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Great Characters who have left us – but are not forgotten. By Mike Hackett

John Young - Author, Maritime Historian and Tour Guide.
John was ever willing to give a talk when asked. He lived in Dungarvan - but his knowledge of maritime affairs covered all of the South of Ireland coast and the traffic on its rivers. One of

John's favourite poems was this one:

'Sea Fever' by John Macefield.
I must go down to the sea again - to the lonely sea and the sky
And all I ask is a tall ship - and a star to steer her by.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea - a wind that follows fast
And fills the white and rustling sails - and bends the gallant mast.

Tom Fitzgerald of Red Forge - was another good entertainer, generous with his time. This poem ‘Miceal Bocht’ – by an unknown author – Tom could perform well.

On a little farm near Ceathru Rua, lived a buchaill maith named Miceal Mor,
Heard this story o mo athair, if you haven’t Gaeilge, it doesn’t matter,
This rural Ireland tragic tale, narrates a sad seductive sceal,
Concerning lust without discretion, agus beagnach rudai eile freisin,

Uair amhain fado fado, On a little farm near Carraroe,
Lived buachaill maith named Miceal Mor, an only son of thirty-four,
When work was done at end of day, He’d settle down with cupan tae,

And seldom felt the call to stroll, or spend the evening time ag ol,
His intellectual needs were drawn, from books like Peg or Iosagan,
And so it was bliain in agus bliain out, our Miceal hadn’t moved about,
Hr dreamt of cailins, most men do, but never sinned, an dtuigeann tu,

Meantime up in Atha Cliath, a cailin deas had a bright idea,
When laethanta saoire time came by, decided she would like to try,
Ait beag ciuin like Carraroe, no foreign food and not far to go,
There to meet the native clan, agus bfheidir find herself a man,
This cailin deas with eyes of blue, was known in town as City Sue,
The lusty buachailli, they came calling, and all agreed she was go halainn,

She left her men in a state of shock, O Miceal Mor, be curamach,
This scarlet woman knows each trick, she’s heading west, beware a mhic,

The lights shone in the parish hall, for the local Fainne Wearer’s Ball,
Bhi Miceal ann agus bhi Suzy ann, dressed in the most revealing gown,
Our brave Cuchulainn of the west, his hurling medals across his chest,
Exclaimed when City Sue came in, “In ainm De, feach ar sin!”
Though nervous still, he took a chance, “Cead Mile Failte, will you dance?”
Go luath on the floor they strut, cheek to cheek from head to foot,
Sue whispered into Miceal’s ear “Eist liom - let’s disappear”,
“We’ll use my place, the door’s unlocked, stay the night at Seomra a hocht”
Miceal’s ceann was in a spin, ni raibh se thinking thoughts mar sin,
He blessed himself, this Jezebel, would surely damn his soul to hell,
He stood aghast, could hardly stutter, so off he bolted, ar a rothar,
And straight abhaile into bed, decades of the rosary he said,

Miceal Mor still sleeps alone, in his leaba beag, Ochon, Ochon,
He often dreams of seomra a hocht, what might have been, oh Miceal Bocht!

John Kennedy of Ardmore and the ‘Gossip Shop’ loved to recite and entertain. Patrick Kavanagh, who wrote ‘Raglan Road’, was one of his favourite poets.

On Raglan Road on an Autumn day, I saw her first and knew,
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might someday rue,
I saw the danger and I passed, along the enchanted way,
And I said “Let grief be a fallen leaf, at the dawning of the day”.

On Grafton St. in November, we tripped lightly along the edge,
Of a deep revine that can be seen, the worth of passion play,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts, and I not making hay,
Oh I loved too much, and by such and such, is happiness thrown away.
I said let grief be a fallen leaf, at the dawning of the day.

Charlie Flavin from Inch near Killeagh was a great friend of John Kenneddy and a frequent visitor to John’s Gossip Shop. Again he was always very willing to perform and display his talents whenever asked. This poem by John Keegan was one that he loved to recite; ‘Pinch and Caoch O’Laoghaire’.
One Winter’s day, long long ago, When I was a little fellow,
A piper wandered to our door, grey-haired, blind and yellow,
And how glad was my young heart, though earth and sky looked dreary,
To see the stranger and his dog, poor Pinch and Caoch O’Laoghaire,
And when he stowed away his bag, crossed-barred with green and yellow,
I thought and said “In Ireland’s ground, there is not a finer fellow”,
And Fineen Burke and Shaun McGee and Eily, Kate and Mary,
Rushed in with panting haste to see, and welcome Coach O’Laoghaire,
O God be with those happy times, O God be with my childhood,
When I, bare-headed, roamed all day, bird nesting in the wildwood,
I’ll not forget those sunny hours, however years may vary,
I’ll not forget my early friends, nor honest Caoch O’Laoghaire,

Well twenty summers had gone past, and June’s red sun was sinking,
When I, as a man, sat by my door, of twenty sad things thinking,
A little dog came up the way, his gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail, a lame man limped, ‘twas Pinch and Caoch O’Laoghaire,
Old Caoch, but so woe-be-gone, his form bowed and bending,
His fleshless hands are stiff and worn, Ay, time is even blending,
The colours on his threadbare bag, and Pinch is twice as hairy,
And thin-spare as when first I saw himself and Caoch O’Laoghaire,

With Pinch I watched his bed that night, next day his wish was granted,
He died and Father James was brought and the Requiem Mass was chanted,
The neighbours came to dig his grave, near Eily, Kate and Mary,
And there he sleeps, his last long sleep – God rest you Caoch O’Laoghaire.

Jim Carrig of Knockanore is remembered as an actor and entertainer who was always good for a laugh. Jim loved to recite this poem (while wearing a white shirt). It was written by Harry Wincott and called ‘The Little Shirt me Mother made for Me’.
I shant forget the day that I was born,
‘Twas on a cold and frosty winter’s morn,
The doctor said I was a chubby chap
And when the nurse took me on her lap
She washed me all over, I remember
And after powder-puffing me you see
She laid me in the cradle near the fender
In the little shirt me mother made for me.

The first day that I wore me knicker-bocks,
I did feel funny after wearing frocks,
I looked a little picture, they all say
But when they sent me out to run and play
I didn’t like the breeches I was wearing
So in the street I took them off you see
And I started walking home, brave and daring
In the little shirt me mother made for me.

Last year when I was on me holidays,
Upon the briny ocean I would gaze,
The water looked so nice that I thought I’d go
And have a swim but in a minute how
All the girls at me were staring
And some were taking snap-shots, I could see
‘Twas a good job for me that I was wearing
The little shirt me mother made for me.

Photos:
1 – John Young prepares to give a talk at a book launch
2 – Tom Fitzgerald entertained in England before retiring back home
3 - Tom relaxed after a show with his pint
4– John Kennedy is in full voice at the launch of a book for Siobhan Lincoln of Ardmore. Also in picture is Julian Walton
5 – Charlie Flavin of Inch - a son-in-law of Dan O’Callaghan, famous poet
6 – Jim Carrig – being made up for a play
7 - Bill Canning with Jim Carrig in the film 'The Promised Land' ... See MoreSee Less

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