There once was a charming Larne farmer,
His soul clad in poetic armor.
When he was reciting,
Those verses inviting,
We forgot he was ever a farmer!
One of the special guests that Liz Weir invited to the session on Saturday night was Wilson Logan. Wilson is a very accomplished reciter, and he performed several poems for us. I googled him later and discovered that at one time he was President of the Robert Burns World Federation. So, I imagine he knows Burns poetry too, but I don’t think he told us any on Saturday night.
Wilson is known as The Ulster Scots Voice, and is involved in preserving and perpetuating the Ulster Scots language. He has an engaging style and it’s very clear that he enjoys telling poetry. Many of his poems were about love and courting, and to finish one of them off he came over and gave me a kiss! Everybody laughed and I blushed. My apologies for the picture; the only other one was even blurrier.
My favorite poem of the evening was one by Percy French. It’s a poetic tour of the lands, politics, and personalities of Ireland. Wilson told it movingly, and changed accents for each region. It looks so flat on the page in comparison to his robust, warm telling. Nonetheless, here it is:
THE FOUR FARRELLYS by Percy French
In a small hotel in London I was sitting down to dine.
When the waiter brought the register and asked me if I'd sign.
And as I signed I saw a name that set my heart astir —
A certain "Francis Farrelly" had signed the register
I knew a lot of Farrellys and out of all the crew
I kept on "sort of wonderin' " which Farrelly were you.
And when I'd finished dinner I sat back in my chair,
Going round my native land to find, what Farelly you were.
SOUTH
Were you the keen-eyed Kerryman I met below Kenmare,
Who told me that when Ireland fought "the odds were never fair?"
If Cromwell had met Sarsfield, or Owen Roe O'Neill,
It's not to Misther Gladstone we'd be lookin' for repeal.
Would have Ireland for the Irish, not a Saxon to be seen,
And only Gaelic spoken in that House in College Green. Told me landlords wor the Divil! their agints ten times worst,.
And iv'ry sort of government for Ireland was a curse!
Oh! if you're that Francis Farrelly, your dreams have not come true,
Still, Slainthe! Slainthe! Fransheen! for I like a man like you!
NORTH
Or were you the Francis Farrelly that often used to say
He'd like to blow them Papishes from Derry walls away?
The boy who used to bother me that Orange Lodge to join,
And thought that history started with the Battle o' the Boyne —
I was not all with ye, Francis, the Pope is not ma friend,
But still I hope, poor man, he'll die without that bloody end. -
And when yer quit for care yerself, and get to Kingdom Come,
It's not use teachin' you the harp — you'll play the Orange drum!
Och! man, ye wor a fighter, of that I had no doubt.
For I see ye in Belfast one night when the Antrim Road was out!
And many a time that evenin' I thought that ye wor dead,
The way them Papish pavin' stones was hoppin' off yer head.
Oh! if you're the Francis Farrelly who came from North Tyrone -
Here's lookin' to ye, Francis, but do leave the Pope alone!
EAST
Or were you the Francis Farrelly that in my college days
For strollin on the Kingstown Pier had such a curious craze?
D'y mind them lovely sisters — the blonde and the brunette?
I know I've not forgotten, and I don't think you forget!
That picnic at the Dargle —' and the others at the Scalp —
How my heart was palpitatin' — hers wasn't — not a palp!
Someone said ye married money — any maybe ye were wise,
But the gold you loved was in her hair, and the d'monds in her eyes!
So I like to think ye married her and that you're with her yet,
'Twas some "meleesha" officer that married the brunette;
But the blonde one always loved ye, and I knew you loved her too,
So me blessin's on ye, Francis, and the blue sky over you!
WEST
Or were you the Francis Farrelly I met so long ago,
In the bog below Belmullet, in the County of Mayo?
That long-legged, freckled Francis with the deep-set, wistful eyes,
That seemed to take their colour from those ever-changing skies,
That put his flute together as I sketched the distant scene,
And played me "Planxy Kelly and the "Wakes of Inniskeen."
That told me in the Autumn he'd be Bailin' to the West
To try and make his fortune and send money to the rest.
And would I draw a picture of the place where he was born,
And he'd hang it up, and look at it, and not feel so forlorn.
And when I had it finished, you got up from where you sat,
And you said, "Well, you're the Divil, and I can't say more than that."
Oh' if you're that Francis Farrelly, your fortune may be small,
But I'm thinking — thinking —Francis, that I love you best of all;
And I never can forget you — though it's years and years ago -
In the bog below BeImullet, in the County of Mayo.
