No one plays there anymore
The grass grows tall and green.
When we were young before T.V.
Children were always seen.
When school was out
And chores were done
And soup and bread were eaten
We’d find a ball, and bat and wicket
And call on friends and neighbours
Of our wee green, for a game of cricket.
Some of us were very strong
And well able to hit sixers
Towards Josie Haran’s or Johnny Mc Gowan’s
Being careful of all others.
Rounders was another
Of the favourite games we played
And mothers screamed our names out
When tea was ready and we delayed.
From 3oc and at weekends
The like was never seen
The roars and shouts of happiness
On our own Wee Green.
On Bonfire night we’d pile whins high
Results of extreme efforts
Hauling them up the second hill
From Bowmore and Yonder Rosses.
Then Cosgraves would provide us minerals
From Foley’s brewery in Sligo
And we’d light the whins and tyres and wood
And dance as the flames leaped skywards.
The circus came to our wee green
And ponies went awandering
So gates were shut and children ran
The errands for all and sundry.
We wore pathways in the grasses
From our house to No.12
To John Mc Loughlin’s and to Higgin’s
To Doherty’s and to Sand’s
To Hilda Gillen’s and Devaney’s
And over to Josie Haran’s
To Mc Loughlin’s and to Monaghan’s
And Johnny McGowan who had the ponies
And the Top Road led to Masses
We played with Cullens and Mc Morrows
With Brennans---RoseMary and Sean
With Devins’and with Dohertys
The Bruens were grown up and gone
THEN ONE DAY A SIGN WENT UP
A warning to offenders
Trespassers would be prosecuted
THE WEE GREEN WAS NO LONGER OURS
But we all guessed who the culprit was
Who took away our pleasure
So next Halloween we had our fun
Repaying in full measure.
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