Here’s a very old poem. It was written by a man from Raceview in Broughshane in late 1899. The humourous verses focus on the fun to be had at the local bar in the village. Ulster-Scots terminology is used throughout the poem. A wonderful read.
The Auld Whiskey Bar at the Bridge
My chums and I often go out on the spree,
When we hae an odd shilling we let it go free.
Each Saturday night, let it snaw or sleet,
We visit the pub, at the heid of the street.
A drop by a time, we think it no harm,
On a cold winter’s night sure it keeps a chap warm
If it wasnae the peelers whiles gives us a scar,
We would booze for a week at the auld whiskey bar.
There’s mony a cove would reach us his hand,
When are that fu’ we re no’ able to stand,
Wae drinking beer, whiskey, then trying the gin,
I can tell ye, it’s then a guid yarn we can spin.
It’s odd how some chaps begin fur to blow
When they get twa or three half-uns of poteen put low.
Some reck up a pipe, ithers whuff a cigar,
And twust their moustache, at the auld whiskey bar.
A song is then called for, and we all raise our voice;
Faith, when are out we’re the boys can rejoice;
We all join in chorus like fine, lively men.
There’s whiles a great crush on before it strikes ten
We hae spent happy nights this last twa or three years.
Sure, a drop of the the craythur wipes frae us all tears.
We sometimes tak’ sae much we hae to be put on a car,
And driven safe home frae the auld whiskey bar.
We adore the old tavern, where get a guid sang
Each Saturday night, sure we never think lang,
And try a drap mair for to stir up our minds,
And hae a good chat on the old jolly times.
Another round, boys, then someone will cry,
For it’s no’ easy tholing the drouth when yer dry;
And to finish all up, we some nichts hae a spar,
And wreck all before us, in the auld whiskey bar.
Aften we hae swore that we wud tak’ the pledge
After a big boozing nicht, when fell in the hedge.
When we again met in company our vows we forgot;
Ah, sure might as well hae a booze, boys, as not.
Now the hour is approaching we must mak’ lor hame,
And once more must say good-bye to Broughshane,
As we stare at each ither, and gaes our shouthers a fidge,
When ten o’clock comes to the bar at the bridge.
W. J. M’A.