Into our townlanŽ, on a night of snow, Rode a man from God-knows-where; None
of us bade him stay or go, Nor deemed him friend, nor damned him foe. But we stabled his big roan mare: For in our
townlanŽ weŽre a decent folk, And if he didnŽt speak, why none of us spoke, And we sat till the fire burned low.
a civil sort in our wee place, So we made the circle wide Round Andy LemonŽs cheerful blaze, And wished the man his
lenth oŽdays; And a good end to his ride, He smiled in under his slouchy hat Says he: "ThereŽs a bit of a joke in
that, For we ride different ways."
The whiles we smoked we watched him From his seat fornenst the glow, I
nudged Joe Moore, "You wouldnŽt dare To ask him who heŽs for meetinŽ there, And how far he has got to go?" But Joe
wouldnŽt dare, nor Wully Scott, And he took no drink - neither cold nor hot This man from God-knows-where.
was closinŽ time, anŽ late forbye, When us ones braved the air I never saw worse (may I live or die) Than the sleet
that night, anŽ I says, says I, "YouŽll find heŽs for stoppinŽ there." But at screek oŽ day, through the gable pane I
watched him spur in the peltinŽ rain, And I juked from his rovinŽ eye.
Two winters more, then the Trouble Year, When
the best that a man could feel Was the pike he kept in hidlinŽs near, Till the blood oŽ hate anŽ the blood oŽ fear Would
be redder nor rust on the steel. Us ones quet from mindinŽ the farms Let them take what we gave wiŽ the weight oŽ our
arms, From Saintfield to Kilkeel.
In the time oŽ the Hurry, we had no lead We all of us fought with the rest
AnŽ if eŽer a one shook like a tremblinŽ reed None of us gave neither hint nor heed, Nor even evenŽd weŽd guessed. We
men of the North had a word to say, AnŽ we said it then, in our own dour way, AnŽ we spoke as we thought was best.
Ulster over, the weemen cried For the stanŽinŽ crops on the lanŽ ManyŽs the sweetheart anŽ manyŽs the bride Would
liefer haŽ gone till where he died. An haŽ murned her lone by her man, But us one weathered the thick of it, And
we used to dandher along, and sit In AndyŽs side by side.
What with discoorse goinŽ to and fro, The night would
be wearinŽ thin, Yet never so late when we rose to go But someone would say: "Do ye minŽ thon snow, AnŽ the man what
came wanderinŽ in? And we be to fall to the talk again, If by chance he was one oŽ them The man who went like the
Well, Žtwas gettinŽ on past the heat oŽ the year When I rode to Newtown fair; I sold as I could (the dealers
were near Only three pounds eight for the Innish steer, AnŽ nothinŽ at all for the mare!) But I met McKee in the
throng oŽ the street Says he, "The grass has grown under our feet Since they hanged young Warwick here."
he told me that Boney had promised help To a man in Dublin town Says he, "If yeŽve laid the pike on the shelf, YeŽd
better go home hot-fut by yerself, AnŽ once more take it down." So by Comer road I trotted the gray And never cut
corn until Killyleagh Stood plain on the risinŽ grounŽ.
For a wheen oŽ days we sat waitinŽ the word To rise
and go at it like men, But no French ships sailed into Cloughey Bay, And we heard the black news on a harvest day That
the cause was lost again; And Joey and me, and Wully Boy Scott, We agreed to ourselves weŽd as lief as not HaŽ been
found in the thick oŽ the slain.
By Downpatrick Gaol I was bound to fare On a day IŽll remember, feth; For when
I came to the prison square The people were waitinŽ in hundreds there, AnŽ you wouldnŽt hear stir nor breath! For
the sodgers were standinŽ, grim anŽ tall, Round a scaffold built there fomenst the wall, AnŽ a man stepped out for death!
I was brave anŽ near to the edge oŽ the throng, Yet I knowed the face again, AnŽ I knowed the set, anŽ I knowed
the walk AnŽ the sound of his strange up-country talk, For he spoke out right anŽ plain. Then he bowed his head to
the swinginŽ rope, While I said, "Please God" to his dyingŽ hope And "Amen" to his dying prayer. That the Wrong would
cease and the Right prevail. For the man that they hanged at Downpatrick Gaol Was the man from God-knows-where!