The Ballad of Little Hugh

My world was drumlins and the flat
Lough lapping in the mists
My world the curlew’s haunting call
Where flax and grasses twist

Dashing out to greet the dawn
To father in the byre
The cattle steaming in the sun
Had set my heart on fire

The hayloft was my city street
The pond my ocean wide
The tractor was a noble steed
I sat at father’s side

The townland green of Ballinmore
And a mother’s kitchen hearth
Was universe enough for me
Upon a verdant earth

But clouds had gathered to the north
To shade my childhood sun
My mother took me to the town
My troubles had begun

She bought me socks and sweaters grey
And football boots and ties
Blazers, caps and black laced shoes
It broke her heart to lie

For father stood in a Sunday suit
And drove a Sunday car
And I put on my brand new clothes
And mother’s look was far

We took the road to Belfast town
His big hands on the wheel
And there we found a lofty house
That had a lonely feel

We entered through a windowed porch
And through a panelled hall
And to a chamber lined with books
And portraits on the wall

The room was full of boys like me
All awkward in their clothes
Smelling polish in the air
And polish on their toes

In boast and banter of the past
The gathered men shook hands
Far above the younglings’ heads
Who could not understand

I held onto my father’s hand
Amid the daunting noise
A grey man banged a tabletop
Said “welcome to you boys”

Then stood forth another man
Who had a friendly grin
Who tossed a football in the air
And said to come with him

I was barely eight years old
And useless with a ball
I met a boy called Brady and
Another named McCall

We traipsed back to the library
I see it clear as day
My bag was sitting on a chair
But father was away

I lost my heart that aching night
Despite the matron’s care
And never got it back again
For love or life or prayer

Don’t trust the word of those you’d love
Stay safe behind the wall
For they’ll desert you in wink
And leave you with a gall

My world was drumlins and the flat
Lough lapping in the mists
My world the curlew’s haunting call
Where flax and grasses twist.