|
SIMON JEFFORDS
The image of a poet as one of delicate build would hardly fit Simon Jeffords who was a well-known athlete and hurler in his young days and won a Munster Championship medal with Cork in 1937. Born of a long-established farming family on the outskirts of Carrigaline village, he worked for 34 years in Dunlop's factory in Cork. His love for poetry can be traced back to his schooldays, but it was only when he retired that he began writing verse and he has had many poems published in the local papers. Many of his themes are of a religious nature. |
Our Boyhood Days at Carrigaline
When whims of youth dictate the
needs,
When schoolday tasks were done,
We loved to mount our faithful steeds,
Of which we each claimed one.
There was Martin Cantillon and
Dick,
The Harrisses had two,
Tom Foley's mount used hise and kick,
Paul Ross's Browney Blue.
Humphrey Jeffers jet black steed,
Was stabled at Coolmore.
My own, a faithful friend indeed,
In all, perhaps, half a score.
Those animals were groomed and
shod,
And fed on best white oats.
When stakes went down 'twas half a crown,
We did not have pound notes.
We organised big meetings,
With Judge and referee,
All rules may be reduced to one,
No entry without fee.
Those were the days when roads
were safe,
And free from boiling tar,
Paved with sheets of limestone,
For the common horse and car.
From Cantillon's Mill up Borbee
Hill,
Around the Piper's Cross,
Dick's gallant steed was in the lead,
As we canter down Borgloss.
Around Ballea to Ballinrea,
With Carrigdhoun in view,
"The hawk has flown, gwan! gwan!
They're all left only you."
At the Dandy bridge we scaled
the ridge,
Then up Commeen's steep hill,
Into Jer Luke's, ay! knocking stooks,
And shocking clocking hen.
As the pace increase, a scene
of peace,
Lay over all the land,
There never was or never will,
Be such a happy band.
At Ring regatta every year,
And at Ringabella too,
We staged the donkey derby
With our splendid four-stroke crew.
One day we all assembled,
But the race was long delayed,
And Palmer's Island trembled,
With the donkey serenade.
Then the pubs became deserted,
All poured out in the street,
But the donkeys disconcerted,
Took the bit between the teeth.
The stewards took the message
Pulled the gun and let us go.
And we're off like helter skelter,
Homeward bound for phila crow.
That's the last day I remember,
Tom Foley won the race.
Tom Carroll's mount came second,
Denny Hurley in third place.
Those were the days when we were
young,
But soon apart we'd grown.
Down the lanes of life, it's cares and strife,
We rambled on our own
Last night I tried to call the
roll,
As I lay awake in bed.
Most of my school pals answered,
Yep! Sad, one or two are dead.
My cherished friends, God rest them,
More recently they've gone,
A step or two before the rest,
To where we all belong.
I hope there is a moke or two,
I hope they're not all sold,
Our Lady chose a donkey,
And Our Lord an ass's colt.
