Knockdown News-Peg Prendeville

Clounleharde Schoolhouse Tells Its Story

Listen dear friends while I tell my sad story,

Convicted and sentenced to die in the clay,

There once was time in the height of my glory,

I never dreamt I’d feel as I’m feeling today.

 In my early life I was highly regarded,

As my service I gave to many pupils around,

Who in later life were nobly rewarded,

In their high positions from my school in Bricktown.

In those happy days how my proud heart was throbbing,

What joy and what gladness was stirring my soul,

As I watched my fond children their little heads bobbing,

As the teacher called out each name on the roll.

Out there around me I could hear their loud laughter,

And their joyous shouts in their pure innocent play,

I’m sure up in Heaven they are happy hereafter,

Never using that foul four-letter word of today.

Back through those glorious years my mind is now wandering,

When first I set foot here in 1884,

Then rosy-cheeked colleens and gorsoons came rambling,

Barefoot and quite happy through my welcome door.

I recall the great teachers so enthusiastically striving,

To instil the learning and knowledge they had,

Day after day they were constantly driving,

The much desired subjects into each lad and lass.

Mr Kennelly was the first to make his acquaintance

He lived in Dromin a few miles down the road,

Then Mr. Mullane, Messrs. Wallace and Noonan,

And teachers Lucy and Moran here took up their abode.

Miss Connolly from Glenagragra was here in her young days,

Mrs. Barry from Barneigue great honours did bring,

With her husband Martin working always united,

Produced outstanding scholars their praises to sing.

Miss King, Marie Sheahan and Mrs. Collins came next,

So ’tis no wonder I’m feeling dejected today,

When my house is now empty where once all were blest here,

Now my eyes are picked out and I’m left to decay.

Such is the price we must pay for progress,

I am deemed unworthy to teach anymore,

After all my good service to death I am sentenced,

Awaiting execution with the weeds ’round my door.

I have to beg no one’s pardon for I am not guilty,

Maybe the great judges will find their verdict wrong,

When inflation bites and their purses are empty,

And the oil wells run dry and the buses are gone.

Paddy Faley