Ballygellick Twelfth

A wheen o days syne there was a hail cairry oan roon the aul Toonland o Ballygellick. The folk caa this "The Twelfth" an the maist o them hae good crack wi batin drums an gaitherin in the streets an danderin aboot wi bonnie banners. Then some o the hallions amang them tak aff tae get gulderin fou an sing aul sangs, whilst a wheen o ithers prick up their lugs in a clabbery field tae listen tae some crabbed auld gett tell them aboot The Deil an releegion an sic like things.

Noo, us gellicks, dinnae pay much mind tae the doins an bullbates o the folk, since we hae mair tae dae wi the leid that comes oot their bakes. Hooinever, it just sae happens that The Gellick was hokin aboot in the rafters o an aul sheilin the ither day whan I foond a puckle o aul papers in an ootby gap in a waa. The papers looked aul, an they haud scrievins on them, but maist o them you couldnae read ava, an yin or twa o the sheets turned tae smoor afore my een. Onyway, the follaein bit o an aul poem was aa I could mak oot. I jalouse it's aboot "The Twelfth", an talks aboot the bands an banners o the mairchers, but mair nor the lave, it has a wheen o bonnie wurds in amang it for aa the clishnaclaver. I'm fair scunnered that nae mair nor this wheen o verses could thole the passage o time:

A kiltie band noo passes by
Wi eldrich skirls an wails.
They blaw an squeeze wi aa their puff
Their beetroot chops like sails.
Their mixtur-maxtur patterned kilts
Wi colours aa throuither,
Like the folk aroon these isles
Champed up wi yin anither
Tae this day.

Blood an thunner! Nae Surrender!
Here’s a quare stramash!
A raucle flute band batterin by,
An beltin oot “The Sash”!
The loupin leader chucks his stick,
An birls it roun his wrist
An the big drum’s skin is japped wi red
Fae the drummer’s tattered fists,
As he bates that day.

We ken thon soun that thunners roun
An sets the yird tae quakin;
A feardy ba culfs up his lugs,
Ahint his Ma he’s shakin.
Leanin back, Lambeg on wame,
The drummer hauls his canes
An maks his auncient rhythm dirl
Intil oor hairts, oor guts, oor brains
Fu strang that day.

The flutes they trilled, an through us thrilled,
The drums they battered rowdy
An ower the heids o aa the folk,
The banners billowed gaudy:
They tell the tale o aa oor fechts,
 Oor folk, oor toon, oor cause,
An them wha suffered for oor land,
Oor Faith, oor God oor laws,
In bygane days.

The apprentice boys, o Derry toon,
Aye we’re in their debt,
In rebel James’ treacherous neb
Shut the Bishop’s yett.
An William o immortal fame
Wha on Boyne’s grassy banks
Maks traitors flee, and bears the gree
Ulstermen i his ranks
Fu strang that day.

Noo Moses bauld, hauds tae the lift,
The covenant o stane
An Jesus preaches on the Mount
For oor eternal gain.
An Abraham the gully grips,
Wi nieve that niver shakes
Whilst Daniel strides amang the baists,
Sin God cleeked shut their bakes,
Fu tight that day.