Poems for All Occasions by Mairead Tuohy Duffy Page B

peace and rest. .
    PS; In remembrance of the good old days, and in
    grateful appreciation of all those hurlers,
    living and dead, who brought such joy to my
    ancestors and indeed to all my own generation,
    who graced the Banks of the Roughty.
    Fe choimirce De agus Muire go raibh siad uilig.
    Ni bheidh a leitheid ann aris.

WHO?
    Who comes to our homesteads,
    When trouble haunts our lives?
    When aged folks are dying,
    Or the passing of a child.
    Who pours the blessed water,
    Baptising new born babes,
    Offering holy Mass each morning.
    Who takes the good Lord’s place?
    Who lifts his hands in blessing,
    With the angels all around,
    Watched by our blessed Mother,
    The Queen of Heaven crowned.
    Who lives alone, all on his own
    Away from friends and kin,
    Yet always there to answer calls,
    From local women and men.
    Who sits each week in Confessional,
    In Winter cold or Spring,
    Consoling us, our troubled souls,
    How many think of him?
    He too is only human,
    With aches like you and me,
    He feels the pangs of loneliness,
    But hides his pain and grief.
    Yet ere we leave this world of clay,
    Journeying towards Heaven’s land,
    Let’s hope we see his welcome face,
    And the touch of his blessed hand.
    Who is this one so precious,
    With a smile, he’ll always greet,
    Who else but God’s own messengers,
    Our own beloved priests.
    Yet just because some of them stray,
    Two percent or three,
    Why should we blame, the rest who care,
    Vengeance in word and deed.
    If each one just remembered,
    The Lord’s own word I’ll quote,
    Let he, who is without a sin,
    Aim to throw the very first stone,
    Who helped our folks in former days,
    By the Mass Rocks of our land,
    Dying they, yet kept the faith,
    Led on by a priestly hand.
    And still to day in missions grey,
    They toil from west to east.
    Who else is there with spiritual care ,
    Our Brothers, Nuns and Priests.

KILGARVAN BALLROOM OF ROMANCE,
    ’Twas in the dance hall in Kilgarvan,
    the action all began,
    A short walk from the graveyard,
    and midnight’s hour at hand.
    The Ladies gathered earlier,
    some sat, some stood in rows,
    Awaiting for the pubs to close,
    as they powdered cheeks and nose.
    And then the noisy entrance of
    males both old and young,
    Some unsteady on their feet,
    all set for a good night’s fun. .
    The strains of lovely music
    entranced the lads and girls,
    The Incheese Kellihers and their band,
    like sounds from another world.
    A line of girls stood stately,
    along the grey-brown wall,
    Being studied with cautious glances
    by the men across the hall.
    Ah the waltzes and the foxtrots
    and a bit of Ceili too
    Sent ripples through our heart strings
    and brought sweat a pouring through.
    Our partners pranced and danced with glee
    till the early hours of morn
    ’Twas ofThen two or three o’clock,
    at the crowing cocks we scorned,
    How great it was to trip around
    with a chap who could really dance,
    With one’s head upon his shoulder
    and the touch of his strong sound grasp.
    But woe betide, misfortune,
    ’twas many another bloke Who jumped
    right on our corns and nearly broke our toes.
    “Will you do a whirl with me,”says he,
    how right he said his words,
    ’Twas like being up in Carrantoole,
    a sheltering from wild birds.
    No need for massage parlours,
    in those far of bygone years.
    Because we got more pawing
    as we danced midst shouts and cheers.
    Quite often there, some met their fate,
    in the good old plain dance halls,
    Astanding there aglowing
    they got their marriage call.
    They courted in each glade and wood,
    or by the station rails,
    Some ventured to the graveyard
    with its big dark iron gate,
    Kilgaryan had some shops so nice,
    well centred, clean and neat,
    Then down the village we would roam,
    our clans men true to meet.
    We drank a soft red mineral,
    it was orange or lemonade,
    Or icecream mixed with lime juice,
    ah, it was a welcome treat.
    Those boys had no great riches,
    but they were generous to the core,
    They shared their menial