The Banter between Ardboe and NYC
In uncovering the newspapers articles from the 1920s, one of the stories that unfolded was the relationship between John, and a relative of his wife’s, Daniel Treanor, who had left Ireland bound for New York City.
John and Daniel banter with each other across the ocean by the means of a column in the local newspaper. They weren’t the only family separated by water, so their letters would have had a certain familiarity with the readers of its day.
Their feelings were uncensored, similar in heart-ache, yet contrasting in destiny.
John, remaining in Ireland, becomes downcast at times about the state of the country, and sorely misses those who have left; while Daniel, making a new life for himself in New York, speaks fondly of home, and reminds John of the great treasure he has in simply spending his days in Ireland.
To John Coleman, Mullinahoe
(by Daniel Treanor)
John, over here, in New York City,
Far away from Innisfail,
How my heart goes palpitating,
When I get ‘The Mid-Ulster Mail’.
‘Twas in it I saw your answer
To the verse I sent to you
And words can’t express my feelings,
When I read your missive through.
How you rehearsed a life of folly,
Through the years of long ago,
Years that no one ever told me,
We always reap the seeds we sow.
Years when the skies looked blue above us,
And the world seemed all aglow,
Years when I thought that heaven
Must be my own beloved Ardboe.
With its ancient Church and Abbey.
And Old Cross that stands close by,
What more blessed spot in Ireland
Could man choose to live or die?
You say that Erin’s youth and strength
By home conditions are forced away,
With faint hope, to find a haven
In strange lands across the sea.
But don’t let that depress you, John
Can’t you see its God’s own way?
To populate and educate the nations,
With a race that leads the way.
You can travel the whole world over,
And search each hall of fame,
There carved on every slab of honour,
You will find an Irish name.
Don’t the Scripture plainly tell us, John
To go forth and multiply?
Well, that’s why the Youth of Erin
Bid their kin a fond good-bye.
Then why be discontented, John,
Whether here or over there?
Don’t we all hope to be reunited,
Where the climates always fair?
And for the short time we’re sojourning,
Through this valley, here below,
Let us be forever thankful,
Some of it was in Ardboe.
You say the old, decrepit and blind,
Are forced to stay at home.
Don’t you think that God must love them
To let them die in Sweet Tyrone?
Where their bones may turn to ashes,
In some consecrated mound;
Alongside departed loved ones
Gone in search of Heaven’s Crown.
To John Coleman, Mullinahoe
(by Daniel Treanor)
John, I received your verse on Christmas Eve,
And it made me very sad,
To learn that the conditions
In Ireland are so bad.
If it’s the fault of the Northern Counties,
Or the newly born Free State,
Why don’t they get together
And their difference arbitrate.
If all Ireland was united
And its people ceased to agitate,
You would find much more prosperity,
And less cause to emigrate.
Why don’t the Government raise the treasures
That lie underneath the clay;
There is coal in great abundance
Lying all around Lough Neagh.
There are beds of zinc and copper ore
From Dingle to Gweedore,
And many other minerals
Both sides of Shannon Shore.
I could go on enumerating,
Many other sources of supply,
That would help old Ireland raise its head,
And bid poverty good-bye.
I know it seems incredulous,
But believe me when I say
There’s great demand for Irish goods
In New York stores to-day.
Don’t we eat the Limerick bacon,
And we wear the Irish lace;
An overcoat of Foxford Frieze,
You’ll see most any place.
We wear the tweed from Blarney,
And the serge from Donegal;
And the pretty Irish poplin ties
Are in great demand by all.
Right now in New York city
There’s been a company organised,
To run ships direct to Galway,
And buy Irish merchandise.
So, let us all be optimistic,
For the day is not far away
When there will be a wave of great prosperity
Rolling all around Lough Neagh.
When we talk of Lough Neagh fishery, John,
Let us speak in accents low and reverently;
For you know Saint Peter cast his nets
Where there seemed no fish to be.
Then the voice of the Lord commanded
That he drop the nets once more,
And to the Apostle’s great astonishment,
Filled his own and many more.
So don’t you be discouraged John,
The day is not far I ken,
When the Lough will bring back prosperity
Back to the fishermen again.
You will see Lough Neagh without restrictions,
From Toome to Maghery Bay;
It’s the fishermen’s inheritance
And God speed that day I pray.
John, don’t think that I’m a pessimist,
Or that heritage I blame;
But you know if I’d shown a little business acumen
I would still be in Ardain.
And how many thousand like me
Are in Ireland to-day,
Who would rather go to the race track,
Than stay at home to mow the hay?
And, now before concluding, John,
Somehow I can’t refrain
From telling you that I’m resolved
To see you soon again.
If you live, and please God you will,
Until nineteen and thirty two
You will see more foreign visitors
Than Ireland ever knew.
Then prepare for the Eucharistic Congress,
Make the reception grand;
For ‘twill surely bring God’s blessing
To dear old Ireland.
Return Greetings to a Friend in the U.S.A.
(By John Coleman)
Save age and botheration, there is no extenuation,
And that thief procrastination with the other two combined;
To excuse the long delay that ensued from day to day,
In replying to your verses dear Dan, though well inclined.
From far across the sea came those verses unto me,
Like light out of darkness appearing in the MAIL;
To me and mine a boon, and we won’t forget it soon,
Those kindly greetings sent to us in dear old Innisfail.
Though far from dear old Ireland, you don’t forget your Sireland,
And friends and quondam* comrades, and scenes you left behind; (*former)
And how oft you sailed away on your yacht on dear old Neagh,
To Lurgan, Toome or Antrim, does still run in the mind.
And how many different places, with your greyhound to the races,
You had confidence in “Monday” and with him would repair* (*go)
To have your greyhound tested; he was seldom bested;
But racings changed since then, Dan, we’ve an electric hare.
And the champion’s from Tyrone owned by Creighton and McKeown;
The victor over Britain, none can with him compare,
Dan! You’d travel many a mile, and think it well worth while,
To see “Cormorant,” the champion, pursue the ‘lectric hare.
I remember well the “Master” that never met disaster,
“McGrath” Lord Lurgan’s champion that always gained the bays;
Now that history is repeating, we will give a victor’s greeting
To our more immediate champion, he’s worthy of our praise.
But alack, alackaday, the champion’s gone away,
He has found another owner, he has found another home;
Not on borders of Lough Neagh was he destined to stay,
To always bring the laurels back to Creighton and McKeown.
And dear Dan, the lure would surprise you, I am sure,
That induced his former owners with “Cormorant” to part.
But although he’s gone away, from convenient to Lough Neagh,
For years he’ll break the record, and trouble many a heart.
Dan, there are drastic changes here that would cause you shed a tear,
The young and strong are leaving, an exodus from Ardboe,
Whilst the old, the maimed, the blind are left behind,
In what have we offended, why are they doomed to go?
By the hundreds, aye and more, they leave the Irish shore,
From the land of their nativity, as if the race were banned,
To age before their time in a far off foreign clime;
We are never scorched or frozen in dear old Ireland.
If we are lonely, if we’re poor, sure we haven’t to endure,
With the cold below zero or a hundred in the shade;
But mammon’s the temptation, and the only compensation,
That lures away our exiles, and the price is dearly paid.
In foreign lands to roam, far from their Irish home,
Where nurtured in a climate where there are no extremes;
Those exiles fret and pine, far from their native clime,
They see it in their waking hours, they see it in their dreams.
When you get these verses, Dan, from dear old Fatherlan’,
Where the hills and vales are always green at all times of the year;
But like the Jews at Jericho, just give a rousing shout you know,
And I’ll install a listener in, I’ll maybe hear you here.
And that shout won’t tumble down that city or that town,
From which your poem proceeded that reached me in the MAIL;
No, you’ll reach the Promised Land, without that High Command,
Adieu, adieu, dear Danny, from your friend in Innisfail.
Just a Dream
(by Daniel Treanor)
John, last night before retiring,
Even yet I don’t know why,
I raised up my bedroom window,
And looked upward towards the sky.
While gazing at the moon and stars,
My thoughts wandered far away,
To an ancient spot in Ireland
On the banks of sweet Lough Neagh.
And as I lay there, enumerating
All the happy days gone by,
Old Morpheus crept into my bed,
And sung a lullaby.
He crooned a song of Erin,
Of its hills bedecked with green.
So very soon I went to sleep
And then began to dream.
Immune from earthly woes or care,
I experienced a great thrill,
When I dreamt that I was back once more,
On top of Dudly’s Hill.
I saw the old familiar faces,
And the scenes of long ago,
Each lover’s nook near babbling brooks,
That flows through Old Ardboe.
I passed by the Moortown Schoolhouse,
It seemed like yesterday;
I could hear Master Felix saying,
“Here comes Danny late again to-day.”
But school days late or early,
Are the happiest days of all,
Even leaving fond recollections,
Alas! oftimes gone beyond recall.
From there I went to the Battery,
And sat down upon the green,
Where I mused both long and earnestly
Of the things that might have been.
Then I walked along Ballinderryriver,
Where it flows into Lough Neagh,
And looked across at Ballylifford,
Where I spent many a happy day.
When the adolescent fever caught me,
It was there I used to roam,
In search of some blue eyed Colleen,
Who some day I’d call my own.
And though other lands and cities grand,
For years have captivated me,
Still I’m ever nightly dreaming
Of days spent around Lough Neagh.
When the sound of the hunter’s bugle,
Was music to my ear,
Or the hare out-gamed the greyhounds,
While the sportsmen loudly cheer.
From Mullin Bar to Cavan,
I met neighbours whom I knew,
Some looked the same, while others changed,
And then I missed a few.
Then there appeared a saintly looking woman,
Who wore neither cap nor shawl,
On her hand she held a rosary,
And pointed towards the churchyard wall.
And walking through the Ardboe graveyard
I shuddered in despair,
When I read the names of school-day pals,
Carved on the tombstones there.
Turning around I saw the Old Cross,
And it seemed to point the way,
To where Ardboe’s sons and daughters
Will meet, please God, some day.
I plainly saw the young and old,
Kneeling around its base,
In prayerful supplication to obtain,
Both the faith and grace.
To labour in God’s own vineyard,
Like their sires of long ago;
When the haven of saints and scholars
Was my own beloved Ardboe.
Lines in Reply to Daniel Treanor’s Verses from USA
By John Coleman
In this dear old land, with a feeble hand, again I lift the quill,
That tiny thing that rules the world I’d wield with a right good will;
But youth’s long past, and the biting blast, old age comes on apace,
I can see it looming, in the distant gloaming, the end of this earthly race.
But why regret, or for existence fret, when we get the final call?
From the eastern land came that high command ‘tis the common lot of all;
Not rich or poor, nor prince nor peer, can that final call evade,
We earned that ban from the great I Am, when our parents disobeyed.
But enough of that, we will have a chat about days of long ago,
When life was young, your career unstrung in you native Old Ardboe;
When your sun was high in Meridian sky, and thought ‘twould never set;
Oh! that mistake your friend did make, though above the horizon yet.
You have lived and loved, I can see it proved in the lines that you sent to me,
Though you’re far away from dear Old Neagh in that land beyond the sea,
You have travelled far to the Western Star, sailed after the setting sun;
That Yankee land may be great and grand, but there is a little one
That you left behind, still runs in your mind, in your breast has a warmer glow;
You may see it never, but you’ll mind forever your native Old Ardboe.
Were that landscape free you could look and see away to the rising sun;
In our Irish sky he is shining high, with you he has just begun.
He is shedding his beams on the land of your dreams, the land of your age.
Where the time fled fast, and your youth went past, in your native Old Ardboe.
Could your vision pierce through the boundless space, how often you’d look this way,
But nothing new would come into view, along you dear old Neagh.
The pebbly strand, where we used to land, where the waves glide to and fro.
And the Cross in sight, with its mitred height and the Church of Ardboe;
Where your kith and kin are all lying in, their face to the rising sun,
In quiet rest, with the turf on their breast, till old Time’s race is run.
Where your vision free, not again you’d see some sights that you saw before;
No fleet of sails, ‘fore the autumn gales speed away to the northern shore.
The waves to fight, through the long dark night, and wrest from them the spoil
So eagerly sought, but dearly bought, the reward of laborious toil.
That calling’s banned not from land to land, for nine months of the year;
Not from east to west on that water’s breast would you see a boat appear.
They must drink the chalice on the floating palace, from the old home sail away
To sweat and toil, on a foreign soil, far, far from dear old Neagh.
Dear cousin Dan I will stay my han’, now feeble, old and worn,
But the iron will that drives the quill throbs blithe, as a young May morn;
I could write all day, but I must away, that pleasure I must forego,
With fond regards from the aged bard, in your native Old Ardboe.
To the Ardboe Poet
Greetings from the United States (Daniel Treanor)
John, you mayn’t know your A’s from B’s,
But you do your P’s and Q’s.
When you write those weekly melodies
That drive away the Blues.
If your poetry is a failure,
Then I cannot understand
Why it’s read and sung by thousands
In far off Yankee Land.
So do not mind what critics say,
Or how they rant and rave,
Just simply ignore all of them,
It’s publicity they crave.
Though over here, in the U.S.A.,
Far, far from Mullinahoe.
I love to hear of progress made,
By the folks in Old Ardboe.
Each week I read the Mid Ulster Mail
And its pages closely scan,
To find some verse that brings me back
To my own loved River Bann.
In fancy once again I sail
Across far famed Lough Neagh,
And furl my sails down near the Cross,
Or along the Battery Quay.
To converse awhile with William’s (Mick),
Or maybe Felix (More);
Then take a stroll up Kiltagh Way,
Or down through Annaghmore.
I often drift over Washing Bay,
See the Castle at Mountjoy,
And all the beauteous landscape
Between Dungannon and the Moy.
Sometimes I stand on the Crabtree Mound,
On top of Dudley’s Hill,
From where we see the Glen of Derry
Which gives my heart a thrill.
Yes, I’m climbing over Churchill,
On my way to cross the Bridge,
And I’ll drop into Johnny (Mac’s)
Just like I oft times did.
For Johnny was a good old pal,
Who loved the dog and gun,
And when the sports would gather
‘Twas he who’d start the run.
There was Eddy Willcomb and Mike Lynn,
Masters Hickey and O’Neill;
And old boy Ned MacLarnen
Who could bag the grouse and quail.
In dreams I’m home in long Cookstown
The spot where I was born
There to retrace my childhood steps
From Oldtown Pump to Derryloran.
But why go back to boyhood days,
Or the things that are no more;
Nor muse the happy days I spent
At the fairs in Moneymore.
Oh! had I to live all o’er again,
How different life might be,
I’d learn to love the Old Cross more,
And uphold its dignity.
I’d live for all it stands for.
And learn well it’s history;
Then life would be much sweeter,
Though an exile I might be.
So now I’ll pull the anchor up
While strong south breezes blow,
That will take me down past Sandy Rock
To Lough Neagh’s overflow.
Alas, my dream is ended. John.
