DugraBog(c)2021TonyFallon0727.

 DugraBog(c)2021TonyFallon0727.

As an Irish teenager I spent many a June even'

In Dugra bog outside the little village of Kilteevan

Then the bicycle was the transportation to get about

To travel to the bog or town and mass if you were devout

It was pure hard work daily there were no plans to be discussed

If it didn't rain for days cars were followed by a cloud of dust

We came from Rahara parish and did not have our own bank

We rented yearly and had Corbooley people on each flank

Events that happened in Knockcroghery became instant news

An argument about football teams fueled by too much booze

The wheel barrow was ancient it must be made for a dragon

It would be easier to pull the turf on a child's wagon

We turned then we footed and we finally made a big stack

We often ate egg sandwiches and drank milk in Brennan's shack

The weather so unpredictable it might be a mild gale

And it being so chilly you would not be surprised with hail

After a few days of sunshine you'd have blisters on your nose

And when humidity was a bit high they'd say it was close

We would build a fire for cooking and to keep away midges

And said many bad things about them which were not religious

Sometimes when a fire was started we would have warm hard boiled eggs

And empty the tea mug until there was nothing left but dregs

The mid day meal around two was almost a social event

Grown men with hot tea in their bellies went back to work content

You could never use bog water for the taste was distorted

So every morning bottled water had to be imported

Not all empty Cidona bottles were retuned to the store

For the days in the bog my mother kept at least three or four

You would constantly watch the fire and keep it under control

And when you were going home throw the hot embers in the hole

I often left Jim Menton's donkey in Mooney's shed with hay

When I'd return in the morning he would always loudly bray

Us children got excited to see a rabbit or a hare

And I loved to listen to the skylark singing in the air

We would wander though the wild heather and get an awful fright

When a pheasant hen would suddenly rise and take off in flight

To get turf dry and saved and home there was always great pressure

The sods had to be ricked before the coming of the thresher

To fill and empty Eamon Beattie's red lorry was labor

But in our village a kindly neighbor helped us his neighbor

We didn't stop in Knockcroghery but we did in Finneran's
And satisfied our sweet teeth with some biscuits and minerals

If you worked autumn in a bog you would not be overweight

And when you got home tired you did not leave much food on your plate

Twenty years ago in the new bog it was cut by machine

God be with the good old days when the strong men used the old slean

When we were working in the Irish bogs then who could foresee?

That we'd be stopped from cutting turf by European decree

I would love to go back again and drive down the old bog road

But I have no plans to leave my new Catskill Mountain zip code

I do not think I will be going back anytime this year

So I will just write and dream and in my pillow shed a tear