| Moree Poem | The Orange Hall in Moree | The Twelfth in a Tyrone Village | The Battle of Pomeroy | The Donaghmore Pig |
The Orange Hall in
Moree,
Listen now loyal boys, listen now unto me, 'Bout that new Orange Hall in Moree. The old hall, it was small, it was no use at all, To that fine Orange Lodge in Moree.
They did collect around for a bob or a pound, From the Proddies of old East Tyrone. Not a scowl, nor a sneer but with many a cheer, To that venturesome Lodge in Moree.
Now its up, now its up and its not just a hut, It stands as an outpost of peace. And as a symbol of hope in the cause that we love, And we wish that this lodge may increase.
But alas something's wrong and we don't understand, "The Rock" to our colours is banned. We will not be ashamed if this town is proclaimed, We will back up these boys of Moree.
Anon.
The Twelfth in a Tyrone Village
The flags are out, the bands will play,
All the world is on holiday.
The children run before and shout,
The names on the banners ringed about-
Banners orange, red and blue-
Swaying as the breeze cuts through.
The fringed silk; and tighter clings,
The girl who carries the banner strings
To aid the bearers, who gallantly try
To point the emblem up into the sky.
An old man sits on the window - sill,
His pipe unlit and gazing his fill,
While his tremulous wife, unwontedly fleet
Drags his toddling grandchild back from the street.
The busbied leader twirls his pole, out the side drums loudly roll.
Twice and then the bagpipes groan,
An agonised cry, each Highland drone:
And as the skirling melody crashes,
Steps out in tempo the line of sashes!
Above their path gay bunting sags,
The windows flutter a thousand flags,
Like a thousand sparks from the flame up higher-
The giant sheet on the holy spire.
Under the wide-flung rainbow arch on to the field the Orangemen march-
Marching on right out of the town to where the vast field tumbles down
To the teeming road- like a guilded snake, writhing into an emerald lake.
In clusters soon the throng is found regaling on the sun swept ground,
Or cheering clerical or lay orations upon the fate of men and nations.
But lovers, as lovers since time began, flit from the haunts of gregarious man,
To shady banks, where green boughs swing, down low to hear them whispering.
Children gorge, or children play, basking mothers chat away,
The languorous hours; till evening's chill caresses the multitudinous hill,
And so the time goes by . . . to be in years a memory
Of bright colours, and music sweet, when love, and health, and joy did meet
A memory in after years dimming with nostalgic tears.
The rapt eyes, seeing far away, a Tyrone field on a July day
James Hamill