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A corn crake sings its barking song, on the barley lanes tallest tree
The sun shining softly all around, an amazing sight to see
The bullet road full of men in boots, following the heavy metal ball,
Big money on the Armagh man, as he lets his last strike fall
The railway gates on Bridge Street swings open to let the train pass by
Wooden carriages crammed with cows and goats, it makes you want to cry
The smell of hides from River Street, would turn your very soul,
Men wash away the guts and blood with scrappers on long poles
At the back of the dam, candles flickering, in an open rundown space
Where sunken jaws draw in the smoke , as cards fan around the place
No work in this town, just games of chance, to takes up the empty space
No labour for Catholic unemployed, like in America, with colour and race,
The men huddled on street corners, until the children are safe in their beds
The women’s life long burden, to care for, and keep them fed
The dole queue is the only thing growing here, but you need the 13 stamps
The dockers work so hard to get them, but sell them in a drunken trance,
In Castle Street the range is glowing, dissolving mice prints, in the pan full of lard,
Mother boiling water on the gas ring, to wash her docker in the yard
Soda bread baking on the griddle, black pudding frying in the pan
The flour and yeast on the griddle is rising now, the end to a long hot stand
Bushels of coke from the gasworks, squeezed into a cart made from a pram
The blood is freezing on the finger nail, of a poor child’s coke scrapped small hand
No fancy holidays, or trips to beaches, or city breaks to Paris or Spain
If your lucky, a boat trip from Warrenpoint, returning in the rain
China town comes to life again, in the Sunday morning rain, with the pitch and toss and card school, loud curses, and refrains
The 12 o’clock mass worshipers file past them, glaring at their game
The gamblers hide their faces, diverting their faces to hide their shame
No factories investment in this town, to remove the Devils game
Sugar Island is flooding, Basin Walk houses destroyed once again, the Clanrye over flowing, filled with dirty summer rain,
fire men are wearing waders, pulling boats as big as cars, rescuing cats, and dogs and people, abandoned house doors left ajar.
Daisy Hill Hospital verandas are filled with patients, polio on the rise once again
The steel hinged supports clamped to thin legs, to help relieve the pain
But at least the abattoir on the Point Rd is busy, killing cows from dawn each day,
The poor house wives can buy cheap sausages, to keep the hunger at bay
Corn Market spuds in big sacks, even boiled, all hard as hell, but when you have only got a copper, you take what they sell.
in the poor town in the valley, it’s always been this way.
Brendan Curran - A poem about Newry in the 60's - Written 10th oct 2021.
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