SARAH ANN [POEM] By W.F. Marshall | Recited by Ian McCracken - Tyrone, Ulster, Irish Humorous Poem

SARAH ANN [POEM] By W.F. Marshall | Recited by Ian McCracken - Tyrone, Ulster, Irish Humorous Poem.
Sarah Ann's father, 'Wee Robert', was "nothing but a wart" who owned a shop and a farm of land, and prospered during the early twentieth century in his native county of Tyrone.
William Forbes Marshall was born at Drumragh, near Omagh, on 8 May 1888. His father
was the principal of Sixmilecross National School and Marshall was himself educated here
before going on to Dungannon Royal School and then Queen’s College, Galway before
beginning theological studies in Belfast in 1908.
Marshall was a renowned writer and became the leading authority on Ulster dialect, in
recognition of which he was elected a Member of the Royal Irish Academy. He had almost
completed a dictionary of Ulster dialect when sadly his pet dog destroyed it. He published
several books of poetry. Probably his most famous poem is ‘Me an’ my da’, which begins,
‘I’m livin’ in Drumlister’.
His poems were not written in Ulster-Scots, but in the dialect of his native Tyrone, though
he was aware of the three cultural elements that had influenced it - Gaelic Irish, English
and Scots. His other works include ‘Ulster Sails West’, published in 1943 to coincide with
the arrival of American GIs in Northern Ireland, which highlighted the contribution of the
Ulster-Scots to the shaping of America.
Marshall died on 25 January 1959 and was buried at Sixmilecross in the burial ground beside
the Presbyterian Church - the ‘plain old house of God’ as he referred to it in one of his poems.
SARAH ANN
I'll change me way of goin', for me head is gettin' grey.
I'm tormented washin' dishes, an' makin' dhraps o' tay;
The kitchen's like a midden, an' the parlour like a sty,
There's half a fut of clabber on the street outby:
I'll go down agane the morra on me kailey to the Cross
For I'll hif to get a wumman, or the place'll go to loss.
I've fothered all the kettle, an' there's nothin' afther that
But clockin' roun' the ashes wi' an oul' Tom cat;
Me very ears is bizzin' from the time I light the lamp.
An' the place is like a graveyard, bar the mare wud give a stamp,
So often I be thinkin' an' contbrivin' for a plan
Of how to make the match agane with Robert's Sarah Ann.
I used to make wee Robert's of a Sunday afther prayers,
-Sarah An wed fetch the taypot to the parlour up the stairs;
An' wance a week for sartin I'd be cbapin' at the dure,
There wosa't wan wud open it but her, ye may be sure;
An' then-for all wos gain' well-I got a neighbour man
An' tuk him down to spake for me, an’ ax for Sarah Ann.
Did ye iver know wee Robert? Well, he's nothin' but a wart,
A nearbegone oul' dlvil with a wee black heart.
A crooked, crabbit crathur that bees nether well nor sick,
Girnin' in the chimley corner, or goan happin' on a stick;
Sure ye min' the girl for hirin' that went shoutin' thro' the fair,
"I wunthered in wee Robert's, I can summer anywhere."
But all the same wee Robert has a shap an' farm o' Ian',
Ye'd think he'd do it dacent when it come to Sarah Ann,
She bid me ax a hundther'd, an' we worked him up and down,
The deil a hate he'd give her but a cow an' twenty poun';
I pushed for twenty more forbye to help to build a byre,
But ye might as well be talkin' to the stone behin' the fire.
So says I till John, me neighbour, "Sure we're only lossin' time
Jist let him keep his mollye, I can do without her prime,
Jist let him keep his daughter, the hungry-lukin' nur.
There's jist as chancy weemin, in the countryside as her,"
Man, he let a big thravalley, an' sent us both-ye know,
But Sarah busted cryin’, for she seen we maned till go.
Ay she fell till the cryin', for ye know she isn't young.
She's nearly past her market, but she's civil with her tongue.
That's half a year or thereaways, an' here I'm sittin' yit,
I'll change me way of goin', ay I’ll do it while I'm fit,
She's a snug welldoin' wumman, no better in Tyrone,
An' down I'll go the morra, for I'm far too long me lone.
The night the win’ is risin’ an’ It’s comin’ on to sleet,
It’s spittin' down the chimley on the greeshig at me feet.
It’s whisslin’ at the windy, an' it's roarin! roun' the barn,
There'll be piles of snow the morra on more than Mullagharn;
But I’mfor tacklin’ Sarah Ann; no matter if the snow
Is iverywhere shebowin’; when the morra comes I’ll go.

[@viphamvan7936]

so touching for an excellent video

[@maryanneforden5545]

Another Gem,I loved the poem.

[@ruth6471]

Lovely!

[@manondella6157]

당신은 매우 아름다운 이미지를 만들고 Nghia Tui는 그것을 정말 좋아합니다.

[@user-od4oo6yg4k]

The sound of the videos is not good

[@HoaNguyen-hx6hv]

so touching for an excellent video