Poetry « Thurles Information

Hot Asphalt

Hot Asphalt

Vocals: The late Irish singer, folk musician and actor Luke Kelly (1940–1984) & Irish folk band The Dubliners.
Lyrics: The late folk singer, songwriter, folk song collector, labour activist and actor, James Henry Miller (Stage name Ewan Maccoll, 1915–1989).

Hot Asphalt

Ah good evening, all my jolly lads, I’m glad to find you well.
If you’ll gather all around me, now, the story I will tell,
For I’ve got a situation and begorrah and begob,
I can whisper I’ve the weekly wage of nineteen bob.
‘Tis twelve months come October since I left me native home,
After helping them Killarney boys to bring the harvest down,
But now I wear the gansey and around me waist a belt,
I’m the gaffer of the squad that makes the hot asphalt.

Chorus
Well, we laid it in the hollows and we laid it in the flat,
And if it doesn’t last forever, sure I swear, I’ll eat me hat.
Well, I’ve wandered up and down the world but sure I never felt,
Any surface that was equal to the hot asphalt.

The other night a copper comes and he says to me, “McGuire,
Would you kindly let me light me pipe down at your boiler fire?”
And he planks himself right down in front, with hobnails up, till late,
And says I, me decent man, you’d better go and find your bait.
He ups and yells, “I’m down on you, I’m up to all yer pranks,
Don’t I know you for a traitor from the Tipperary ranks?”
Boys, I hit straight from the shoulder and I gave him such a belt,
That I knocked him into the boiler full of hot asphalt.

Repeat Chorus

We quickly dragged him out again and we threw him in the tub,
And with soap and warm water we began to rub and scrub,
But devil the thing, it hardened and it turned him hard as stone,
And with every other rub, sure you could hear the copper groan.
“I’m thinking”, says O’Reilly, “that he’s lookin’ like old Nick,
And burn me if I am not inclined to claim him with me pick”.
“Now”, says I, “it would be easier to boil him till he melts,
And to stir him nice and easy in the hot asphalt“.

Repeat Chorus

You may talk about yer sailor lads, ballad singers and the rest,
Your shoemakers and your tailors, but we please the ladies best.
The only ones who know the way their flinty hearts to melt,
Are the lads around the boiler making hot asphalt.
With rubbing and with scrubbing, sure I caught me death of cold.
For scientific purposes, me body it was sold.
In the Kelvin grove museum, me boys, I’m hangin’ in me pelt,
As a monument to the Irish, making hot asphalt.

Repeat Chorus

END

Singer Sinéad O’Connor Dead Aged 56.

The death has been sadly announced of Irish and World renowned singer Ms Sinéad O’Connor, aged just 56 years.

Singer Sinéad O’Connor’s rendition of “She Moves Through the Fair”, – Words by Irish poet Padraic Colum.

Often outspoken in her social and political views and beliefs; Ms O’Connor released ten studio albums in all during her short life, finding worldwide fame with her album ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ in 1990.

Her death comes just over a year after her 17 year old son Shane sadly took his life in January 2022, having escaped from hospital, while on suicide watch.

In ár gcroíthe go deo.

It Must Have Been Love.

Songwriter: Per Hakan Gessle.
Vocals: Roxette singer, sadly the late Gun-Marie Fredriksson (1958–2019)

“Must have been love,
But it’s over now.“

Lay a whisper on my pillow.
Leave the winter on the ground.
I wake up lonely, this air of silence,
In the bedroom and all around.
Touch me now, I close my eyes,
And dream away.
It must have been love, but it’s over now.
It must have been good, but I lost it somehow.
It must have been love, but it’s over now,
From the moment we touched, ’til the time had run out
Make-believing we’re together,
That I’m sheltered by your heart,
But in and outside I turn to water,
Like a teardrop in your palm.
And it’s a hard winter’s day,
I dream away.
It must have been love, but it’s over now.
It was all that I wanted, now I’m living without.
It must have been love, but it’s over now.
It’s where the water flows.
It’s where the wind blows.
It must have been love, but it’s over now.
It must have been good, but I lost it somehow.
It must have been love, but it’s over now,
From the moment we touched, ’til the time had run out.
Yeah, it must have been love, but it’s over now.
It was all that I wanted, now I’m living without.
It must have been love, but it’s over now.
It’s where the water flows.
It’s where the wind blows,
but it’s over now,
No, no, no
(It must have been love)
(But it’s over now) but it’s over now
No, no, no

End.

Creatures Great & Small Land At Feet Of Jesus Christ Statue.

The bee swarm came in a huge wave, dancing majestically from the north side of Thurles town, moving down the town centre, before settling at the feet of Jesus Christ, whose statue is positioned outside the Ursuline Primary school building, on Liberty Square.

Four thoughts quickly came to my mind.
Firstly the Jesus Christ statue, shown in the picture below, stands on a plinth outside the school; its outstretched arms possibly referring to the writings contained in the gospel according to St. Matthew, Chapter 19: Verse 14, “Let the little children (bees in this case) come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

My second thought was for the schools late, incredibly caring, hard-working and dedicated teacher and principal Sister Xavier O’Dwyer. How said lady would have loved their arrival and the associated symbolism.

My two remaining thoughts came in the form of two hymns the words of which were learned in my youth; firstly an extract from “All things bright and beautiful” by the Dublin born hymn writer and poet Mrs Cecil Francis Alexander, (1818 – 1895), wife of the one-time Anglican Bishop of Derry, William Alexander, latter who later went on to become Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland.

‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small.
All things wise and wonderful, ’twas God that made them all.
He gave us eyes to see them and lips that we might tell,
How great is the Almighty, who has made all things well.’

That thought was quickly followed by lines from that blind American mission worker, poet, lyricist and composer Francis J. Crosby (1820 -1915), possibly better known as Fanny J. Crosby, the Queen of Gospel song writers.
Following the death of her baby daughter, named Frances van Alstyness, Fanny had written; ‘Safe in the Arms of Jesus‘.

‘Safe in the Arms of Jesus, Safe on His gentle breast,
There by His love o’ershaded, Sweetly my soul shall rest’.

And rest these bees did, until removed, to be sent to other more suitable living quarters; in the interest of the health and safety of pupils attending classes within the school.

Of course when bees are swarming, they remain the tamest they will ever be. These bees are weighted down with honey, so they are aware they cannot fly fast. They have two goals only in mind; to protect their Queen while locating a new place to live. Everything else remains secondary to those two goals, leaving them to surround and protect their queen, while they wait for scouts to inform them where to set up their new camp.

Thurles – Apple Blossoms.

**Apple Blossom – Thurles, Co. Tipperary**.
*Pic:* *George Willoughby.*

“Apple Blossoms” – By American Poet & Author Horatio Alger Jr. [1832 – 1899].

I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
In the fragrant orchard close,
And around me floats the scented air,
With its wave-like tidal flows.
I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
And call no king my peer;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?

I lie on a couch of downy grass,
With delicate blossoms strewn,
And I feel the throb of Nature’s heart
Responsive to my own.
Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,
That maketh life so dear;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?

I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
The delicate blue of the sky,
And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
That drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,
And Heaven, it seemeth near;
Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?

END