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Poetry - The Rations
The Rations
by Marcus John Charlie
Loughagher, Crolly
(1940-1950)
I am a young farmer, in the Rosses I dwell
For years I have laboured, the truth I will tell,
To eke out a living I work early and late,
As a farmer must do to keep things up to date.
I rise every morning by the dawn of the day,
With these hungry rations, I am nearly astray,
Sugarless coffee and butterless bread,
And no ‘ blooming’ bacon, as the pigs are all dead.
My wife in the kitchen is knitting with speed,
For three or four shillings, it’s a good help indeed,
The hens at the doorstep, I can hear their appeal,
They are fed up with ‘tatties’, they want Indian meal.
Every week to the market my darling does go,
To a neat little village, called lovely Dungloe,
Supplied with her rations, homeward she’s bound,
Cursing the big bucks of that famous town.
In the kitchen at night no candles nor oil,
But a big heavy log, dug up from the soil,
No porridge for supper, the Oaten I mean,
For I cannot remember when Indian I’ve seen.
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