This is a wonderful verse by one of our excellent modern Ullans poets, a worthy successor to the Rhyming Weavers and I love it. It was written by Wullie Logan , oor ain Bard o Dunloy, known to the general public as Liam Logan, one of Northern Ireland’s leading Ulster-Scots enthusiasts and commentators. Liam has made a significant contribution to the recent interest in the language as a native speaker, broadcaster, journalist and writer. He is an esteemed member of the Ullans Academy.
Originally a native of Galdanagh, a townland of Dunloy in the northern part of County Antrim, (the Hame o the Hamely Tongue, a phrase he originally coined for the BBC programme “A Kist o Wurds”), although he has been resident in Bangor, Co Down for many years. Liam was educated at St. Joseph’s Primary School, Dunloy and St Macnissi’s College, Garron Tower. He holds an MBA from the University of Ulster. Employed in the National Health Service since the mid-1970s, Liam worked as Senior Planning Officer for the North and West Belfast Health and Social Care Trust. He was seconded to the [Department of Culture, Arts and Leisure] from 2007 until 2008 to head the Secretariat of the Ulster Scots Academy Implementation Group.
In 2009, Liam retired from public service to concentrate on his language consultancy work with the Language Diversity Project and is involved with a number of film and television projects currently in development. Additionally, Liam has provided voiceovers for websites as well as interactive media located at Ballymena Town Hall Museum, Civic and Arts Centre.
If ye minded ivry minute o yer life, ye couldnae think
Aal ye mine is bits an bobs, whiles it’s jist a blink
There stuff that’s kina hazy an ither bits that’s clear
Here’s a tale haes styed wae me for nearly fifty year
McClements toul his story comin back frae some oul night.
We wur aal jammed in a motor squashed thegither brave an tight
Nae in car entertainment, nae heater, only crak
An I can mine thon story gye an clear when I luk bak.
McClements’ turn had come aroon, tae spin a yarn or two
Says he Ye’ll naw believe it but this story here is true.
O aal the jobs I iver dane, there wan I couldnae thole
Apprentice undertaker tae a boady Uel McDowell.
Thon furst day’s undertakin wus the last I iver done
A shepherd in the mountains by the name o Johnny Munn
A nighbour got him deed in bed in naethin but his socks
They sent for Sam an me tae get his boady in a box.
He’d lived up on thon hillside aal his working life
Too busy lambin yows an sich to get himsel a wife
Thon boady had a powerfu hump an crooked in ivry limb
He wudnae fit intae the box McDowell had brung wae him.
The hoose was wee, nae size ava, the stairs was steep an thin
We got thon coffin up the stairs an tried tae jam him in
His fit went doon, his heed cum up, the same the ither way
We tried it ivry road we could, wur heids was near astray.
So we dressed him an we pressed him an moved him tae the stair
Doonstairs some neighbour weemen pit a soart o wake on there
As we come roon a gye tight turn, oul Johnny near fell oot
But we spaltered doon the stairs ok an laid him at the fit.
McDowell he tuk a hemmer an he nailed his claes a flet
An he tuk a beer gye handy for his thrapple needed wet.
Wae the yin thing an anither sure we had couple mair
An a bite tae eat forby for thon oul boy had wrocht us sair.
A wheen o nighbours waked him weel wae sandwiches an drinkin
An shane ye cudnae hear yersel for chat an bottles clinkin
The oul wake yarns, the bits o crack, some eyes were gye an glazed
When in the dour come Reverend Moore, ye cud see he wasnae plaised.
He guldered, “Yes are sittin, drinkin, eatin, here deed sowl
An Johnny Munn is lyin there his body harly coul.
Ye mocked him hard in life” he gowled “Ye lached behin his bak.
Haes crookedness was made intae a target for yer crak.
Ye caaled him Humpy Dumpy an thon Oul Humpy Heed
An noo ye sit an yarn an drink laik he’s naw ower there deed”.
“The steuch o your hypocrisy wud mak a boady boak
I only hope ye mine the times ye made John Munn a joke.
A kindly word, a helpin han was missin whun he leeved
I doot that this would be the way he wanted tae be grieved”.
A lock o whited sepulchres, clean rotten tae yer herts
A gether up o naebodies, a wheen o cheeky blerts
Yes haesnae ony right tae sit an yarn wae drink an mate
An Johnny restin in his box is aff tae meet his fate
But then an odd thing happened; I heerd the tearin cloths
McDowell’s wee nails had ripped Munn’s claes an lowsed him in the box
He ris up frae the coffin an he gin a mighty groan
He seemed tae sprachle forrit an he let anither moan.
McDowell, the only man in there that kep a level heed
“It’s jist trapped gas” he says tae me, “it happens when yer deed”.
But ivry ither boady there ris up an run fer oot
An the screamin an the yellin could be heerd for miles aboot.
The Reverend Moore he went tae rin but cudnae reach the dour
Haes lang blak coat was cleeked on tae a nail stuck in the flure.
He lot a gowl an guldered as he tried tae get it loose
He pulled an tried tae free himsel, tae get oot o the hoose.
He must a thocht oul Johnny Munn was houlin brave an tight
But the very reverend gentleman was pittin up a fight
Wud Johnny drag him tae the grave or tak him doon tae hell?
Oul Reverend Moore he rowled his eyes an lut a powerfu yell
Leggo o me this minute, ye humpy heeded cur.
The reverend made a sprachle as he tried tae reach the dour.
Release me noo, Oul Humpy, ye crooked twisted blert
But aal that Reverend Moore heared wus the thump o his ain hert.
Ye dirty humpy divil, may yer fate be doon below,
May Oul Nick be oot tae meet ye wae haes pitchfork aal aglow.”
Wae that the Reverend’s claes they ripped, he brusted an got loose
An niver stapped haes rinnin till he made his ain wee hoose.
Though aal the folk had vanished, McDowell an me wur there
We got him in the in box again an tuk him tae the car
The hearse was parked in Johnny’s yard, we loaded him an went
An tuk him tae the church below an left him in the front.
I quet McDowells, McClements says, I niver heerd again
O Reverend Moore or Johnny Munn or his hoose up the glen
I doot thon undertakin job jist wasnae meant tae be
But thon’s the tale o Uel McDowell, oul Johnny Munn an me.
McClements finished takkin but naw yin word was heered
The maist o folk was sleepin an the rest was sorta feared
It’s been a lock o years since then, it seems laik yesterday
An I’ll mine it jist as clearly til they put me in the clay.