Dear Sur, a’ freens, “Cully” just means
A “doug” some people think,
An’ “backey” fair is neathin’ mair
Nor “leep” which disnae clink.
Ithers wul say fur truth this day
Although they dae nae preach
That Cullybackey, dry or drackie,
Means “land o’ guid white beech.”
At corner here monie a year,
Whun fewer wur the trades,
Without a doot, a forge turn’s oot
The best o’ hemmer’d spades.
Frae which the name, formist in fame,
That fills us wae consate,
Is handed doon wae this great toon,
History’s page, age after age,
Had we bit time an’ space
Ower tae ply we cud defy
Better in ony place.
Aul as the moon, Maine water toon,
Clear as the shinin’ sin,
Whun each big star bate Halley’s far,
Thus dis tradition rin.
Women an’ men within oor ken,
Wha’s lose we sorely feel,
By Nature’s la’ al’ pas’d awa’
Tae land o’ silent leal.
Kilpatrick, Moody, Buick,
Wha brock the Gospel breid;
Frazer, Young an’ Patrick,
An’ Cuningham the guid.
Ithers we know as guid an’ true,
Though mabie no as tal’
Yit sav’d by grace, an’ in that place
Winnie be nixt the wal’.
Mr Fleemin’, guid an’ beamin’,
Though he is retir’d noo,
We wish him best o’ peace and rest
Richt up tae the water broo.
His successor, sketch professor,
Clargy o’ “United Free,”
A “Catch-my-pal” social wae al’,
Mr Townsley for me.
Noo strife shall cease fur he o’ peace,
Young Hutchinson the brave
Has raised his voice in Ruth’s guid choice
The meetin’ house tae save.
At dear auld Pun’ the biggest gun
Did service in an’ oot;
King ower al’, baith large an’ small,
Mr Lyons is nae doot.
The ither shade o’heicher grade
Is minister’d welt tae;
Mr Townsend cud not be bate
In Ireland’s Church the day.
Tae ither creeds whas wurds an’ deeds
Condemn al’ kinds o’ sin,
I wish ye weel, becas I feel
It tak’s al’ tae mak yin.
Bit next the place please turn yer face,
Prosperity here see,
In hooses big, al’ nate an’ trig,
As ony yins cud be.
Fine usefoo’ hal’s what brither pals
In social love aft meet
Tae spen’ a while, apert frae guile,
In “mystic” gran’ an’ sweet.
The week-day skules, wae best o’ rules
Fur educatin’ weans,
An’ Sunday yins, whar youth foo’ sins
Are crucified wae pains.
The churches fine noo far outshine
Al’ ithers that I know;
I say wae pride I hope nae side
Wus jist pit there fur show.
Aas fur oor toon, pray mark this doon,
An’ write it very plain,
That it is due, barrin’ a few
Tae works known as “The Maine.”
Regardin’ which I think too much
Could hardly jist be sed,
Whun we are sure hoo monie poor
An’ rich by them are fed.
I durnae say al’ they can dae
In this big, famous green,
Bit let this pass, they mak’ “spun glass”
Intae finest “lineen.”
They bleach an’ dry, they wat an’ dry,
Use liquid much like milk;
The cotton grey is turn’d intae
“Fine Cullybackey silk.”
This first-rate place still goes apace,
Ithers are runners-up;
In truth I say way joy this day,
Lang may they hand the cup.
My yarn is spun, my cotton’s done,
Yit still I wish tae say,
Fur “Cully” shout, fur “backey” out,
Three cheers – hip! Hip! Hurray!
Young Nummer, May 1910