This used to be a favourite of a late uncle of mine after a couple of mediums of porter of a Sunday night or around the winter fire-side. I haven't heard it since long before the man died, many, many years ago. A little poem that's apposite I feel.
Said Hanrahan
"We'll all be rooned", said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about
Coat collars to the ears,
And talked of stock and crops and drought
As it had done for years.
"It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke,
"Bedad it's crook me lad,
But never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."
"It's dry all right," said young O'Neil,
With which astute remark,
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.
And so around the chorus ran,
"It's keepin' dry no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out.
"The crops are done, you'll have your work
To save one bag of grain.
From here way out to Back o' Bourke
They're singing out for rain.
"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head
And gazed around the sky.
"There won't be grass, in any case
Enough to feed an ass,
There's not a blade on Casey's place
As I came down to Mass."
"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak,
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If rain don't come this week."
A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at his remark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
"We want an inch of rain, we do,"
O'Neil observed at last.
But Croke maintained we wanted two,
To put the danger past.
"If we don't get three inches man,
Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
In God's good time, down came the rain,
And all the afternoon,
On iron roof and window pane,
It drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves,
On dripping spout and window sill,
Kept talking to themselves.
It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song,
Way out to Back o' Bourke.
And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop.
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."
And stop it did in God's good time,
And Spring came into fold.
A mantle o'er the hills sublime,
Of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat,
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.
And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass,
Through grass knee deep on Casey's place,
Went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel,
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
"There'll be bush fires for sure, me man,
There will without a doubt.
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan.
"Before the year is out."
John O'Brien (Fr. Patrick Hartigan (Clare parents) wrote under the nom-de-plume John O'Brien. He was curate and eventually pp of Narrandera, New South Wales)
Said Hanrahan
"We'll all be rooned", said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about
Coat collars to the ears,
And talked of stock and crops and drought
As it had done for years.
"It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke,
"Bedad it's crook me lad,
But never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."
"It's dry all right," said young O'Neil,
With which astute remark,
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.
And so around the chorus ran,
"It's keepin' dry no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out.
"The crops are done, you'll have your work
To save one bag of grain.
From here way out to Back o' Bourke
They're singing out for rain.
"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head
And gazed around the sky.
"There won't be grass, in any case
Enough to feed an ass,
There's not a blade on Casey's place
As I came down to Mass."
"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak,
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If rain don't come this week."
A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at his remark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
"We want an inch of rain, we do,"
O'Neil observed at last.
But Croke maintained we wanted two,
To put the danger past.
"If we don't get three inches man,
Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
In God's good time, down came the rain,
And all the afternoon,
On iron roof and window pane,
It drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves,
On dripping spout and window sill,
Kept talking to themselves.
It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song,
Way out to Back o' Bourke.
And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop.
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."
And stop it did in God's good time,
And Spring came into fold.
A mantle o'er the hills sublime,
Of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat,
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.
And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass,
Through grass knee deep on Casey's place,
Went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel,
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
"There'll be bush fires for sure, me man,
There will without a doubt.
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan.
"Before the year is out."
John O'Brien (Fr. Patrick Hartigan (Clare parents) wrote under the nom-de-plume John O'Brien. He was curate and eventually pp of Narrandera, New South Wales)