Askeaton in poetry & song

ASKEATON IN POETRY & SONG

Growing up in County Limerick

Recollections of a Rural Irish Childhood

Synopsis

Growing up in the 1950's and 60's rural Ireland was sometimes tough,
but whatever depths we sank to, there was always someone or something
that managed to salvage our sanity. Life was uncompromising with very
little support outside the family unit. With the enforced absence of my father
through the curse of emigration and his untimely death, my mother, a strong
and deeply religious woman was forever steadfast, always there to ensure we survived.
If we got through today, tomorrow would always be better and in the face of adversity,
somehow my mother always won out. She was a Pious woman, but so were a lot of people back then;
God was all we had and the Catholic Church played a big part in our daily lives.

We were lucky that most people had a sense of humour; without which we were doomed.
There were many characters, who with their innate sense of humour made life and
day to day living exciting to say the least. There were storytellers and story makers,
with tales of pishogs and superstition making sure that times were never dull.
Television in the '60's awakened a new desire in us. We all wanted to be like
those people in the box in the corner and the determination to better ourselves
drove us on. The Dancehalls or Ballrooms of Romance as they were then known,
were our social outlets, and finding a suitable wife was always top of the agenda.

With the influx of multinational industries in the '70's, prosperity
was finally on the horizon. Rural Ireland had become a better place to live
and the bad old days of the '50's and '60's had finally been extinguished.
A new era of Irish life had begun.

Paddy Cronin

The Sweet River Deel

From a place called Askeaton

So Charming to see:

Come greetings from home Fond wishes to me.

How Kind are those words

wishing comfort and weal,

that come from my home,

by the sweet river Deel.

There a beautiful Abbey and Castle do stand,

Their structure as fine as is seen in our Land.

Unfettered, Untangled my thoughts often steal

To those beautiful ruins by the side of the Deel.

On the long summer's day I was delighted to roam

by the broad river's side near the cataract's foam.

My soul wrapped in thoughts, til the Angelus peal

Rang out loud and clear, O'er the sweet river Deel.

How often I strolled When the sun sank to rest

With the boys of Clareen The lads I liked best.

And we hurled for pastime til our heads seemed to reel

In Cussen's flat field By the sweet river Deel.

On the long summer's eve as the sun slowly sank

Our pleasant swim over we sat on the bank

To watch Pat McCarthy with his rod, line and wheel

playing out a brown trout on the sweet river Deel.

Oh! Sweet flowing river, though so far away

I can see you in memory as t'were yesterday.

And often in dreaming In fancy I feel.

That I'm fishing once more on the sweet river Deel.

I wished t'were my fate, when life sunset appears

to spend my last days where I spent my first years.

Ere the cold hand of death

would my humble life steal.

I would sigh for a grave

by the sweet river Deel.

(writer unknown)

thank to John Brandon,

Columbus, Ohio

For sending me this poem

The Pubs of Askeaton

by Tom Maguire

(a song sung to the air of "The Stome

Outside

Dan Murphy's Door"

and "The Red-Headed Mot from Ringsend")

As I tramp down the road through Askeaton,

With the gray castle ruins as me guide,

Near Shehan's old pub stands the Robin

With the hope that the door will swing wide.

Then the landlord appears at the window

And he lifts the worn latch with a grin.

The Robin hops in and he calls for his pint

And Askeaton' s awake once again.

O'er the Deel looms the Tower of Desmond,

Its shadows on Casey's shebeen.

On his perch in the corner sits Seamus O'Rourke

With Salty and Brid and Noleen.

When Mikey pulls out his old squeezebox,

Nellie Ivers roars into her song:

"You're a lady dear Limerick, we'll always love you"

As the Barber and the Pope sing along.

Across the bridge just beyond is Tom Kennedy's,

Its stained glass a welcoming sign.

There's Coleman's and Cagney's and Ranahan's

wee house

With Patsy herself on the lines.

Along by the river sits Rosie's

Peeking out from its slip on the quay;

There are lovely black pints and uisce galore;

Old Askeaton's the best place to be!

At the end of the town up on Church Street,

Tom Downes's pub beckons me on.

I can hear Paddy Leahy and Tessie

Holding Court with a joke and a yarn.

So, here's to the pubs of Askeaton,

To the Abbey and swans on the Deel;

To the old castle bridge and the Hell Fire Club

With its echoes of hornpipes and reels.

So, raise up your glass to Askeaton so fair

And to the friends who have all gone before!

--Tom Maguire

31 July 2006



	DEAR OLD STATION ROAD BY MICHAEL D. RYAN Dear Old, Sweet old, Station Road, Is home, sweet home to me. Dear old, Sweet old, Station Road, Is where I long to be. Though I may travel far and wide, I'll make my last abode in the sweetest spot in Ireland my own dear station road I've heard of the road Mandalay Although I've never been There's the rocky road to Dublin too And the road to Ballysteen When Irish folk are far away They dream of the Old Bog Road But when I'm lonesome I will sing Of Dear Old Station Road. I see again the railway gates The Dunworth's lovely flowers and Susie busy cracking jokes I'd listen there for hours The lovely people living there Have hearts of purest gold There is no better place to live Than Dear Old Station road. I hear again the horse and cart The whistle of steam trains The crash of shunting wagons too I hear those sounds again But mighty diesel engines now Sweep by with heavy load And I am left with memories Of Dear Old Station Road Dear old, Sweet old, Station Road, Is home, sweet home to me. Dear old, sweet old, station road, is where I long to be. Though I may travel far and wide. I'll make my last abode in the sweetest spot in Ireland My own dear Station Road. Askeaton No need to hunt ghosts in attics and cellars, just turn your head and they'll be there smiling. Smile back. Relax. They never say boo. Sip your Guinness and snap a photograph. Live with this fact – The ghosts hold Ireland. Pot bellied tricksters in sheep-shit caked shoes will guide you through the worn streets of Askeaton. Just blind and mute air, your eyes are their windows. If you give them your trust they'll guide your feet. You'll find the gravestone – all moss and bare rock. You might wonder at the broken castle empty streets and the tiny mid-day pub. Open the door and go into the room soon enough you'll know you've been there for years. Michael John Kennedy