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Poetry - Things I Miss
Things I Miss
by Paddy McGarvey
© 1980
I miss the old turf fire,
And I miss the smell of peat,
And I miss the old dog lying,
With its head between its feet,
For a dog knows where it’s cosy,
Be it summer, snow or sleet,
And no dog is ever happy,
Where there’s only central heat.
How I miss the old cart passing,
And it’s creaks for lack of oil,
Bringing home the turf and turtog’s,
From the bog in Craugheyboyle,
Or the ass between the pannier’s,
Without battery, pump, or coil,
But now it’s all the tractor
And the Arab diesel oil.
Oh how I miss long evenings
And the summer at the Cross,
The young lads always playing,
Simple games like pitch and toss,
Till the evening shadows faded,
And the blinds of night came down,
And the single burners glimmered,
In that little Gaeltacht ‘Town’
Oh how I miss the mummers,
As the Christmas came around,
As the moved along the laneways,
With their music, song and sound,
Bringing greetings to each household,
And a drama true to see,
It was homemade entertainment,
Long before we knew T.V.
And how I miss the céilí’s
In the Tech above the lake,
And the Paddy Johndy’s playing,
Reels and jigs but not the ‘shake’,
And how that music echoed,
Way o’er by Grugán Mór,
Those céilí nights were carefree,
Now, they’re happy days of yore.
I miss the one roomed schoolhouse,
‘Way down at Bun-na-Crí,
Where knowledge was imparted,
To a very high degree,
But now it’s ancient history,
Like a phantom in the night,
That famous seat of learning,
Is just now a vacant site.
How oft I miss the corncrake,
Whose demise has come to pass,
As it craked on summer evenings,
In fields of dew wet grass,
But now it’s gone forever,
With the thrush, the finch and lark,
There’s no home for birds of nature,
Since the trees have lost their bark.
How I miss the friends and neighbours,
Whose place we’ll never fill,
As the find a place to slumber,
As the foot of Deeragh hill,
Not forgetting my ancestors,
A legend in their day,
Now, they await the resurrection,
In their graves around the bay.
But what’s the point in dreaming,
We’ll not put back the clock,
We must accept the changes,
However great the shock,
And when I meet Saint Peter,
As some day I will, I’m sure,
Perhaps he’ll say,’ Do not delay,
You’ll be missed in Loughanure’.
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