shows First Newtownards BB Company Flute Band. As there's a train in the background, it was probably taken at Newtownards Railway Station, on the Belfast & County Down Railway (BCDR). I think the writing on the carriage door may say "Third" (Class).

To the best of my knowledge, this BB Band was the forerunner of First Newtownards Old Boys' Flute Band (founded in 1919) which, in turn, was the forerunner of Newtownards Silver Band (founded in 1923). If anyone knows otherwise, please let me know.

Fae Cowie's Craig

Here's a poem I wrote a couple of years ago called Fae Cowie's Craig. You'll do well to find it named on a map, but Cowie's Craig (pictured above) is the highest point up at the Lead Mines between Newtownards and Conlig and, when I was wee, my dad often used to take my brother and me up there as it's a fantastic vantage point. Fast forward 30+ years to a Saturday, when I looked out at it from my bedroom window and decided to take my dogs there for a walk. Later on, as I stood there, with the wind in my hair, I realised that many of the places I could see have played an important part in the history of the area - and that prompted me to put pen to paper.

FAE COWIE’S CRAIG

Stud thonner, oan tha leevin roak
O Cowie’s Craig,- grun alow banefire bleck -
Pit me in mine o Ninetie-Echt,
Tha nicht lift rid fur simmer sodjers trysts.
Drumhirk an Gransha fairmers’ sins,
Cottown chiels, Green Boys o Greba, Hairts o Doon
Turn’t oot tae richt sim wrangs, an
Hunners deed, at Sanfiel an Ba’nahinch.

An, doon tha Lough, thon’s Chapel Isle,
Raxin owre, tha oul yins roàd, tae Nendrum.
Nearhaun bes Cummer, ticht wee toon,
Aye weel-kent fur her whuskey - an early
Prittas. Aa’s quate noo, nae millies
Doon at Andras’, whaur weel-aff fowk noo bide,

Titanic Tam’s mindit wi a Haa, an

“Yin mair shot” G’lespie stauns in stane.

Luk - thon’s Tha Dee, whaur oor yins cum
Fae Gallowa, fower hunnert yeir syne noo.
Fowkgates, thrift, kirk an tung the’ brocht,
An turn’t tha wastit lan tae mak it guid.
Here, Innismurray brocht tha guns
Bak in Fowerteen, tae fecht agin Hame Rule.
An thonner’s Bellycopeland mill,
Thrang nae mair, waas lichtit wi simmer sin.

Whitespots, bes whut we caa this lann
Whaur yince fowk hoked fur lead (the’ caa’d it “whites”)
Doon coul wat mirky pots, tae fill
Their childer’s wames whun prittas haed tha blicht.
Abune tha plantin, Helen’s Toor,
Whaur Carson’s men camp’t fornent Bleckwood’s place,
Bellyleidy, o Clan Hugh Boy,
Afore tha Somme left Ulster fowk hairt-scaudit.

Noo scrammlers swairm owre whunnie knowes,
Fowk oot a danner deaved wi thar bizzin
Yeir roon, forbye laired in slonks an gutters,
Breeks clabbert wi glar tha wuntèr days.
Aa’s quate noo, an twathie deer’s pit up wi
Snokin dugs, ir sim siclike, an
Far awa, tha soon o lambegs
Dunnerin owre Conlig hill at dayligan.

An, unner Scraba, Newtown bes,
Braw bowle whaur Ah wus bakit – thar’s nane her make.
Her Meer’s chain o gowden floors
Wrocht, that skeelie Granda Dickson growed. Here
Boul Colonel Paddy caa’d his hame,
An Lyttle spun his cantie wabs o
Ards an Tullynagardy Glen, whaur
Daft Eddie foon McFadden, by tha Forkins.

By Movilla’s green hill thonner
Bes tha last lang road A’ll tak,
Life’s travel’s irnae daen, but, noo,
Ma ticket no yet clip’t, A mak fur hame.
Sauf yince mair, A staun lukkin oot
Ma gavel windae, owre oul reuch fiels o
Yella-floor’t whuns, drochtit gress, an

Tummelt doon stane dykes, tae Cowie’s Craig.