Poems from Murlog School Past Pupils

Poems from Murlog School Past Pupils

The Scribblers Writers Group was talking about school days and the poem “Wee Hughie” by Elizabeth Shane, a Belfast born poet who spent much of her life in Donegal. She never went to Murlog School as I did but it got me thinking about when I started school and when my own boys started school.

And before I  knew it I was browsing through the Murlog School Centenary Book (1909- 2009) as part of my own research for my memoir for my own sons, now grown men, and  I found great wee poems penned by past pupils.

 

This one by Nicky Duffy, 5th Class (2001) made me smile.

My Daddy lost his voice today

It was at football training

The boys could not understand

Why he was no complaining

 

He couldn’t tell us what to do

Or how to pass the ball to feet

All he did was point at us

So we ended up beat.

 

After the match we were very quiet.

You couldn’t hear a noise.

I think my dad must have thought

That everyone lost their voice.

 

The day after that

Dad lost all signs of flue

The only problem now was

I had caught it too.

 

Poem 2

This is a lovely poignant poem by Laura Devine 5th class (2002)

I’d Do Anything

I’d do anything for my grandmother

Because when I was small

She did everything for me.

But now’s she’s old

She can’t do all the stuff

That she did for me.

So now it is my turn,

To do the stuff for her

Like make her a cup of tea

As she once did for me.

Or get her bread and milk from the shop

Just like she got sweets and crisps for me,

I’d do anything for my grandmother.

 

And here’s  the poem that set me thinking about Murlog School in the 1950s.“Wee Hughie” penned by Elizabeth (1877-1951)

Wee Hughie

He’s gone to school, Wee Hughie,
an’ him not four.
Sure I saw the fright was in him
When he left the door.

But he took a hand o ‘Denny
an’ a hand o’ Dan,,
Wi’ Joe’s owld coat upon him –
Och, the poor wee man!

He cut the quarest figure,
More stout nor thin;
An’ trottin’ right an’ steady
Wi his toes turned in.

I watched him to the corner
0′ the big turf stack,
An’ the more his feet went forrit,
Still his head turned back.

He was lookin’,
would I call him –
Och me heart was woe-
Sure it’s lost I am without him,
But he be to go.

I followed to the turnin’
When they passed it by,
God help him, he was cryin’,
An’, maybe, so was I.

Elizabeth Shane