tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517826847309516942024-03-19T10:36:07.395+00:00NewtonLassUlster-Scots language, history, music, culture and identity; Ulster Plantation history; Northern Ireland (in particular Newtownards and North-East County Down) local history, geography and genealogy. © the author; no reproduction in any media without written permissionNewton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-84141817250891260542011-06-14T17:14:00.002+01:002011-06-14T17:20:46.812+01:00Tay<span style="font-family:arial;">I was just reading Darren G's thoughts on a subject close to the heart of most of us Ulster-Scots - Tay - and I thought I'd post a wee rhyme of my own.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>TAY</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A cudnae dae wioot ma tay,<br />Tae stairt me aff maist ivery day,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“A wee drap in yer haun”, the’ say,<br />Wairm, wat an strang,<br />Tha thang tae keep tha drouth at bay<br />Tha hale day lang.<br /><br />Ma mammie larned me fae a wean<br />Tae wairm tha pot an no pit tay in,<br />Tae tha watter’s fairly plumpin, an<br />Then ye dae it.<br />“Ye teem tha watter owre tha tay, an<br />There ye hae it.”<br /><br />“Them tay-bags irnae guid fur ocht”, ir<br />“It’s aye tha loose tay we hae bocht”, ir <br />“Yin spoon fur ivery boadie, dochter,<br />‘An yin fur tha pot.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An pit it doon fornent tha fire</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tae keep it hot”.<br /><br />Noo maist fowk cannae be annoyed.<br />The’r no parteeclar hoo it’s made<br />The’ hinnae larned tak a pride<br />In ocht daen richt.<br />Och, it’s mair nor tay’s haes me dismayed -<br />(A waesome sicht.)<br /><br />But nooadays, iz A wus sayin,<br />A cannae thole tha wye it’s daen. <br />Y’ir gien an empie bicker an,<br />Ye mak yer brew, <br />Wi pumpie flesk, taybag an spoon, <br />T’wud gar ye grue. <br /><br />Tha hale thing is jist quare an reuch, <br />Thon watter’s niver hot eneuch,<br />Luks lik it cum strecht fae a sheugh,<br />Tha brew’s aa gray.<br />Gin thon’s “gan forrits”! A say “Yugh!”</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Fur thon’s no tay.</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-19936111156747147932010-12-17T22:47:00.004+00:002010-12-17T23:25:24.743+00:00A Stitch In Time<span style="font-family:arial;">I was glancing through a recent edition of The Scots magazine when I came across an interesting article about the Prestonpans Tapestry. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">More than 200 volunteer embroiderers worked over 25,000 hours from January to June 2010 to create the 104 X 1 meter panels, which is now the longest tapestry in the world and contains over 10 million stitches. The tapestry </span><span style="font-family:arial;">commemorates Bonnie Prince Charlie's journey from France to his victory at Prestonpans in 1745 and is said to "<em>celebrate the enduring triumph of youthful Hope and Ambition</em>". </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Now I know that readers will have differing opinions on Bonnie Prince Charlie, or The Young Prestender, or whatever you want to call him, but you've got to admit that it was a quare interesting period in history, whatever your viewpoint.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The tapestry even has its own website - <a href="http://www.prestonpanstapestry.org/tapestry/default.aspx">http://www.prestonpanstapestry.org/tapestry/default.aspx</a> where you can view each of the panels. This is a great website and includes background on the historical events depicted, the research and design which went into the making of the tapestry, and education resources.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Wouldn't it be great if the Ulster-Scots could take a leaf out of the Scots' book and produce something similar depicting significant events in our history. Apart from the artistic, historical and cultural significance, this would be a great educational resource relevant to various subjects within the school curriculum.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">That said, before I get the needle and thread out, I have to admit that the last thing I embroidered (when I was about 18) was the back of my Wrangler jacket, with the name of the wee rock band I knocked around with - <em>No Hot Ashes</em> (as in the stickers they used to put on the wheelybins) in red silk. </span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-62729285508548538572010-08-22T11:00:00.004+01:002010-08-22T11:31:05.623+01:00Another New Challenge<span style="font-family:arial;">Yesterday afternoon, <em>Keep 'Er Lit</em> were playing at an event in Donaghadee where there were displays of military weapons and regalia, a re-enactment group in period costumes with horses, cannons and muskets, plus a lovely lady making soda farls on a griddle, who normally does this at the Cockle Row cottages in Groomsport (see <a href="http://www.northdowntourism.com/Events/Walk1-(2).aspx">http://www.northdowntourism.com/Events/Walk1-(2).aspx</a>). Davy Angus, who plays with <em>The Ulster-Scots Folk Orchestra</em>, also had a stand selling his hand-made wooden fifes (website <a href="http://www.angusfifes.com/">http://www.angusfifes.com/</a>). </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Needless to say, I came away stuffed to the gills with soda farls, with half a jar of delicious home-made raspberry jam in one pocket and a fife in the other, and have had to add "learn to play the fife" to a very long list of things to do. At least I can now get a note out of her, so that's some progress - and I can't blame the instrument as I heard it played beautifully by the maker!</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-79231875291223595392010-08-20T10:13:00.003+01:002010-08-20T10:31:29.453+01:00Suggestions?<span style="font-family:arial;">Our wee group, Keep 'Er Lit, is only starting to develop the singing side of our act and I'm currently experimenting with all kinds of songs, including:</span><br /><ul><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Bonniewood Green</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Carrickfergus</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">The Flower Of The County Down</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">The Ballad Of William Bloat</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Maids When You're Young Never Wed An Old Man</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">The Lea Rig (Burns)</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Ye Banks And Braes (Burns)</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">The Diel's Awa Wi The Exciseman (Burns)</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Willie Brewed A Peck O Maut (Burns)</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">The Wee Cooper Of Fife</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Wild Mountain Thyme (Will Ye Go Lassie, Go)</span></li></ul><p><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm also looking at Jackie Boyce's <em>Songs Of The County Down</em> and the Ulster-Scots poets such as James Orr and Robert Huddleston for inspiration, as I'd like to include some local material, particuarly songs that haven't already been done to death and your ideas on this would be most welcome. </span></p>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-83601580919067680112010-08-13T12:00:00.004+01:002010-08-13T17:24:43.953+01:00Another County Down reference<span style="font-family:arial;">Following on from my recent "Changing Times" post, I found another County Down reference last night, this time in Bernard Cornwell's Peninsula War novel "<em>Sharpe's Honour</em>" (yes, I probably do have unusual tastes in books for a female!).</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Anyway, to set the scene, Richard Sharpe is flat broke and discussing with Patrick Harper the possibility of selling the battalion tents and mule to the storekeeper:</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><em>Sharpe swore again. He could doubtless get five pounds out of the battalion accounts to bribe the storekeeper, but the job would be a nuisance. 'He's no friend of your's this storekeeper?'</em></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="color:#ff0000;">'He's from County Down</span>.<span style="color:#ff0000;">' Harper said it meaningfully. 'Sell his own bloody mother for a shilling.'</span></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#ff0000;">'You've got nothing on the bastard?'</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#ff0000;">'No.' Harper shook his head. 'He's tighter than an orangeman's drum.'</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#ff0000;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#ff0000;"><span style="color:#000000;">As an aside,</span> <span style="color:#000000;">I was wandering through the streets of Queenstown New Zealand in </span><span style="color:#000000;">1999 when my (now) husband shouted, "there's that wee man you like". I had no idea who he was talking about and scanned the area for the nearest person of small stature, to no avail. Turned out it was Sharpe himself, actor Sean Bean, bearded and looking distinctly scruffy, on a break from filming his role as Boramir in <em>Lord Of The Rings.</em> Now, I wouldn't call Sean Bean small, but it seems my other half thinks anyone under six foot is a midget. Anyway I caught sight of him as he went into a pizza restaurant and, somewhat sheepishly, followed him in and asked for his autograph. I'm sure actors get totally fed up with this, but he very kindly fulfilled the request on the back of the restaurant's business card and I exited stage left, totally embarassed as I hadn't had a clue what to say to him.</span></span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-18173765902248644792010-08-06T21:24:00.015+01:002011-06-13T23:16:09.154+01:00Keep 'Er Lit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigE-G0K-bxpbHLvAgycXhvBDDu8pa3gd7sYoToU-hlpZ1gd0a-DKnnKSBrg_hU415OH1_y7BfzdSzm6IJX-IBECk5cbqo8-Ch9R9fezopLehqKwJCW28svTqWdXl_uTxAzhN08-pvny4Y/s1600/KEL+3A.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 394px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502403380861768770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigE-G0K-bxpbHLvAgycXhvBDDu8pa3gd7sYoToU-hlpZ1gd0a-DKnnKSBrg_hU415OH1_y7BfzdSzm6IJX-IBECk5cbqo8-Ch9R9fezopLehqKwJCW28svTqWdXl_uTxAzhN08-pvny4Y/s400/KEL+3A.JPG" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>2011 Gigs</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Saturday 13th August, Vintage Tractor Rally, Rosemount, Greyabbey</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Thursday 8th June, TV show with Paul Rankin/Nick Nairn, D'dee</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Saturday 4th June, Portavogie International Fish Fest</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">TBC for March/April, Conlig LOL, Ulster-Scots Night</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Friday 29th April, Ballyhalbert Orange Hall</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Friday 15th April, Kirkcubbin LOL at the Yacht Club<br /></span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Thursday 17th March, Donaghadee Orange Hall, St Patrick's Night</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Friday 4th March, Glastry High School, Ulster-Scots Showcase</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Wednesday 9th February, Castlereagh Borough Council Burns Supper</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>2010 Gigs<br /></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Saturday 11th September, Private Party, Millisle</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Saturday 21st August, 1.00-2.00pm, Donaghadee Orange Hall</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Friday 20th August, 7.30pm, BBQ, Aughlisnafin Orange Hall, Clough.<br />Saturday 14th August, 7.30pm, Men On A Mission Hog Roast, Scrabo GC<br />Saturday 14th August, 2.30pm, Vintage Tractor Rally, Greyabbey<br />Saturday 31st July, 2.00pm, Party In The Park, Comber<br />Saturday 3rd July, 8.30pm, Ballyhalbert Orange Hall<br />Friday 23rd April, 8.00pm, Marie Curie Concert, Greyabbey Village Hall<br />Saturday 20th March, 8.00pm, Dinner, Causnagh Orange Hall, Loughgall<br />Wednesday 17th March, 8.00pm, Fundraiser, Gatsby Hairdressers, Comber<br />Friday 5th March, 7.30pm, Ulster-Scots Night, Kirkcubbin Sailing Club<br />Thursday 18th February, 7.30pm, Private Birthday Party, Comber<br /><br /><strong>2009 Gigs<br /><br /></strong>22nd August, 2.00pm, Glebeside Ulster-Scots Street Party, Ballymoney<br />5th August, 7.30pm, Private Birthday Party, Millisle</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-65849275617076946162010-08-04T11:08:00.005+01:002010-08-04T11:17:38.003+01:00Skippin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOM30IQItVeprnoaHELfXJkwbF0PmXX8sFRrd_TXww91T_UpwH5BFiNGGHoFW7Ahs5rtfQx06jJ-0btRAc0CgE12pZrzqLLbfBz7DreuYCnxiziOrJUxHBkNdVuFqNYQd4v-fq4ZhlQcA/s1600/Harbinson+baby+3.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 259px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501494780494139698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOM30IQItVeprnoaHELfXJkwbF0PmXX8sFRrd_TXww91T_UpwH5BFiNGGHoFW7Ahs5rtfQx06jJ-0btRAc0CgE12pZrzqLLbfBz7DreuYCnxiziOrJUxHBkNdVuFqNYQd4v-fq4ZhlQcA/s400/Harbinson+baby+3.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Tha bonnie wee lass abune is yin o ma grannies an, as ye can see, she's houlin a skippin raip in her hauns. Noo, A haed a skippin raip whun A wus a wean, an guid use A made o't fur A wus aye leppin aboot. A freen telt me no sae lang beck that she'd bocht a skippin raip fur her wee lass (sieven yeir oul) an tha chile didnae hae a notion whut tae dae wi it - noo gie her a DS ir a Wii an it's a differnt metter aathegither, but a weechile no knowin hoo tae skip - whut's tha warl cumin tae, A esk ye?Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-23110555515828933652010-08-02T22:45:00.008+01:002010-08-03T01:28:51.330+01:00A Load O Balls<p><span style="font-family:arial;">Noo, A'll no pretend onie great luv o, ir unnerstaunin o rugby fitba, ir cricket but, as A hae bin warkin at ma femmlie tree A wus surprised tae fin oot A'm (far oot) related tae a quare lot o (Ulster-Scotch) Irish internationals. Sae far, A hae tha follaein:<br /></span></p><ul><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">fae Limavady - <strong>Sir Samuel Thompson Irwin</strong> <strong>C.B.E.,M.Ch.,F.R.C.S.,M.P</strong>.(1877-1961)<br /></span><span style="font-family:Arial;">9 keps fae 1900-1903<br />President of Irish Rugby Union 1935-6<br />surgeon at the Royal Victoria Hospital<br /><br /></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">(Samuel's sin) <strong>John Walker</strong> <strong>Sinclair Irwin</strong> <strong>M.B.,F.R.C.S.</strong> (1913-2004)<br />5 keps as a beck row forrit 1937-39<br />scored tha winnin try at Twickenham in Feb 19 an 39<br />President o Irish Rugby Union 1969-70<br />surgeon at the Royal Victoria Hospital<br /><br /></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Justin Bishop</strong> (1974- ) great-nephew o Sinclair Irwin -<br />25 keps at wing - 1997-2003, echt tries<br /><br /></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Dr John (Jackie) Wilson Kyle</strong> <strong>O.B.E.</strong> (1926-)<br />46 keps at fly-hauf, 1946-1958, 7 tries<br />In 2002 he wus caa'd tha "<em>Greatest Ever Irish Rugby Player</em>" by tha Irish Rugby Fitba Union.<br />Efter a solo try agin France at Ravenhill in 1953, yin o tha newspaper men daen a parody o Tha Scarlet Pimpernel, wi tha lines:<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#000099;">They seek him here, they seek him there<br />Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.<br />That paragon of pace and guile,<br />That demned elusive Jackie Kyle.<br /><br /></span></em></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">fae Newton - <strong>Dr James Alexander MacDonald</strong> <strong>M.D, M.Ch., L.L.D. </strong>(1853-1928)<br />13 keps as a front row forrit fae 1874-1884<br /><em>grandsin o John McDonald that knit tha quilt fur the Marquis o Londonderry (last poast)<br /></em>Forbye tha rugby, he played yin international association fitba match agin Englan an, alang wi thie o his brithers played a wheen o matches fur tha Irish international lacrosse team.<br />He wus a wean-walloper at Methody afore gaun tae Queen's medical schuil. A heared he wus a doctor oan yin o tha big liners an, efter he'd saved tha life o a weel-aff boadie oan his boat, tha craiter gien him eneuch siller tae buy a wee practice in Somerset, whaur he leeved oot tha rest o his days. Ye'd thenk that wud dae but, forbye aa tha abune, he wus President o tha Cooncil o tha British Medical Association fae 1910-1920.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#330033;"><strong>A'm near sure tha neist twa boadies is related tae me onie A hinnae jist tied doon tha exact connection.<br /><br /></strong></span></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">fae Commer - <strong>James MacDonald</strong> <strong>M.B.E</strong>. (1906-1969)<br />Cricket - left haun batsman, slow left airm, 29 keps fae 1926-1939<br />President o tha Irish Cricket Union in 1954, an national selector fae 1946 tae 1960.<br />Hockey - 25 keps<br />Headmaster o Regent Hoose schuil<br /></span><span style="font-family:Arial;"><br /></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">(his brither) <strong>Thomas John MacDonald</strong> (1908-1998)<br />Cricket - openin batsman, 17 keps</span></li></ul><p><span style="font-family:Arial;">Tha yin thang A kin say fur definite is A hinnae inherited onie skeel at onie kine o sport - tha onie thang A can ketch is tha coul!</span></p>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-26945557389578179232010-08-01T16:17:00.013+01:002010-08-05T23:15:05.572+01:00Sucking Up To The Landlord?<p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0V0G29zzat7CB4olnNxzM3IgMEGiU-xFezUz98N8HqCZ1S12JjEeUQlDAhfQRSQZyxDPFOYWIX5SwH-WL9YAIOkSwhxC2pMjgwEFpxU9HAfYkaZ13g3ts57Ofy4pxyLHgA1W6UOr1tTo/s1600/John+McDonald+-+knitter+-+Newtownards+Chronicle+27+March+1926.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 267px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500461262822504322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0V0G29zzat7CB4olnNxzM3IgMEGiU-xFezUz98N8HqCZ1S12JjEeUQlDAhfQRSQZyxDPFOYWIX5SwH-WL9YAIOkSwhxC2pMjgwEFpxU9HAfYkaZ13g3ts57Ofy4pxyLHgA1W6UOr1tTo/s400/John+McDonald+-+knitter+-+Newtownards+Chronicle+27+March+1926.jpg" /></a></p><br /><p align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">A wheen o yeir syne, A cum on tha wee airticle abune, fae <em>T</em></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>he Northern Whig</em> o 25th March 18 an 26 an rin agane bi <em>The </em></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>Newtownards Chronicle</em> in 19 an 26. Tha John McDonald in tha airticle </span><span style="font-family:arial;">wus ma great-great-great-granda's brither an (as a tenant o tha Marquis o Londonderry fae Mount Stewart) he haed a wee fairm o lan by tha name o <em>Pinecroft</em> oot at </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Loughriescouse tooonlan, jist oot o Newton (John's grandsin Alec soul tha fairm in 1915 afore settin aff fur New Zealan an Ian an Irene Moore hae it noo). </span></p><p align="left"></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Noo, sim fowk wud mebbe thenk it strange tae hear o a man daein sic fine knittin in them days, fur ye'd mebbe thenk o it as wummen's wark. Nooadays ye hae tha like o Kaffe Fassett (see <a href="http://www.kaffefassett.com/">http://www.kaffefassett.com/</a>) an A'd heared aboot tha fishermen in tha oul days knittin but whun A lukked intae it A fun oot tha menfowk hae bin at tha knittin this lang while (see <a href="http://hubpages.com/hub/Men_Who_Knit">http://hubpages.com/hub/Men_Who_Knit</a>). Nooadays, knittin's aa tha go wi tha menfowk in Hollywood (USA no Coontie Doon!) an A hear there's clesses fur men tae larn hoo tae dae it, but tha likes o Brad Pitt an Russell Crowe (<a href="http://www.wow.ie/images/www_wow_ie/Russel%20Crowe%20Knitting.jpg">http://www.wow.ie/images/www_wow_ie/Russel%20Crowe%20Knitting.jpg</a>) </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">ir no daein ocht new fur Newton men wus at it near twa hunnert yeir syne. </span></p><p align="left"></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Tha ither thang A wunnert aboot wus hoocum oul John wus giein this fency bed quilt tae his lannlord's wife, but mebbe tha design o it (tha Royal Messon's airms) gies tha answer fur, like tha marquis, tha McDonalds wur aa in tha Messons, an mebbe he wus coontin on sim kine o favour ir commission. Mine ye, A wus a bit tuk beck fur it luks like a bit o sookin up an A didnae thenk oor lot wud hae bin tha soart tae dae thon! </span></p>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-51504831619464551512010-08-01T00:08:00.004+01:002010-08-01T01:14:22.403+01:00Natural Ulster-Scots v the book-learned variety<span style="font-family:Arial;">My mum tells me that when she first came to live in Newtownards some sixty years ago, as a student nurse from south Down, she had great difficulty understanding the locals, as virtually all the indiginous residents (with the possible exception of a few snooty social climbers) </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">talked what I would now call Ulster-Scots, or what my Newtownards born-and-bred </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">dad referred to as "broad Newtown". </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I happened to hear a BBC </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Radio Ulster news feature this week on Ulster-Scots summer schemes at various local primary schools. I think it's great that these summer schools exist and that they include tuition in </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">music, dance and the Ulster-Scots language. Indeed, if such schemes are still operating when my baby daughter is old enough I will be at the head of the queue to sign her up to attend. </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">However, </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Maggie Taggart's interview with the children at Castle Gardens Primary School about their Ulster-Scots language lessons saddened me. Don't get me wrong, the children were obviously enjoying the lessons and I'm not criticising what they were being taught. What upset me was that it came across that basic words and phrases (eg "<em>Houl yer Wheesht</em>") were strange and new to the children speaking them - children who I presume live in my home town in the heart of an Ulster-Scots area. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I suppose it's a combination of factors, including years of stigmatisation of the language. Maybe the parents or grandparents had the Ulster-Scots beaten out of them (literally or otherwise) and either have none left in them or assume that they also have to exorcise the remants from each successive generation. Then of course there's the pervasive influence of the media. While I can't claim to have escaped this myself, it annoys me that local youngsters seem to think it's cooler to sound more like extras from <em>Home And Away</em> or <em>High School Musical</em> than kids from county Down. Oh, and why is everything <em>"random"?</em> I probably have all of this heartbreak in front of me! </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">As a first time parent, I'm sure I will make many mistakes but I really will feel as though I have failed Isla if she isn't naturally bilingual in English and Ulster-Scots before starting formal education. I don't want her growing up thinking that Ulster-Scots is something you have to go to a class in order to learn from someone who probably didn't speak themselves when they were a child. </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">I am so glad that my dad, who taught at a local primary school, was proud of the local way of talking and used it wherever he could, while ensuring that we also learned "proper English". Anyone who knows me will not be surprised to learn that I was always being to told to "<em>wheesht",</em> but never knew how to <em>"houl" </em>it and I was no stranger to a "<em>guid</em> <em>skelp on tha arse</em>" (I doubt the summer school classes teach that one)! </span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-46226420644146466352010-07-29T12:52:00.003+01:002010-07-29T13:17:58.496+01:00Robin's Readings<span style="font-family:arial;">I'm a bit late with this post, as the series has already started but, for those of you who aren't already aware, BBC Radio Ulster is currently broadcasting an excellent series of stories from W G Lyttle's Robin's Readings. You can currently hear episode two on the iplayer at </span><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t3nsk"><span style="font-family:arial;">http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t3nsk</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> For my sins I even have a bit part in one or two of the later episodes! Indeed, those familiar with the Ulster-Scots scene will recognise most of the voices.<br /><br />Hearty congratulations are due to to BBC Ulster-Scots producer Laura Spence for all her hard work in producing this series. Hopefully, Laura will do more shows along these lines, and perhaps even consider commissioning some contemporary Ulster-Scots radio plays.</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-2997738473726289162010-07-29T11:05:00.000+01:002010-07-29T11:07:08.851+01:00Changing Times?<span style="font-family:arial;">Last night, without even knowing I had been looking for it, my other half spotted the following quotation in chapter 13 of Compton Mackenzie's The Monarch Of The Glen (1941) - I'd convinced myself it was in a John Buchan novel which explains why I couldn't find it again. Anyway, here goes ...<br /><br />"He had a forefinger which when pointed at his audience had the admonitory force of a loaded pistol. He was as warm and fluent as the hot water tap of a hotel bath, <span style="color:#ff0000;"><strong>as self-confident as an Orangeman contesting a seat in County Down</strong></span>, and as full of catchpenny emotion as an illustrated daily."</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-67941430477771999602009-06-13T14:38:00.005+01:002009-06-19T21:34:36.645+01:00RATHFRILAN FAIR<span style="font-family:arial;">This is a wee poem I wrote a few years ago, loosely based on a story I heard about my great-great-granny's brother.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>RATHFRILAN FAIR</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Aroon a hunnèrt yeir syne, in tha Sooth o Coontie Doon,<br />Leeved a boy by tha name o Truesdale, near oul Rathfrilan toon.<br />His mither caa’d him Francis, but maist fowks gied him Frank.<br />He wus a boul big hallion, but he’d siller in tha bank.<br /><br />Weel, Frank he wusnae merriet, an he haed a fairm o lan.<br />He wusnae mair nor fiftie, and life wus quare an gran.<br />Fur he cud dae whutivver he plaised, wi deil tha wife tae barge,<br />An monie a yin wushed he wus Frank, no lannit wi sim oul targe<br /><br />Ae Fair Day morn, Frank hitchit tha trep an set aff fur tha toon,<br />Fae tha fairm at Ballynagappog, strecht up tha hill an roon,<br />Tae tha Kirk Square whaur he pued up, ayont an oul stane barn,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Whaur he spied twathie cronies, staunin smowkin, haein a yarn .<br /><br />“Ach Billie Rab!” quo Frank wi glee, “whaur hae ye bin, oul freen?<br />An whut aboot ye, Joey? An hoo’s tha wife an wean?”<br />Oul Frank he wus in quare guid form, as he pit tha meer awa, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But he seen she haed a feed o coarn an a guid wee bed o strae.<br /><br />Noo tha boys wus feelin drouthie, wi aa tha crack o tha Fair, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sae Frank bocht them baith a whiskey, an the’ bocht a clattèr mair.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Afore lang the’ wus richtlie, an liltin sangs o yore,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tha mair the’ cudnae houl a tune - ye cud tell the’ wus heff tore.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tha lanlaird o tha yillhoose, telt them “Na. Nay mair!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Fur youse is pittin dacent fowk aff cummin in tha dair.”</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Wee Joe wis oxter-coggelt oot, an telt no tae luk doon,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">On accoont o whun he daen it, tha flair wis birlin roon.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Puir Rab near boked his ring up whun the’ gote oot in tha air, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sae tha boys aa thocht the’d gang aff hame, afore thar day gote waur.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Frank gaed tae get tha oul grey meer, By Sowl, bit no too quäck,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Fer tha mair yin fit gaed forrits, tha ither stauchèrt beck. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Wi Meggie gote atween tha trams (A dinnae mine jist hoo)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An collar, hames an harnish oan, Frank creed oot, “A’m aff, noo”.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He sprachlit up intae tha sate, an it wus a sicht tae see,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Fer whaur yin meer stud fower oor syne, afore him noo wus thie!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Noo, Rathfrilan bes a ticht wee toon, biggit oan a hill, at tha croon, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An nae matter whut wye in ye lann, ye’ll hae a steich raa doon. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sae whan he set aff hameairt boon, Frank tuk it gye an cannie, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Til John Barleycorn cheepit in his lug, “Yir drivin like ma grannie.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sae, wi sperks fleein fae tha wheels, an tha pechin o tha pownie,<br />It wisnae lang til Frank creed, “Hup”, as he spied his ain fairm loanie.<br />Bit tha reins wis like twa washin lines, an he nivver hit tha brak,<br />Sae Frankie an tha pownie, tha’ tuk tha turn owre quäck.<br /><br />Tha trep it cowpt clean owre, an Frank wus kilt stane deid.<br />A ledge he nivver felt a thang, fur he lanit oan his heid.<br />T’wus brither Tam wha fun him, leein fornenst tha sheugh,<br />Wi fanklit airms an broo stove in, boys, he wus lukkin reuch.<br /><br />Tha seestèrs baa’ed an greetit, fur the’ wus affleectit sair,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The’ wus powerfu fonn o brither Frank, an vext he wus nae mair.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tha freens an neebours cam tae murn, an gie thair seempathy</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An aa ye hearit wus, “Boys a Dear”, ir “Och Anee, Anee”.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Frank’s leein in a kirkyaird noo, weel plantit sax fut unnèr<br />An gin ye tak strang drink an drive ye’ll mebbe join him thonnèr</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sae whan y'ir gaun oot oan tha toon, lee tha motòr weel alane</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An gin ye cannae get a taxi, jist ye dannèr hame yir lane</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-12164899805634223692009-05-16T15:46:00.004+01:002009-05-16T16:33:02.472+01:00A Rustic Love Making<span style="font-family:arial;">As a wee change from the poems, here's a song entitled <em>A Rustic Love Making</em> by George Francis Savage Armstrong (1845-1906) from his <em>Ballads Of Down</em> (1901). Mark Thompson recently commented on his blog <a href="http://clydesburn.blogspot.com/">http://clydesburn.blogspot.com/</a> that I'd reminded him about Savage Armstrong's writings. Well, I'm glad he said that because I realised then that I hadn't actually posted any of his writings.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Unlike the majority of Ulster-Scots writers, Savage Armstrong was no homespun peasant. He was Professor of English and History, Queen’s College, Cork and a contender for Poet Laureate after Tennyson. He also wrote extensively on his mother’s family, the Savages of the Ards Peninsula (formerly of Portaferry Castle).</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">A Rustic Love Making</span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">[He]</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Noo, gie's a kiss, ye sonsie lass ...</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Och, gie's a kiss fur kin'ness!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Yer beauty melts my heart like wex,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An' doits me nigh tae blin'ness.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">[She]</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Na! - Weel a ken the ways o' men;</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The De'il fur mischief sent ye;</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">If yin a gied ye'd ax fur ten,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An ten wud ne'er content ye.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">[He]</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It's nae the merket-square ye're in,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But jist a lanesome by-way,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Saea tak' yer wee han' frae yer mooth,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An' ben' nae doon sae shyly.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">[She]</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Behave! The sun's ahint the brae;</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A can nae langer stay, noo;</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There, hau'd ye'er fingers frae my frills,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It's nae the time fur play, noo.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">[He]</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Yer lips ir, och, sae smooth an' swate!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An' whaur's the herm in this, noo?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Och, heth, ye're jist the rose o' June,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An' gie's a anither kiss, noo!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">[She]</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A tau'd ye this wud be yer game;</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Ye'd keep fur aye embracin';</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It's jist the ways uv a' yer kin',</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Their tricks is nivver ceasin'!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">[He]</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Och, Natur' 't is that gi'es the law;</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mon's made tae luve the wumman,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The wumman's made fur mon tae luve</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Noo, stay! There's naeyin comin'.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">[She]</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Luik, see! There's fow'k that gang this way</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Whun gloamin'-time is nearin'</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Come doon an' walk by Comber burn</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That's oot o' sight an' hearin'!</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-27582297780203031302009-05-16T15:11:00.003+01:002009-05-16T15:32:00.173+01:00A Pastoral In Praise of Allan Ramsay<span style="font-family:arial;">Here's another one for all those who like to say Ulster-Scots is a recent invention. The earliest known writer of poetry in Ulster-Scots was William Starrat, a mathematics teacher of Strabane, County Tyrone. In 1722 he wrote a poetic letter to Scottish poet Allan Ramsay (1686-1758) and this, together with Ramsay's reply, was duly published, from an annotated version, in <em>The Collected Works Of Allan Ramsay</em> as <em>Epistle From Mr William Starrat, Teacher of Mathematicks at Straban in Ireland.</em><br /><br /><strong>A Pastoral In Praise Of Allan Ramsay<br /></strong><br />O'er ilka hedge it wildly bounds,<br />And grazes on forbidden grounds,<br />Where constantly like furious range<br />Poortith, diseases, death, revenge :<br />To toom anes poutch to daunty clever,<br />Or have wrang'd husband probe ane's liver,<br />Or void ane's saul out thro' a shanker,<br />In faith 't wad any mortal canker.<br /><br />Then wale a virgin worthy you,<br />Worthy your love and nuptial vow ;<br />Syne frankly range o'er a' her charms,<br />Drink deep of joy within her arms;<br />Be still delighted with her breast,<br />And on her love with rapture feast.<br /><br />May she be blooming, saft, and young,<br />With graces melting from her tongue ;<br />Prudent and yielding to maintain<br />Your love, as well as you her ain.<br /><br />Thus with your leave, Sir, I've made free<br />To give advice to ane can gi'e<br />As good again : but as mass John<br />Said, when the sand tald time was done,<br />" Ha'e patience, my dear friends, a wee,<br />And take ae ither glass frae me ;<br />And if ye think there's doublets due,<br />I shanna bauk the like frae you."<br /><br />AE windy day last owk, I'll ne'er forget,<br />I think I hear the hail-stanes rattling yet ;<br />On Crochan-buss my hirdsell took the lee,<br />As ane wad wish, just a' beneath my ee :<br />I in the bield of yon auld birk-tree side,<br />Poor cauldrife Coly whing'd aneath my plaid.<br />Right cozylie was set to ease my stumps,<br />Well hap'd with bountith hose and twa-sol'd pumps :<br />Syne on my four-hours luncheon chew'd my cood,<br />Sic kilter pat me in a merry mood ;<br />My whistle frae my blanket nook I drew,<br />And lilted owre thir twa three lines to you.<br />Blaw up my heart-strings, ye Pierian quines,<br />That gae the Grecian bards their bonny rhymes,<br />And learn'd the Latin lowns sic springs to play,<br />As gars the world gang dancing to this day.<br /><br />In vain I seek your help ; 'tis bootless toil<br />With sic dead ase to muck a moorland soil ;<br />Give me the muse that calls past ages back,<br />And shaws proud southern sangsters their mistak,<br />That frae their Thames can fetch the laurel north,<br />And big Parnassus on the firth of Forth.<br /><br />Thy breast alane this gladsome guest does fill<br />With strains that warm our hearts like cannel gill,<br />And learns thee, in thy umquhile gutcher's tongue,<br />The blythest lilts that e'er my lugs heard sung.<br />Ramsay ! for ever live; for wha like you,<br />In deathless sang, sic life-like pictures drew ?<br />Not he wha whilome with his harp cou'd ca'<br />The dancing stanes to big the Theban wa' ;<br />Nor he (shame fa's fool head !) as stories tell,<br />Cou'd whistle back an auld dead wife frae hell ;<br />Nor e'en the loyal brooker of bell trees,<br />Wha sang with hungry wame his want of fees ;<br />Nor Habby's drone, cou'd with thy wind-pipe please :<br />When, in his well-ken'd clink, thou manes the death<br />Of Lucky Wood and Spence, (a matchless skaith<br />To Canigate) sae gash thy gab-trees gang,<br />The carlines live for ever in thy sang.<br /><br />Or when thy country bridal thou pursues,<br />To red the regal tulzie sets thy muse,<br />Thy soothing sangs bring canker'd carles to ease,<br />Some loups to Lutter's pipe, some birls babies.<br /><br />But gin to graver notes thou tunes thy breath,<br />And sings poor Sandy's grief for Adie's death,<br />Or Matthew's loss, the lambs in concert mae,<br />And lanesome Ringwood yowls upon the brae.<br /><br />Good God ! what tuneless heart-strings wadna twang,<br />When love and beauty animate the sang ?<br />Skies echo back, when thou blaws up thy reed<br />In Burchet's praise for clapping of thy head :<br />And when thou bids the paughty Czar stand yon,<br />The wandought seems beneath thee on his throne.<br />Now, be my saul, and I have nought behin,<br />And well I wat fause swearing is a sin,<br />I'd rather have thy pipe and twa three sheep,<br />Than a' the gowd the monarch's coffers keep.<br /><br />Coly, look out, the few we have's gane wrang,<br />This se'enteen "owks I have not play'd sae lang ;<br />Ha ! Crummy, ha ! trowth I man quat my sang ;<br />But, lad, neist mirk we'll to the haining drive,<br />When in fresh lizar they get spleet and rive :<br />The royts will rest, and gin ye like my play,<br />I'll whistle to thee all the live-lang day. </span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-58390714704724763352009-05-16T14:14:00.005+01:002009-05-16T14:57:55.129+01:00THA SHOW<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYybPZYWh6gBzuLp5jZ3yJ8JPyEjgImt9vTeZ7naytMXW5CHz9O0Uqfgi5yN3YYdeVAFe22Lod8JPVGhm8hn0AfvOHUzIJwJK2y6GMSlqGZB0EL6iO-cy9dKYNHisjqDKvuRpGlSrq6Eo/s1600-h/Hackney+driving+at+Balmoral.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336420673738511666" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 305px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYybPZYWh6gBzuLp5jZ3yJ8JPyEjgImt9vTeZ7naytMXW5CHz9O0Uqfgi5yN3YYdeVAFe22Lod8JPVGhm8hn0AfvOHUzIJwJK2y6GMSlqGZB0EL6iO-cy9dKYNHisjqDKvuRpGlSrq6Eo/s400/Hackney+driving+at+Balmoral.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Here's a wee poem I wrote a few years ago about the Balmoral Show. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>THA SHOW<br /></strong><br />Ilka May, thar’s twathie days whan kintra cums tae toon<br />An tha fairmin fowk o Ulstèr, lea hairth an hame ahint<br />It’s tha big Show at Balmoral, Bilfawst is whaur it’ at.<br />Sae gin ye hinnae bin afore, gae alang an see whut’s whut.<br /><br />Thar’s traictors by tha dizzen, Massey Ferguson an John Deere<br />Pues an combine hairvisters – By Sowl, it’s aa here!<br />Thar’s aye sim weelads thonner (an ithers no sae wee)<br />Hingin roon tha stauns lik cleggs the’ ir, the’ dinnae want tae lea.<br /><br />Whan ye hae yir fill o motòrs, hae a luk at aa tha bastes<br />Wi tups and yowes, an pïgs an soos, thar’s simthan fer aa tastes<br />Thar’s stirks an kye (sim moilies) nannie goats an coalie dugs<br />Turkeys, geese an banties, an a lock o doos an deuks.<br /><br />An dinnae lee oot tha pownies, an brood meers wi foals in haun<br />Thar’s yearlins in tha showin ring, ach shure tha nivver staun<br />Thar’s trade turn-oots, cobs an Airish Draughts, side-seddle clesses an aa<br />An owre in tha Warkin-Hunnèr ring - thar’s aye a wheen tha’ faa.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Whaure’er ye luk thar’s ridin breeks, ir tweeds an Barbour jaickit<br />Wattèr buits, dunchers, tairtan shirts – fer fairmin thon’s tha ticket.<br />Fer aa them bastes ir gien a wash, thar’s aye sim dung aroon<br />Sae as y'ir gaun atweesht tha rings, tak guid tent whaur ye pit yer shune.<br /><br />Mine, whan y'ir gaun roon as weel, tae use yer een an lugs<br />Fer fowk ir aye gaun aff tae see sim men aboot sim dugs!<br />Ye’ll affen hear sim quare guid crack, an mebbe mak a dale<br />Ir larn hoo tae bring tha barley in, an whit tae dae wi kail.<br /><br />An aa ye sing’l menfowk, tak a luk at tha kintra quaens<br />Ye cud dae waur nor a fairmin lass, an ye’ll no leeve oan baked beans!<br />An whit aboot youse weeminfowk, gin yir oot tae cleek the yeir<br />Hae ye seen them boul big fairmers, wi thar shoodèrs oot tae here?<br /><br />Sae whutivver taks yer fancy, jist tak yersel aff thonner<br />An gie a thocht tae tha fairmer, whan neist ye mak tha dïnner<br />Fer he growes tha craps an rares tha mate tae feed oor sins an dochters<br />An it’s fowk like him tha’ mine tha lan fer ithers tae cum eftèr us.</span><br /></div></span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-71779326956665474262009-05-14T20:45:00.004+01:002009-05-14T20:56:54.576+01:00A Country Lad's Observations At The Hiring Fair In Ballymena<span style="font-family:arial;">Here's another Ulster-Scots poem - <em>A Country Lad's Observations At The Hiring Fair In Ballymena,</em> written in November 1899 by County Antrim poet Adam Lynn from Random Rhymes From Cullybackey (Belfast, 1911).</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>A Country Lad's Observations At The Hiring Fair In Ballymena</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Weel, freens, A gat me tae the toon,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Although big clouds were hoverin' roon,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">An whiles an odd yin did come doon</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Tae we got drack'd;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Yet mony a sinburnt-luckin' croon</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Seem'd tae be cracked.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The hale toon seemd tae be aware</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">That Sethurday wus Hiring Fair,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">And that ferm-servants wud be there</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">For a big day,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Who meant tae hae a treat sae rare</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Wae six months' pay.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Here and there wus a wee ban'</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The centre-piece a big ould man,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">What maks' his leevin' off the lan'</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Without a doot;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Bit see him view the horny han'</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">'Ere he spak' oot.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">"Tell me, my man, noo can you sow,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">And can you milk, and plough, and mow,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">And build a load of hay or stro'</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">For market day?</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">If you can do these things, say so</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I'll fix your pay."</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The toon assumed its usual gait,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Folk mashing roon at nae wee rate,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Each luckin' for there ain dear mate</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">In blank despair;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">And so may I if I keep blate</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">To the next Fair.</span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></strong>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-78351855193011838822009-05-14T19:33:00.004+01:002009-05-14T20:29:41.764+01:00The Weaver Question<span style="font-family:arial;">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, "<strong><em>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 </em></strong>[including James Mairs of Newtownards and Hugh Mack of Belfast] <strong><em>and the Scottish house of Peter MacArthur & Co</em></strong>" [still trading in Biggar, Lanarkshire] Talk about taking coals to Newcastle! The family death notice also included the following excerpt from a poem entitled <em>The Weaver</em> by Benjamin Malachi Franklin (1882-1965)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">Not till the loom is silent</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">And the shuttles cease to fly</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">Shall God unroll the canvas</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">And explain the reason why.</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Continuing the weaving theme, here's a wee Ulster-Scots poem called <em>The Weaver Question</em> by Thomas Given (c1850-1917) taken from G R Buick's <em>Poetical Works Of The Brothers Given</em> (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.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">As Edward Sloan's poem <em>The Weaver's Triumph</em> also shows, life was not always easy for the weavers.<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><em>The Weaver Question</em></strong> by Thomas Given</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We read o' meetings to support</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The risin' nerra-guage,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Which is to be the strength and fort</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">O' every comin' age.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We read o' controversies lang.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">O' puirhoose jaw and vapour,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But seldom does the weavers' wrang</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Bedeck the public paper</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">On ony day.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Oor wabs are lang an' ill to weave -</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes the yarn is bad - </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Till scanty claes, wi' ragget sleeve,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Is seen on lass an' lad.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But noo guid fortune we'll attain,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For orators sae thrifty</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Will gar the dreeper clip his chain</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Wa' doon tae twa-an'-fifty</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">On ilka day.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Queels maun be wun when claith is wroucht,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An' pickers, shears an' treadles,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tallow an' temples maun be boucht,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An' floor tae dress the heddles.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Then meat tae gar the wee yins leeve,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Maun come as weel's the tackle,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But shure the wages we receive</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Wud hardly buy them treacle</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tae meal this day.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">How aisy 'tis for men tae preach</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Whun riches they hae got,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An' wae self-interest's purse-hurt screech,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Ca' us a sinfu' lot.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But, haud a wee! Ye men o' wealth!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Though noo for breath yer pantin',</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We ax nae favours gained by stealth -</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It's justice that we're wantin' -</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Nae mair this day.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I ne'er was blessed wae gift o' gab,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Like some great learned men,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Instead o' school, I wove my wab,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Before that I was ten.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Though noo I'm auld an' gray's my hair,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I've studied weel the sense o't</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For work let us get wages fair,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Nae matter 'boot the length o't</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">On ony day.</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-3030145439360252952009-02-18T18:47:00.006+00:002009-02-19T13:01:43.758+00:00The Ards TT<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rf2ChT9Bs6leZXVXtM-gEGZCLUw1EL6GygVY2H9xJkNHCDgwY8UoWv7Lxabemp7-KwAEgXk9XTFNYL07dnhxhYeAN7S6mhGL9IZS1lI9EML-Z1y0rvwAhZF8udTtEGFhzXh3cDzmfZk/s1600-h/TT+-+Church+Street.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304221375686512034" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rf2ChT9Bs6leZXVXtM-gEGZCLUw1EL6GygVY2H9xJkNHCDgwY8UoWv7Lxabemp7-KwAEgXk9XTFNYL07dnhxhYeAN7S6mhGL9IZS1lI9EML-Z1y0rvwAhZF8udTtEGFhzXh3cDzmfZk/s400/TT+-+Church+Street.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Here's another photo from my</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> family collection, showing a driver in the Ards TT getting out of his car in Church Street, Newtownards. I think this wee row of houses may have stood at the front of Ards Hospital. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">The TT ran from 1928-1936, over 6 hours on a 13.7 mile course which started in Dundonald and proceeded, via Quarry Corner and Bradshaw's Brae to Newtownards, down Church Street and Regent Street, through the Square and on to Comber Square, up Castle Street, on to the Belfast Road to the Elk Inn corner at Dundonald and back up to the starting point.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">Unfortunately, I don't know which year our photo </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">was taken, who the driver is, or what kind of car he's driving, although s</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">ome of the manufacturers represented in the TT </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">were </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Lea-Francis, Frazer Nash, Lagonda, Bugatti, Alfa-Romeo, Bentley, Mercedes Benz, Talbot, MG Midget, Maserati, Singer, and Delahaye. If anyone can throw any light on the identity of the car or driver pictured, I'd love to hear from you.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">It's obvious that Health & Safety hadn't been invented then, as the crowd barrier consists of wooden barrels with string in between. In 1936, one of the cars crashed at the railway bridge (long since demolished) at the bottom of the Belfast Road in Newtownards, killing eight spectators and injuring 40 others. That was the end of The Ards TT. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">In June 2003, several of the original TT cars took part in a </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">demonstration drive of three laps of the old course, to mark the 75th anniversary of the TT and a </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">memorial to the TT was unveiled in Conway Square Newtownards in August 2008.</span></div>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-13443805302224237892009-02-18T13:59:00.009+00:002009-02-18T14:44:25.896+00:00Truth<span style="font-family:arial;">Here's a wee poem I wrote a few years ago. I must have been feeling all jaded and cynical!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>TRUTH</strong></span><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Ye’ll aye fin yins 'at sweer bline Elvis isnae deid ava, </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">An tha feck o fowk wud mebbe yit houl wi a freat ir twa. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">But wushin ir haipin fur simthan, disnae mak it true, </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Ye cannae lippen oan aa ye’r telt - maist o ye wud alloo.</span></p><span style="font-family:arial;"><p><br />Yince A haed a notion A cud quarely lilt a sang,</p><p>Til A heared masel, as ithers heared, an foon oot A wus wrang. </p><p>Fur a sough o truth blowed in ma lugs - By Sowl, it gunked me sair - </p><p>An noo, ootwith tha motor car, ye’ll hear me lilt nae mair. </p><p></p><p>Sure A shud hae knowed fae Rabbie Burns, tae no growe sic a thocht, </p><p>Fur aa his puir Jenny’s fency airs, the’ didnae get her ocht. </p><p>Thon hizzie she wus fu o pride, til tha loose craa’d owre her bonnet,</p><p>Bot w’ir aa tha yin soo’s pïgs, ye ken, an aye we shud hae mine o’it. </p><p></p><p>Fur there’s bums an blows ’at get oan like tha Kïngs o Dear knows whaur, </p><p>Ir let oan tae be oul hauns, an cannae dae ocht ava. </p><p>Whiles ye’ll mebbe hear a whud o sim gulpin cum tae po’er </p><p>An muckle heich aboon us growed, wi better yins past owre. </p><p></p><p></p><p>Tha warl’s fu o chates an lee’rs, an there’s boys wud dae thar grannie, </p><p>Owre tha heid o a wheen o pun – tak tent, freens, aye be cannie. </p><p>But whut gangs aroon wull cum aroon, accordin tae tha saw: </p><p>The’ll aa be ketched oot in tha en, by thair ain fowks, ir tha laa.</span></p>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-27845626411206546722009-02-15T19:05:00.033+00:002009-05-15T00:18:10.825+01:00Writings on North Down, Ards and Strangford Lough<span style="font-family:arial;">I've drawn up a rough list, which I'm sure is not comprehensive, of creative writers who've made reference to the North Down, Ards and Strangford Lough areas of County Down in either English or Ulster-Scots. The challenge is can you think of the ones I've left out!<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Starting with the earliest:</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><strong>Francis Boyle</strong> (c1730 - post 1811) – Local places mentioned in his <em>Miscellaneous Poems</em> (1811) include Gransha, Moneyrea, Comber, the Ards, Gilnahirk, the Stay Brae, the Brenniel [sic], [Crossna]Creevy, Moneyrea, Dundonald, Knock, Drumbo, Lisleen, Ballygow'n, Crossgear, Downpatrick, Donaghadee, Dunover, Mount Pleasant, Meharg's thorn (a local landmark in Gilnahirk) Bangor and Ballygaskin (near Crossgar). Many other places further away in County Down, County Antrim, Scotland and England are also named.<br /><br /><strong>John Meharg</strong> – of Gilnahirk - mentions Gransha in his <em>Epistle To Francis Boyle</em> published in Francis Boyle's <em>Miscellaneous Poems</em> (1811).<br /><br /><strong>Andrew McKenzie</strong> (1780-1839) of Dunover – <em>Poems And Songs On Different Subjects</em> (1810) - Writes about the Ards Peninsula<br /><br /><strong>Robert Huddleston</strong> (1814-1887) – Poems and songs published (1844 and 1846) plus an unpublished novel and unpublished poems and songs. He writes about the Moneyrea area, Comber, Saintfield, Ballygowan, Ards Peninsula and Strangford Lough, Ringneill, Reagh Island, Killinchy etc. Other references include Newtownards, Donaghadee, the Lead Mines, Greyabbey and Mount Stewart.<br /><br /><strong>W G Lyttle</strong> (1844-1896) – <em>Betsy Gray</em>, <em>Daft Eddie</em>, <em>Sons Of The Sod</em> and <em>Robin’s Readings</em> are all set in the North Down and Ards area and include references to locations on the Ards Peninsula, Strangford Lough, Newtownards, Tullynagardy Glen etc.<br /><br /><strong>Hugh McWilliams</strong> – of Ballysallagh. Two books published in 1816 and 1831. <em>Poems And Songs On Various Subjects</em> (1816) includes topographical references include Crawfordsburn, Bangor, Conlig, Cairn Wood, Clandeboye, Ballysallagh and Portavoe.<br /><strong><br />George Francis Savage-Armstrong</strong> (1845-1906) was born in County Down and was Professor of History and Literature in Queen's College, Cork. He produced two volumes on the history of the Savages of the Ards peninsula (his mother’s family) plus copious amounts of poetry and <em>Ballads Of Down</em> (1901) which included <em>MacAnanty Fairy King Of Scrabo Hill</em>.<br /><br /><strong>Edward Sloan</strong> of Conlig - In his poetry book <em>The Bard’s Offering</em> (1854) there is a poem entitled <em>The Lovely Glens Of Crawfordsburn</em> (he dedicated the book to Sharman Crawford who lived at Crawfordsburn House) and in <em>A Farewell</em> he writes of walking through "Pirrie's Grove" (Little Clandeboye at Conlig was owned by William Pirrie) and "gazing upon the shores of Scottish lands".<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm not famililar with the works of these next three, but have left them in the list to remind me to check them out!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>William Cleland</strong> - <em>Collection</em> (1838)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>William Bleakley</strong> of Ballinaskeagh - <em>Moral and Religious Poems</em> (1840)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Robert Gilmore</strong> - <em>Collection Of Poems And Songs</em> (1843) </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Leslie Alexander Montgomery</strong>, aka <strong>Lynn Doyle</strong> (1873-1961) – He wrote of the Downpatrick area and Strangford Lough<br /><br /><strong>Sam Hanna Bell</strong> (1909-1990) – <em>December Bride</em> is mainly set in the Ravara area, but much of the filming took place on Island Taggart and on the Ards Peninsula.<br /><br /><strong>John Stevenson</strong> - <em>Bab Of The Percivals</em> (1926) is set on the Ards Peninsula and <em>Two Centuries Of Life In Down</em> (1920) while not fiction, includes a lot on North Down, Ards and Strangford.<br /><br /><strong>Margaret Norris</strong> - <em>Glenreeba</em> (1939) is actually Greyabbey<br /><br /><strong>J S Andrews</strong> (born 1934) - <em>The Bell Of Nendrum</em> (1969) is set in and around Strangford Lough<br /><br /><strong>Van Morrison</strong> (born 1945) – The song <em>Coney Island</em> (from his 1989 album <em>Avalon Sunset</em>) mentions Shrigley, Killyleagh, the Lecale, Downpatrick, Ardglass and St John’s Point as well as Coney Island, which is a headline between Ardglass and Killough. The Song <em>A Sense Of Wonder</em> (from the album <em>A Sense Of Wonder</em> 1985) mentions Newtownards, Comber, Gransha and the Ballystockart Road.<br /><br /><strong>Michael McLaverty</strong> (1904-1992) - Buried at Kilclief, Strangford – Wrote about Strangford Lough.<br /><br /><strong>Michael Faulkner</strong> – wrote about his experiences living with his wife in a cabin on Islandmore on Strangford Lough in <em>The Blue Cabin</em> (2006)<br /><br /><strong>Seamus Heaney</strong> (born 1939) – Even “Famous Seamus” refers to “Strang and Carling Fjords” (Strangford and Carlingford) in his poem <em>Funeral Rites</em>.<br /><br /><strong>Joe Tomelty</strong> (1910 -1995) was born in Portaferry. Although better known as a film and stage actor and for BBC Radio’s The McCooey’s, Joe Tomelty also wrote novels and plays. Two of his plays, <em>All Soul’s Night</em> and <em>April In Assagh</em> are set in a fictional village on the County Down coast and another, <em>Idolatry at Innishargie</em>, on the Ards Peninsula. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Basil Abbott</strong> - Norfolk man Basil, whose mother is from Newtownards, recently produced a short play entitled <em>Scrape The Beetle</em> about the Flush Hall murder (of Willie Quinn) which took place in Newtownards in 1915.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> A CD of this is also available.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><strong>Colin Bateman</strong> (born 1962) – The novel <em>Divorcing Jack</em> (1998) is partly set in Bangor Market (although the film version uses Lemon's Wharf in Donaghadee as the location). </span><br /><p><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong></strong></span></p><p><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Captain James Moore</strong> writes of Portavogie and the County Down fishing industry.</span></p><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm sure there are also numerous other references in songs. <em>The Flower Of The County Down</em> mentions Scrabo Hill, Lisnadill, Comber etc and <em>The Greba Lasses</em> is from Greyabbey. T</span><span style="font-family:arial;">hen, of course, there are the Orange songs like <em>The Hills Of Carrowdore</em> and <em>The Bright Orange Heroes of Comber</em>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Not forgetting <em>Hamewarks Fae Ballyboley: The Cless O 2004:</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Philip Robinson</strong> writes about The Dominie O Ballyboley Schuil;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>John Wright</strong> writes of Donaghadee, Ballyvester and Millisle;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Jack Thompson</strong> mentions Carrowdore;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Sheena McCullough</strong> mentions Ballyboley school;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Fiona McDonald</strong> writes of Newtownards, the Ards, Bangor and Loughriescouse;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Will McAvoy</strong> writes of Mid-Isle on Strangford Lough;</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Will Cromie</strong> writes of the Ards Peninsula; and</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><strong>Noel Moore</strong> mentions Portavogie and Ballyboley;</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-37793661729284700852009-02-15T15:46:00.010+00:002009-02-15T16:06:50.358+00:00First Newtownards BB Company Flute Band<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUY7T2EXFtHnpWHW2MVh58JoLnmPHwe2QUxWeg9oh-XNB0RllAGBwAGerJDDZ60P6jSI4ME1J6qmIeKT2wBSLspIqMED71oZA0-Ljy4HyOD7dQbZvTc681yj1_vMr_AVu7DVFLfmcQ4N0/s1600-h/1st+Newtownards+company+BB+band+at+railway+station.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303051912607231218" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 252px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUY7T2EXFtHnpWHW2MVh58JoLnmPHwe2QUxWeg9oh-XNB0RllAGBwAGerJDDZ60P6jSI4ME1J6qmIeKT2wBSLspIqMED71oZA0-Ljy4HyOD7dQbZvTc681yj1_vMr_AVu7DVFLfmcQ4N0/s400/1st+Newtownards+company+BB+band+at+railway+station.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">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). </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">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.</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-66847461006938419942009-02-15T13:55:00.004+00:002009-02-15T15:45:49.332+00:00Tha Puddocks Return<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbXg0CURV1WUMmA7xH1VCEVYwA8m6S1vv_Q2_qdXk8h5FjvRKKbs11d7z_XCMxCfR1U-3TbUoO4FmaAIo8cQjAiggYgIM30CHv3dqIqdNIk5Y3yaEc4YJ8-pkV5cFbSkAiXDQEUWpVEA/s1600-h/Pond+-+frogs+-+cropped.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303022701413480834" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbXg0CURV1WUMmA7xH1VCEVYwA8m6S1vv_Q2_qdXk8h5FjvRKKbs11d7z_XCMxCfR1U-3TbUoO4FmaAIo8cQjAiggYgIM30CHv3dqIqdNIk5Y3yaEc4YJ8-pkV5cFbSkAiXDQEUWpVEA/s400/Pond+-+frogs+-+cropped.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We hae jist seen tha puddocks in oor wee pond theday so Spring 'ull no be owre lang cumin noo!<br /></span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-64681096183908256062009-02-15T12:42:00.006+00:002009-02-15T13:30:18.474+00:00Epistle To Francis Boyle - By John Meharg<span style="font-family:arial;">Here's another early example of Ulster-Scots poetry - Gilhahirk poet, John Meharg's <em>Epistle To Francis Boyle</em>, published in Boyle's <em>Miscelleous Poems</em> (1811). </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>EPISTLE TO FRANCIS BOYLE</strong><br />By John Meharg<br /><br />Dear Frank, it lang was in my view,<br />To write a verse or twa to you,<br />We Poets, poor discernin' few,<br />Love ane anither,<br />Wi' heart an' saul, an' far mair true<br />Than money a brither.<br />Let warly sons o' men combine,<br />An' gather gowd to mak them shine,<br />At this, dear Frank, we'll ne'er repine,<br />E'en let them gae;<br />We'll sing our joys in hamely rhyme,<br />On some burn brae.<br />How sweetly do the moments pass,<br />Aye whan our theme's a bonny lass,<br />Or wi' a frien', out owre a glass<br />O' gin or rum!<br />The sordid, grov'lin, miser ass,<br />May there sing dumb.<br /><br />But as for riches what care I,<br />Sic low pursuits the Bards deny,<br />An' Fortune's frowns they will defy,<br />While e'er the Muse,<br />Will with their wishes kind comply,<br />An' no refuse.<br /><br />An' yet my rhymes are unco rough,<br />As owre a country e'er did sugh,<br />They hardly please mysel' eneugh,<br />As aft's I read them;<br />But spun by ane frae loom or pleugh,<br />Nae man will heed them.<br /><br />An' sae, my much respected friend,<br />I'll ne'er presume, nor yet pretend,<br />Wi' you in verses to contend,<br />For wit or theme,<br />Na, na, I ken that it wad end<br />In my great shame.<br /><br />Your verses rin as true an' fine,<br />As if the Muses did combine,<br />Apollo an' tunefu' Nine,<br />To raise your name,<br />An' roun' your brow a wreath entwine,<br />O' endless fame.<br /><br />In Grenshaw townland may you sing,<br />Till a' the hills an' vallies ring,<br />An' whan the Winter's owre, an' Spring<br />Begins to dawn,<br />Your Fancy yet shall spread her wing,<br />Out owre the lawn.<br /><br />Aft hae I wish'd an' hope't to see,<br />Yet mony a year afore I die,<br />Your verses fill'd sae fu' o' glee,<br />In grandeur paintit,<br />Wi' ae request o' mine agree -<br />An' get them prentit.<br /><br />An' let the warl' ken your name,<br />An' sons unborn exalt your fame,<br />An' narrow-minded men think shame<br />If ony reads,<br />Your torch o' satire, like a flame,<br />To show their deeds!<br /><br />An' whan ye're mouldrin' i' the clay,<br />The stranger that shall pass the way,<br />Will to your dwallin' homage pay<br />An' spier the where,<br />Some frien' o' thine will point an' say -<br />"The Bard lived there."<br /><br />But as for me, I needna think<br />E'er to appear in prent or ink,<br />For folk to read, then laugh an' wink,<br />An' cock their nose,<br />An' tauntin', say, "It disna clink<br />"Like verse or prose."<br /><br />But what care I? e'en let them say;<br />Whan in the bonny month o' May,<br />On some burn side I'll lonely stray,<br />Whar nane shall hear,<br />An' chant to her my rustic lay,<br />I love sae dear.<br /><br />O Love! O Life! O Friendship dear!<br />'Tis you I court, 'tis you I fear<br />All cares are drown'd when you are near,<br />In seas o' pleasure;<br />Ye Powers Divine, while I am here,<br />Be these my treasure!<br /><br />"But Johnie, stap, ye're yet a boy,<br />Know, Beauty's but a fleetin' toy,<br />An' love's a momentary joy,<br />That soon will pass,<br />It will your inward peace destroy,<br />Ye simple Ass.<br /><br />For all these joys will pass away,<br />When Age shall come, life's winter day,<br />An' firmest friendship will decay;<br />My son, good night."<br />Erato thus to me did say,<br />Then took her flight.<br /><br />My bosom heav'd, I gave a sigh,<br />As after her I cast my eye,<br />Until her flight she winged on high,<br />Out o' my sight,<br />An' reach'd her distant kindred sky,<br />'Mang orbs o' light.<br /><br />Sae now, dear Frank, my Muse is gane,<br />Which causes me a kin' o' pain;<br />But aiblins she'll return again,<br />An' wi' me dwell;<br />An' daut me like a sukin' wean;<br />Sae, frien', farewell.</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751782684730951694.post-41070977073966363902009-02-15T11:44:00.004+00:002009-02-18T13:58:45.387+00:00The Magic X - by James Mullan<span style="font-family:arial;">Here’s an early 20th century poem by James Mullan, The Drumsurn Bard (aka "Yung Han") describing the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">goings-on prior to elections in those days. Drumsurn is a village between Dungiven and Limavady, in County Londonderry.<br /><br />Anybody who thinks poetry is for cissies would do well to remember there are plenty of folk who get worked up about it. Another local rhymer, by the name of Sandy Bond, held different political views to Mullan on the issue of Home Rule during the 1906 local elections. Bond made reference to Mullan in a poem about the election and the next time the two met in Limavady there was a bit of a fight which resulted in a court case, during which Bond’s poem was read out in evidence. Bond was fined 21 shillings, two other defendants were fined five shillings and the rest were discharged.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I thought at first that one of those fined, Samuel Irwin, was a relative of mine, but my one came from a different townland, so there must have been more than one about the town at the time.<br /><br /><strong>The Magic X</strong><br /><br />I’m nae great scholar, ye man ken,<br />I micht coont up the length o’ ten,<br />I’m sure, but no a hunner.<br />My buiks hae a’ been real leeve men,<br />But I can tell a mak preten,<br />An’ make’ nae blunner.<br /><br />But in my stammerin’s up an’ doon,<br />Sometimes ‘mang drains, sometimes in toon,<br />No lang in ony place.<br />I kept my ees a-glowerin’ roon<br />An foon three letters esteamed aboon<br />The alphabetic race.<br /><br />Writ in succession, L.S.D.<br />A’hint yer name, ye hae a key<br />Wad open ony door.<br />Nae maiter what be yer disgrace,<br />They’ll aye fin’ ane redeemin’ grace,<br />Mair likely three or four.<br /><br />Anither ane runs in the race,<br />Wi’ some I ken it taks first place,<br />Whan writ wi’ a big capital<br />I am the man; I panned the shirt.<br />Bar I the rest of folks is dirt,<br />Creation jest a nil.<br /><br />But there’s a time I’m heartily gled,<br />Whan X can mak a bit I’ red,<br />An’ earn its slice o’ favour.<br />Since they hae gaen an X tae me,<br />Even the very wee drap o’ tea,<br />I gets a better flavour.<br /><br />The candidates wee Rab the meit<br />They gae him lots o’ cakes an’ sweets,<br />An’ spiers, “What wye’s yer faither?”<br />I’ve aft been ca’d a rhaming mule,<br />An obstinate, dannared, dunnered fool<br />An’ sometimes worse than either.<br /><br />The wife got twa new pair o’ stays,<br />She weirs nane noo, sure onyways;<br />Aince roon her waist twice roon the church,<br />Ye’d sweir it wuz a wee earthquake,<br />The wey the auld four-poster shakes,<br />When Jean begins tae turn.<br /><br />Noo a’ the beasts aboot the hoose,<br />(Of coorse they didna see the singin’ moose)<br />They maun be gae well bred,<br />One ca’d the coo an astrahan;<br />The three legged cat, real Persian,<br />I doot she wuz misled.<br /><br />My han’s been twisted, pu’d an’ rung,<br />Tae I thocht the shoulder bled had sprung;<br />I canna haud ane fur,<br />Whitewashed I wuz wi’ every grace;<br />They ca’d me tae my very face,<br />Honoured, respected sir.<br /><br />Noo, I dinna ken if twuz Gledstone,<br />Oliver Cromill, or Wolf Tone,<br />An X pair bodies gaen,<br />But my blessin’ on his auld grey heed;<br />If he’s alive, sin’ if he’s deid,<br />I’ll pray that he’s aboon.<br /><br />But I ken richt weel if the A.B.C.<br />Wuz stocks and shares, my £, s, d,<br />I wad invest in X’s,<br />An’ sell at the election time,<br />Then emigrate tae sum far clime,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Whar the’r nae rates or texes.</span>Newton_Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07971831010478876341noreply@blogger.com0