26/01/2024
In honour of Burns Night, we are sharing this extract taken from the Larne & District Folklore Society book held in the archives of Larne Museum & Arts Centre.
“Burns’ Nicht” in Larne, 25th January 1978
The newly formed “East Antrim Burns Association” held the Poets’ anniversary in Laharna Hotel when upwards of 180 people attended. It was a gay occasion and we performed all the traditional “niceties” which go with the “haggis”.
Just a few days earlier I had written what I felt was “An Ulsterman’s address to The Mouse”, remembering of course “Rabbies” immortal “Wee Sleekit, timorous, cowerin’ beastie”.
As a young man I had worked on a farm and long before I was twenty years of age I was a fairly good ploughman and often during my “trudging up and down the furrows” I would upturn a poor little mouse which would scamper out over the rough cold earth, it was on such occasions I would sometimes stop my horses, watch the little mouse lose itself amongst the dark brown earth and now – half a century later I sat me down and wrote down the following lines, and it was these lines which Sam Cross (chairman) asked me to recite at this Burns’ Supper in Laharna Hotel on January 25th 1978.
To A Mouse
Ach wee frichted nervous moose
I’ve torn to shreds your nice wee hoose,
I’m sure ‘twas bigg-ed strong an’ doose
Deep doon beneath the stibble.
But how was I tae know ‘twas there
Until my plough’s coul’ cruel share
Destroyed what you had fashioned there
Wi’ mony’s a toilsome nibble.
I watched you scurryin’ doon the sheugh,
Your path was clammy, coul’ and’ rugh.
The wintry win’ wi’ cruel sugh
Showed neither shame nor pity.
As I surveyed this woefu’ scene,
I thocht how snug you micht ha’e been
Sae happy, warm and safe and clean
In some big toon or city.
It’s there I’m till’t the folk are gran’,
Ha’e neither ploughs or beasts or lan’
Wi’ modern gadgets aye at han’
Tae meet their ivery need.
While you an’ me maun face the blasts
As lang as wicked wunter lasts,
Scorned, unrewarded, poor outcasts,
Forgotten, yince we’re deead.
I’ve wondered oft’ tae what degree,
The fates would strive tae succour me,
If I were forced tae rise an’ flee
Frae my wee thack-ed hoose.
Nae ploughman wi’ a wife an’ weans,
Could big a hoose wi’ moss an’ stanes
In filds or hedges, sheughs or lanes
As freely as a moose.
My maister has me “cottage tied”
An’ there my wife an’ weans must bide
Tae thole his taunts – suppress oor pride
Pay honour tae his name.
We leeve in hourly dread an’ fear
That maybe at the next half-year
He’ll land us oot wi’ a’ oor gear,
Bereft o’ hoose an’ hame.
Nae doot ye’ll big anither hame
Beneath the heel o’ some big stane,
Choose some weel sheltered peacefu’ lane
Weel lined wi’ moss an’ ferns.
An’ there contented, safe an’ blessed,
Ye’ll big anither cosy nest,
Whaur nae intruders can mo**st
Your brood o’ helpless bairns.
When my oul’ limbs grow stiff wi’ pains,
Through years o’ scoorin’ sheughs an’ drains,
An’ biggin[?] d***s wi’ heavy stanes,
Then what becomes o’ me.
I’ll wander roon in sheer despair,
A wee bite here – a wee sup there
At last I’ll meet death’s chilly stare
In the Poorhouse – there tae dee.
J. Clifford, January 1978
Image: John Clifford (Larne Museum Archives)