War poems - Sligo Poets

           Sligo Independent
           19 February 1916

          THE WEST’S AWAKE!
              [By John Ginty.]

“The West’s awake! The West’s awake!”
     And hears the bugle’s call,
While Turks lament, Bulgarians quake,
     And ruthless Germans fall.
Too long, too long, have bygone sores
     Been nursed, though in decay;
It does not matter what they were,
     It’s what we are today!

The West’s awake! The West’s awake!”
     And Connaught’s fearless sons,
Are charging forth for justice sake,
     To crush the cowardly Huns.
What tho’ the clouds of yestere’en
     Had dimmed the sunlight ray,
It does not matter what they’ve been,
     When freedom smiles today.

The West’s awake! The West’s awake!”
     And knows the Belgians’ pain;
The fate that Ireland too would meet,
     If Germans crossed the main.
Though narrow minds may vainly cling
     To shadows passed away,
It does not matter what we were,
     It’s what we are today!

The West’s awake! The West’s awake!”
     And loudly sounds the theme,
That England’s war is Ireland’s, too,
     And rings by vale and stream:
The Leinster and the Munster boys,
     With Ulster join and say:
It does not matter what we were,
     It’s what we are today!

The West’s awake! The West’s awake!”
     And echoes Ireland’s pride—
The unity of brotherhood
     That swept bygones aside.
The scene has changed in many a clime,
     And all the nations say:
It does not matter what we were,
     It’s what we are today!

                             Kilmore, Ballina.

                 Sligo Independent
                  19 February 1916

                         ATHENRY.

The following lines have been forwarded from the Front for publication in the Independent:—

I must tell you of the life we’re livin’ here,
      It’s the queerest sort of life you ever led;
There are quiet little moments when we sit and dream of beer,
      And at other times we wonder if we’re dead.
When the aeroplanes stop buzzin’ and the shells quit whistlin’ tunes,
      And the lark commences singin’ in the sky,
’Pon me word it just reminds me of those peaceful afternoons
      That we often used to have at Athenry.

We’re livin’ near a village where the Boch’s biggest gun
      Has battered all the buildings in the place;
The church’s alterations have been greatly overdone,
      The public-house is lying on its face.
The doors and walls and window-frames have wandered wide and far,
      They’ll take a lot of findin’ by and bye;
When the landlord and the agent come to ax where they are,
      Sure, we’ll be back again in Athenry.

Though some may live in houses and in glorious chataus,
      The likes of them would never cross my mind;
I scorn their loft battlements and wide extensive views,
      And take the lowliest dwelling I can find.
’Tis but a little dug-out, and I pay no rent or toll,
      And I go in when shells begin to fly;
Then I light my bit of fire and the smoke goes through a hole,
      The same as what it does at Athenry.

Now, if there are any boys about who are slow to join the fun,
      And are propping up the corners of the street,
Just ax them what they’re goin’ to do when everything is done,
      When all their old companions they will meet.
For we’ll have all the glories, the stories and the news,
      And the girls will give us each their gladdest eye;
’Pon my soul I wouldn’t like to stand in any slacker’s shoes,
      The day that we get home to Athenry.

I could write a longer letter, but the time is drawing near
      When the canteen calls me in to get a drink,
So I’ll close this one at present, in the hope that, Katie dear,
      It will find you, as it leaves, in the pink.
Now don’t be lonely, Katie, I’ll be coming home again,
      Before the pigs begin to learn to fly;
With our separation money we will both be right as rain,
      If you haven’t spent it all in Athenry.

             Sligo Independent
                27 May 1916

            MOTHER AND SON.
MY BOY THAT MARCHED WITH THE MEN.

         [For Music.—Copyright.]

With beat of drum the troops march by
   And the band is proudly playing;
And I bend low with tear-dimm’d eye,
   For my heart is slowly saying—
        ‘Away in France somewhere he lies,
My lad that marched with the men;
       And my longing soul and weary eyes
Shall never see him again.’

How well he looked, and glanced aside
   To smile at his ‘Darling Mother’;
And I –I beamed on him with pride,
   For where was there such another?
        ‘And now–somewhere in France he lies,
My boy who marched with the men;
       And dim are the longing weary eyes
For my soldier lad again.’

‘God keep you mother, till I return,’
   Were the farewell words he said;
And eye may weep and cheek may burn,
   For he lies low with the dead.
       In blanket would somewhere he lies,
My boy who marched with the men;
       Nor hears my tears nor piteous cries
To come to me once again!’

Yet surely shall I behold my boy
   Beyond where the river is flowing,
For it is a land of purest joy
   The land to which I’m going;
       And gaze once more on the sweet blue eyes
Of him who marched with the men;
       For God shall unite the broken ties
Of mother and son again.’

                        Enniskillen.    W.C.T.

There were fewer "war poems" in the Sligo newspapers of 1916 as compared to 1915. This reflected the fact that voluntary recruiting was no longer an issue since the introduction of conscription in Great Britain. The six poems published show a variety of approach but the messages were the same, the bravery of the Irish regiments, the need for more soldiers to enlist and the sadness of the mothers left behind.

The poems come from a variety of authors and sources. The name John Ginty is very common in north Mayo but the author of is possibly the cemetery caretaker and insured agent in Kilmoremoy. He was 42 in 1911. Incidentally he and his wife Catherine had six children in their eleven years of marriage not sixteen as the transcription states!

"Athenry" may have been written by a Galway soldier but might just as well been composed at home by a Sligo poet who thought the town name had a nice ring to it and was easy to rhyme.