Fanlobbus Union of Parishes

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The tale of Dunmanway Methodist Church by a local Methodist churchgoer

And hopes 'twas for the best.  

Judge not lest ye be judged we're told

So let's not criticize,

Some of the best men of the cloth

Came here to our surprize.

That's not to say we were not blessed by lady preachers too,

 Like C J Walter from the States To name one of the few.

When Alan Meara joined the Church The Kingstons - Tom and Paul,

Each one excelled in ministry

Good faithful servants all.

Church visitors were welcome, too But don't sit in my seat,

Which asks so much of attitudes and why we come to meet.

To laugh in Church was just not on

We sat there stern and grim,

While sermons they went on and on

Until the final hymn.

With six or eight packed in a pew

They'd have to stand as one,

Or else they'd fall like dominoes

And church was not for fun.

In common with most at the time

The organ needed air,

Pumped by one faithful soul each week

While seated on a chair.

Caught unawares one Easter Day

He pumped 'Old Faithful' when,

On hearing 'it is finished now'

Just cause for humour then.

I just could not comprehend

Those so-called caring folk,

Whose hymn book dug the back in front

Was it some kind of joke?

The roof was no great shakes at all

And leaked a lot we found,

Assorted pots and pans were used

But drowned the organ's sound.

Woodworm were in the timberwork

The signs were sure enough,

Dust sifted down on those below

And looked like 'dan-der-uff'.

Heard at the Christmas party then

The first time in my life, What was to be

my prophecy 'The farmer wants a wife.'

One harvest service back a bit

Whilst heads were bowed in prayer,

A great big crunch was heard behind As

someone munched a pear.

It seemed ironic for the Church

A pub was right next door,

And were we ever short of milk

'Twas there we'd go for more.

Our harvest sale some time ago

Quite notable in that the bargain of the afternoon

The Rev'rend's brand new hat.

It seems that as George Sleath came in

He put his headgear down,

And in all innocence 'twas sold

For just a half a crown.

With Wesley's skirts above the knee;

and fruit flies in the manse,

His sermon had a certain buzz

And had me in a trance.

John Purdy was the last to serve this

outpost in the West,

Which closed its doors with much regret

And hopes 'twas for the best.

The Model School

by A Dunmanway Poet

The school was built on Ice Age silt
In 1848,
Since then restored, re-roofed and floored
The Model now looks great.

The school roll call was none too small
Divided in two lots,
Senior teacher quite a feature
‘Twas Janey took the tots.

En route each day a mile each way
Our shoes showed wear and tear,
Yet not so far to need a car
We travelled by Shanks’s Mare.

As was the rule those far from school
Were ferried in by van,
An ancient make with no handbrake
You’d race it if you ran.

'Twould never see the NCT
It wouldn't have a hope,
The tyres were bald, the engine stalled
The back tied up with rope.

You'd squirm with shame to hear your name
Being called out as a dunce,
Regrettably it happened to me
But only just the once.

'White is bán you amadán,
And dubh is always black!'
And as before from the múinteoir
I'd dodge another whack.

Then came the date to vaccinate
The teachers bid us hush,
And herded all into the hall
Like cattle in a crush.

'Don't you dare flinch!' so said Nurse Lynch
The state Nurse for the school,
Then with a heave pulled up my sleeve
And swabbed with cotton wool.

Her needle poised midst all the noise
The prospect froze my pluck,
Then with a lunge she made to plunge
Instead I tried to duck.

But with a swerve I lost my nerve
She roared, 'You silly clot!'
'Now you stand still or you'll be ill
Are you cock-eyed or what?'

Seems one bright spark just for a lark
Thought up this crazy prank,
'Lads, just for the craic see can we pack
The toilet by the tank!'

With 20 feet perched round the seat
No room for one more soul,
But with a yell one slipped and fell
Feet first down through the hole.

'Grab my collar!' he did holler,
Came back up none too clean,
The poor young mutt all colours but
The forty shades of green.

The teacher then ballistic when
He traipsed back in the door,
His cousin John was called upon
To help clean up the floor.

The hall of fame crowned with his name
Footballers all admire,
His cherished cup, the best lift up
Who else but Sam Maguire.

Let's mention then the Beamish Men
Their feats in folklore sealed,
Feared by all foes the story goes
Across the rugby field.

From what one hears it still appears
Our school holds pride of place
And if yours truly seemed unruly
'Twas just a passing phase.

 Over the Hill

by A Dunmanway Poet

It takes its toll to bare my soul
I knew my knees would knock.
From what you hear it's crystal clear
I'm something of a crock.

My folks remarked on my gaunt frame
My pallor pale and wan
When slow to visit my GP
They urged me, 'Ah, go on'.

Their prompting forced me to respond
My doctor did the rest
Referred me to the hospital
To undergo a test.

A problem in my blood appeared
The nurse said, 'We'll be back,'
And that was when 'twas put to me
That I'm a coeliac.

Dietician on a mission
Helpful to a fault
Take veg and fruit in hot pursuit
Go easy on the salt.

One side-effect you can expect,
She cautioned, as she grinned.
'You'd best beware', she did declare
And forecast gale force wind.

My hair is somewhat scant on top
That's plain for all to see
No great concern to me, I'll add
It's all heredit'ry.

What's left I'd say is mostly grey
Just darker 'neath my nose.
My knees now buckle, not my belt
But that's the way it goes.

My doctor urged me 'wear a cap,
On every sunny day.'
So now I wear it all the time
Like Jackie Healy-Rae.

I once was told that when you're old
A laugh is a half a cure.
It helps us bear the aches we share
Of that we can be sure.

Don't get me wrong I like the song
'There's life in the old dog yet'
For in a way the words convey
Hope to the older set.

An energetic céilí dance
Just not my cup of tea
What with my temp'ramental back
And fluid on my knee.

I've pondered all this nip and tuck
To get me back in shape
The march of time when past your prime
Leaves no room for escape.

It's well of course I'm not a horse
Fit for the knacker's yard.
They'd put me in a dog-food can
Or turn me into lard.

Each time I hear a dripping tap
My plumbing goes awry
I have to answer nature's call
No matter where or why.

A lifelong friend enquired of me,
'Are all your teeth your own?'
'They are,' I lied, but then replied,
'My dentures are on loan.'

They're like the stars high up above
They all come out at night.
When newly wed, my Lily said,
'She'd got a rare old fright.'

The Southern Star gets hard to read
As sight begins to fail.
The specs I've got, a bargain lot,
At Bantry car-boot sale.

My sense of smell is gone as well
My hearing's in decline.
When asked instead 'How are you, Ned?'
'I'm fine,' sez I, 'I'm fine.'

then thyroids and haemorrhoids
Compound my tale of woe,
With hernias and hiccups
I think it's time to go.

The following poems were donated to the website by Mrs Jean Peyton, relatives to those mentioned below.

IN memory of Mrs Miller, St Edmund's Rectory, Coolkelure, Dunmanway who died April 21st, 1914.