Because I know it will get lost in a flurry of Tweets and status updates on Facebook, I’m going to put this tribute to Belfast right here for safe-keeping. I don’t know who wrote it and wish that I did so I could say thank you, and with a nod to Van Morrison’s Coney Island, “Wouldn’t it be great if it was like this all the time?”
A Belfast poem (author unknown).
I’ll speak to you dear stranger, if you really want to know,
So listen and I’ll tell you why I love this city so,
Belfast is an Ulsterman with features dour and grim,
It’s a pint of creamy porter and a Sunday morning hymn;
It’s a grimy little cafe where they serve you dainty teas,
It’s a fish and chips in paper or vinegar with peas;
It’s a banner of July the twelfth, a sticky toffee apple,
A righteous little Gospel Hall, A Roman Catholic Chapel;
It’s a Telly Boy with dirty face, a piece of apple tart,
A fry upon a Saturday, a coal breek on a cart.
It’s a Corporation gasman, complete with bowler hat,
It’s a wee shop at the corner, a friendly bit of chat;
It’s an ould lad in a duncher, a woman in a shawl,
A pinch of snuff, a tatie farl, a Loyal Orange hall.
A tobacco smell in York Street, a beg o yellow man,
It’s an Easter egg that’s dyed with whin, a slice of Ormo pan;
A youngster with some spricky backs inside an oul jam jar,
It’s a meeting at the Custom House, or the old Victoria Bar.
It’s mud banks on the Lagan when the tide is running low,
It’s a man collecting refuse, bonfires on Sandy Row;
It’s a beg of salty dullis, a wee bowl of Irish stew,
A goldfish bought in Gresham Street, a preacher at a queue.
It’s a painting of King Billy upon a gable wall,
A fat flower seller on a stool outside the City Hall;
A half-moon round the doursteps, a polis man on guard,
A man who’s crying “Delf for Regs” a little white washed yard.
It’s the market on a Friday, the ships lined at the docks,
It’s a shiny polished fender, a bunch of green shamrocks;
It’s herrin’s fried in oaten meal, with a glass of buttermilk,
It’s a snowy linen handkerchief as soft as finest silk;
It’s a bap with country butter, a dander round the zoo,
A climb up tough Ben Madigan, to get the splendid view.
It;s a bunch of savoury scallions, a plate of buttery champ,
The hopscotch on the footpath, a swing aroun’ the lamp.
Its the smell of Mansion polish on the lino in the hall,
The Sunday school excursion, a treat for one and all.
It’s the Islandmen who build great ships that takes us far to sea,
It’s S.D. Bells in Ann Street where they sell the best of tea.
It’s friends home from America, who have been thinking long,
The Salvation bands on Sundays to save the sinners throng;
It’s a wee walk up the Lisburn road, and back by the Malone,
It’s the Albert Clock in High Street with its rich and mellow tone.
The delf dogs on the mantlepiece, yer wee man from the Pru.
It’s chimney sweep on a bicycle coming in to do the flu;
It’s the ever present visits to the Hills of Castlereagh,
It’s the deathless hush on Saturday when Linfield plays away.
It’s ‘By Killarney’s Lakes’ on the bells o’ the Assembly Hall,
It’s spiky coloured broken bottles on yer neighbour’s backyard wall.
It’s a visit to your Grannies, and a wee hot cup o tay;
It’s bacon boiled with pamphery served up, piping hot,
With Skerry spuds, “like balls of flour” cracked laughing in the pot.
It’s the Barney Hughes’ hot cross buns, a canary in a cage,
An old man talking in the park of a past and glorious age;
It’s that sharp expressive dialect of everyone at large,
It’s a heap of coal on the Lagan floating on a barge;
It’s women on the windy stool when summer shines down;
It’s a great big wedge of apple tart, or a wee race into town;
It’s an needle from an anchor in Smithfield’s busy mart,
I think I’d better call a halt, before I break my heart.
So the answer, stranger, and now I’m sure you’ll see,
Belfast–my city–is the only place in all this world–for me.”
