Divil the Wan Wud Hev Me

J R 5 October 2024 5 October 2024Bard of Armagh Poems

This was my first Bard of Armagh poem in 2001 on the subject of ‘Oul Farmers Lukin Fer Weemin’ which seemed to come up right and often as a topic for Bard poems.

I’m livin’ all m’lone now, since m’ Ma and Da passed on,
Just me an’ Shep beside the fire – Ach, now the nights is long.
M’Da said till get a wumman, for a man shouldn’t live alone
And it’s bloody hard till drench a cow, when yer working on yer own.

A dacent, strappin’ lassie, with lots o’ charm an’ grace,
Who could mebbe drive a tractor, an’ help out round the place.
I went with dozens in m’time – God knows, Ah tried m’best,
But divil the one wud hev me, for the first one till the last.

The first one that I went with was wee Bridget McAloon
She wanted flowers and romance, just like Mills an’ Boon
Now I didn’t have a motor then, so I really had no chance
For a Massey Ferguson 35 is not great for romance.

I hosed it down before each date, to clean off the cowshit,
And put a bale o’ hay in the linkbox, to give her a place to sit.
But I lost her till a Fancy Dan, from somewhere near Glenanne,
With an Elvis Presley haircut, and a Morris Minor van

The next one wuz totally different – from a solid farming breed,
When I seen the wellie marks I knowed she wuz the girl I need!
A body that would break the sweat on any farmer’s brow,
A fist like a 10-pound hammer – and an arse like a Charolais cow !

She asked me home to meet her da – I thought, I’m in like Flynn,
But the oul’ hoor only wanted help to fill his grant form in !
She could milk, or drive a tractor, as well as any man,
But she married a bloke from Portydown, with a bigger farm o’ lan’

Then there wuz Elizabeth – she wuz always on the go
It wuz run me here, or take me there, or let’s go till a show.
Dancin’ till the wee small hours, dressed up in fancy duds
The bags I had below me eyes wudda held a bing o’ spuds !

Every night that we went out, we’d end up havin’ rows,
‘Cos I had trouble getting’ home in time to milk the cows!
She thought me awful boring, and tied down till the land
So I got the push, and she tuk up with a drummer in a band

The next one wuz liberated – Just to watch her wuz a treat
She’d a chest like a pair o’ wee lads, fightin’ under a sheet!
She tried to educate me, to see the world beyond my work,
For there’s more to life than slurry tanks, and how to smuggle pork!

She gimme plays, an’ symphonies, and books as thick as thon,
By Russian blokes with names that ye could twist yer tonsils on!
When she mentioned Dostoyevski, my big mistake I made
Sez I ‘Wuz it him that useta play left-half for Partizan Belgrade’ ?

Then there was one I wrote till, from an ad in the ‘Farming Year’
Single R.C. Female, seeks man with a big ‘John Deere’
She showed me round the place she had, down beyont Kildare,
‘300 acres this side ot the road, and 200 more over there!’

Sez she ‘To plough a furrow up that long field can take 2 hours to do’
Sez I, ‘I know jist what ye mean, I’ve a tractor like that too!’
But she said we wuz incompatible, of a totally different ilk,
For she was mainly arable, and I was pigs and milk.

Then I thought it wuz the place – ach, now, the house wuz rough
And weemin want electric, and washin’ machines, and stuff.
So I done ‘er up, from top till toe, with everything ye’d want,
And I made a lock o’ shillin’s, when ye counted in the grant!

The next one now, wuz right impressed, but still she turned me down
She said it was too quiet, an’ too far out of town.
She wuz used till a more busy place, where life is fast and loose,
An’ I could well believe it, for she come from Derrynoose!

The next wuz big Patricia – or wuz it Mary Jane ?
Ach, the names run intil other, but the story’s just the same
One thought I wasted money – one thought that I was ‘tight’,
No matter what the hell I done, I couldn’t get it right!

One said that I was rather small, which I did somewhat resent,
Sez I ‘I’m nearly five foot one’ – but it wasn’t that she meant!
They got older, and got plainer, as the years went past,
But divil the one would hev me, from the first one till the last

I tell a lie – there was the one, that might’ve married me,
But her ma had a mouth like a bucket – aff a bloody JCB!
Sez she ‘Ma can live with us, and help out when the kids are young’
Sez I ‘I’d sooner shovel shite, with a spoon tied till m’tongue!’

So I settled down till live m’lone, and work the place m’self
And ignore the sly and smart remarks, about bein’ on the shelf
You’d think I’d one foot in the grave, though I’m only forty nine
An’ I’m still a tight enough wee man, an’ not long past m’prime!

The relatives keeps callin’ round, like vultures round the bones
There’s nephews an’ cousins crawlin’ out from under stones
It’s ‘How’re ye doin, Uncle Mick,”, and’ ‘Man, yer lookin’ grand’
Divil the hair they care y’know – they only want the land!

When I mentioned a wee holiday, there wuz bloody near a fight
Over who was going to milk the cows, and keep the oul’ place right
If they only knew the half of it, they’d have a flamin’ fit
For I’m off to Lisdoonvarna – I’ll get a wumman yit !