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Man From God-Knows Where , The

Florence M. Wilson
Into our townlan�, 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 townlan� we�re a decent folk, And if he didn�t speak, why none of us spoke, And we sat till the fire burned low. We�re a civil sort in our wee place, So we made the circle wide Round Andy Lemon�s cheerful blaze, And wished the man his lenth o�days; And a good end to his ride, He smiled in under his slouchy hat Says he: "There�s 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 wouldn�t dare To ask him who he�s for meetin� there, And how far he has got to go?" But Joe wouldn�t dare, nor Wully Scott, And he took no drink - neither cold nor hot This man from God-knows-where. It was closin� time, an� late forbye, When us ones braved the air I never saw worse (may I live or die) Than the sleet that night, an� I says, says I, "You�ll find he�s for stoppin� there." But at screek o� day, through the gable pane I watched him spur in the peltin� rain, And I juked from his rovin� eye. Two winters more, then the Trouble Year, When the best that a man could feel Was the pike he kept in hidlin�s near, Till the blood o� hate an� the blood o� fear Would be redder nor rust on the steel. Us ones quet from mindin� the farms Let them take what we gave wi� the weight o� our arms, From Saintfield to Kilkeel. In the time o� the Hurry, we had no lead We all of us fought with the rest An� if e�er a one shook like a tremblin� reed None of us gave neither hint nor heed, Nor even even�d we�d guessed. We men of the North had a word to say, An� we said it then, in our own dour way, An� we spoke as we thought was best. All Ulster over, the weemen cried For the stan�in� crops on the lan� Many�s the sweetheart an� many�s the bride Would liefer ha� gone till where he died. An ha� murned her lone by her man, But us one weathered the thick of it, And we used to dandher along, and sit In Andy�s side by side. What with discoorse goin� to and fro, The night would be wearin� thin, Yet never so late when we rose to go But someone would say: "Do ye min� thon snow, An� the man what came wanderin� in? And we be to fall to the talk again, If by chance he was one o� them The man who went like the win�. Well, �twas gettin� on past the heat o� 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, An� nothin� at all for the mare!) But I met McKee in the throng o� the street Says he, "The grass has grown under our feet Since they hanged young Warwick here." And he told me that Boney had promised help To a man in Dublin town Says he, "If ye�ve laid the pike on the shelf, Ye�d better go home hot-fut by yerself, An� once more take it down." So by Comer road I trotted the gray And never cut corn until Killyleagh Stood plain on the risin� groun�. For a wheen o� days we sat waitin� 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 we�d as lief as not Ha� been found in the thick o� the slain. By Downpatrick Gaol I was bound to fare On a day I�ll remember, feth; For when I came to the prison square The people were waitin� in hundreds there, An� you wouldn�t hear stir nor breath! For the sodgers were standin�, grim an� tall, Round a scaffold built there fomenst the wall, An� a man stepped out for death! I was brave an� near to the edge o� the throng, Yet I knowed the face again, An� I knowed the set, an� I knowed the walk An� the sound of his strange up-country talk, For he spoke out right an� plain. Then he bowed his head to the swingin� rope, While I said, "Please God" to his dying� 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! This page has been viewed 3982 times

Into our townlan�, 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 townlan� we�re a decent folk,
And if he didn�t speak, why none of us spoke,
And we sat till the fire burned low.

We�re a civil sort in our wee place,
So we made the circle wide
Round Andy Lemon�s cheerful blaze,
And wished the man his lenth o�days;
And a good end to his ride,
He smiled in under his slouchy hat
Says he: "There�s 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 wouldn�t dare
To ask him who he�s for meetin� there,
And how far he has got to go?"
But Joe wouldn�t dare, nor Wully Scott,
And he took no drink - neither cold nor hot
This man from God-knows-where.

It was closin� time, an� late forbye,
When us ones braved the air
I never saw worse (may I live or die)
Than the sleet that night, an� I says, says I,
"You�ll find he�s for stoppin� there."
But at screek o� day, through the gable pane
I watched him spur in the peltin� rain,
And I juked from his rovin� eye.

Two winters more, then the Trouble Year,
When the best that a man could feel
Was the pike he kept in hidlin�s near,
Till the blood o� hate an� the blood o� fear
Would be redder nor rust on the steel.
Us ones quet from mindin� the farms
Let them take what we gave wi� the weight o� our arms,
From Saintfield to Kilkeel.

In the time o� the Hurry, we had no lead
We all of us fought with the rest
An� if e�er a one shook like a tremblin� reed
None of us gave neither hint nor heed,
Nor even even�d we�d guessed.
We men of the North had a word to say,
An� we said it then, in our own dour way,
An� we spoke as we thought was best.

All Ulster over, the weemen cried
For the stan�in� crops on the lan�
Many�s the sweetheart an� many�s the bride
Would liefer ha� gone till where he died.
An ha� murned her lone by her man,
But us one weathered the thick of it,
And we used to dandher along, and sit
In Andy�s side by side.

What with discoorse goin� to and fro,
The night would be wearin� thin,
Yet never so late when we rose to go
But someone would say: "Do ye min� thon snow,
An� the man what came wanderin� in?
And we be to fall to the talk again,
If by chance he was one o� them
The man who went like the win�.

Well, �twas gettin� on past the heat o� 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,
An� nothin� at all for the mare!)
But I met McKee in the throng o� the street
Says he, "The grass has grown under our feet
Since they hanged young Warwick here."

And he told me that Boney had promised help
To a man in Dublin town
Says he, "If ye�ve laid the pike on the shelf,
Ye�d better go home hot-fut by yerself,
An� once more take it down."
So by Comer road I trotted the gray
And never cut corn until Killyleagh
Stood plain on the risin� groun�.

For a wheen o� days we sat waitin� 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 we�d as lief as not
Ha� been found in the thick o� the slain.

By Downpatrick Gaol I was bound to fare
On a day I�ll remember, feth;
For when I came to the prison square
The people were waitin� in hundreds there,
An� you wouldn�t hear stir nor breath!
For the sodgers were standin�, grim an� tall,
Round a scaffold built there fomenst the wall,
An� a man stepped out for death!

I was brave an� near to the edge o� the throng,
Yet I knowed the face again,
An� I knowed the set, an� I knowed the walk
An� the sound of his strange up-country talk,
For he spoke out right an� plain.
Then he bowed his head to the swingin� rope,
While I said, "Please God" to his dying� 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!

This page has been viewed 3982 times

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Time is now: 31st August 2011 - 03:09 AM

Licensed to: The Celtic Lyrics Collection