Old Friends - Sligo Poets

Sligo Nationalist 20 September 1913

                OLD FRIENDS.
       (By "Captain Coal-Scuttle")
Author of "Along the Sligo Quay," etc., etc.

It’s four years ago since I left Sligo
   To take up a post down the North,
So I saved up some cash, and one day took a dash,
   To revisit the home of my birth.

The rain it came down, when I reached Sligo town,
   And just as I got off the train
I met my old friend "Peter," who sometimes acts as meter
   On River Plate boats in with grain.

We talked of old times, and of some of my rhymes,
   That I wrote when employed at his store,
And he told me a joke about sampling "karn,"
   And he laughed and he joked as of yore.

He got some holidays, at least so he says
   (For he didn’t get any last year);
So in frock coat and tile went to dear Mona’s Isle,
   People said "Here comes ‘Kelly,’ I’ll swear!"

Then the "Captain" I met, who said "Come for a wet,"
   As I don’t wear a "button" you see;
He still watches the wine that comes from the Rhine –
   Is a broker as well as J. P.

I was hailed then by "Terry" patching up the "Gatesherrie,"
   Quite close to the big Sugar Store,
And he told me a tale how he captured a whale
   Not a mile from the Rosses Point shore!

I saw Mr. Dunlop, who was one time a "cop,"
   Also "Nipper," and ex-R.I.C.;
He was sergeant, you "ken," over five or six men,
   But now he wields a pen on the "Qee."

Then I spied round a corner no little "Jack Horner,"
   But a gent, who was feeling A.1.
He said, "You look well, and a bit of a swell,
   But I hope you don’t carry a gun."

It’s ten years or more since he sailed the "Bowmore,"
   Well, it’s lucky no body was drowned;
For she’s now in dry dock, as she ran on a rock
   Not marked on the chart, I’ll be bound.

Then I crept like a mouse to a small wooden house,
   And was greeted by Mr. Tom B.;
He still wears a smile, for he’s making his "pile,"
   But he’s not "spliced," I’m sorry to see.

Then someone I spied, it’s Tom? No, I lied,
   But "Steward," both cheery and bright;
He still wears his good looks, and behind piles of books
   He’s busy from morning till night.

I bid him good-bye, said I "Now I’ll try
   To see my friend, Mr Al-geo,
Who works at the rail, in rain, snow or hail,
   And still goes up the lake for a row.

I walked round the bank, and as far as the tank,
   And the new railway sidings tried, too;
And when I came back from the Bundoran track
   I was told he was up in Belcoo.

Now, I came to a stand, for I saw a Red Hand
   Stuck up in each workingman’s coat.
If they don’t wear that same, they can go home again,
   For they won’t get a job at a boat.

Then I snipped up the brine, down at the Laird Line,—
   Messrs. Mahon and Boyers were there.
Archie told fairy tales about congers and whales,
   Which was not all "gospel," I fear.

Near the old "Coffer Dam" a straw-hatted man
   Was giving some fellows a hand;
He’s not very tall, though he once built a wall
   From the light-house to keep out the sand.

He stroked his moustache, and he said: "Well, I am dashed
   Is it you or your ghost that I see?"
Then he called Mr. Mallah, and said "Here’s this ‘fella,’
   He’ll be  making up rhymes about me."

I shook hands with those two, and round the road flew;
   Said I "now to Campbell’s I’ll steer."
They showed me a fan brought home from Japan,
   By the Colonel, when out there last year.

I left Willie and John, and a spurt I put on,
   For now it was getting quite late;
So being "T.T.," and not out for a spree,
   I made straight for Egan’s big gate.

Here Mr. MacHale, a typical Gael,
   Was glad to see me back again,—
Bid me "caed mille failthe," as I drank soda "watsh"
   That would equal the dearest champagne.

At Dolan’s old shop I then made a stop
   For the sound of machines reached my ear.
It once bore a sign that ran in this line;
   "We sell whiskey and porter and beer."

Now, in letters of green, very plain to be seen,
   A different wording was there:
Then said I "Holy smoke, for a bit of a joke
   I’ll see what they’re doing in here."

Away down the back, was my friend "Bernie Mack,"
   With a turn-screw held in his fist,
He said with a drawl "I knew you would call
   To the new ‘Sligo Nationalist.’"

There I saw my friend, "Jack," who works the "lino,"
   His verses are quite up to date,
He is losing his time making up local rhyme,—
   He should be a Poet Laureate.

Like a deer then I sped round the bridge to see "Ned"—
   An excellent fellow, I "know"—
But I missed him that day, he had just gone away
   For a week to the Dublin Horse Show.

Now, I’ll say so long! I must finish my song
   As I leave by the 10 o’clock train;
And in twelve months or more I will write the encore
   When I come back to Sligo again!

                                                          A. P. M.