The Turf Man

The composer of this ballad is unknown

I met him on the Milltown road, a chill December day.

As he rebuilt his rail of turf to make a good display.

A wiry sun-browned little man - whose trials with life were seen

In his well-worn, threadbare coat and battered brown caubeen.

"The road from Caragh Bridge,' says he, "is mighty rough and long,

It turned my turf clamp upside down, they'd want it for a song

In Castlemaine they like it high, the sods all black and sound,

Before you get an extra bob they walk it round and round.

Since I left Glenbeigh before the dawn I have not wet my tongue

And, Guard," said he, "I'm tiring now, we can't be always young.

It's fifty years since first I went to be a farmer's boy.

The sting that's in this wind today then I could well defy.

You see that mountain way up there and Slieve Mish crossed

the view,

With hungry belly time and oft its tiresome heights I knew;

From Patrick's Day to harvest time with pike or scythe in hand

We hired outside St John's, Tralee, to till North Kerry's land

Ardfert, Kilmoyley, Ballyheigue, mongst them I learned my trade,

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, and court the farmer's maid.

For bare nine bob a week, 'twas then, come rain or hail or snow,

Ah! The young men that's rising now, they little hardship know:

They sized you up before they hired for a healthy active frame.

They did not want the weak and old, like a housewife choosing

game:

You rarely sat beside their fire,you slept up near the sky.

You had your meals from them apart, you were the farmer's boy

Twas often things went 'gainst the grain and food was bare

and rough,

The door was shown you quickly if you gave them any guff'

Then Sundays came, you could not hire to vamp it home again

With little in your pocket for a drink at Castlemaine.

A pint was two-pence halfpenny then and there 'twas always good,

You'd hear it singing through the tap a'coming from the wood;

Off went the boots at Clahane Bridge, there were no corns then,

Up Gleann Scoithin, at Tickett's Bridge we laced them on again.

At Milltown maybe for less wage than for a boss we'd try.

Right glad to get a week or two with the big men round Listry:

The farmers there were big and proud who valued every bob

And there, maybe, reserved for you some tough laborious job.

But Guard, says he, "we were like nails on rough and ready fare,

And faced all work as happy as our meeting at Puck Fair;

Out with the dawn, in with the dark, ours was no eight-hour day.

And damn the fear as four drew near you had sweet cakes and tay!

You dug your spuds all in a row, paced by the farmer's son,

You had his shirt stuck to his back before the day was done.

Week in, week out, that was our lot, our aim at work or play

To have a happy Christmas round the homelands of Glenbeigh.

So when the harvest work was done our turf-carts hit the road,

No wonder I'm re-clamping this, tis the height that sells each load;

I hope to get five bob for this with a cup of tay thrown in.

And a duck-egg for the grinder, if I sell to Judy Flynn.

You'll never see our likes again, we joy in labour found,

And had the will to be content and stay on Irish ground;

Thrice a week till Christmas time these rails will help to pay

The bills that see the Christmas home to the bog-lands of

Glenbeigh.