Annalong (What’s in a name)
I travelled down from Belfast Town
By sea-fringed I ran along
Where mountain slopes come sweeping down
To meet the waves at Annalong
To Annalong I ran along
The lilting name of Annalong
I sang to every man along
The swinging road to Annalong!
There is no fame of ancient name,
No promenade to scan along;
And no one wished, whoever came
To linger long in Annalong.
To Annalong I ran along –
The striding road to Annalong
Fly along, fan along
Hie along to Annalong!
The big ships ride on Belfast tide
They count the world their span along,
While hugging close the harbour side
The little ships of Annalong.
To Annalong I ran along –
Sing a song of Annalong!
Play along; plan along
Plod along to Annalong!
Now I proclaim, what’s in a name
That sends me fast as can along!
It could not ever be the same
When once I’d looked on Annalong.
To Annalong, I ran along –
The lovely name of Annalong!
Lin-along, Lan-along
Love-along to Annalong! Feb 19, 1937
For those of a curious nature, Annalong is on the eastern coast of Northern Ireland close to the Mourne Mountains, slightly north of Kilkeel.
The Mess of Pottage
I’m just mutton dressed as lamb,
That’s the kind of man I am
Apeing youth, but ageing fast
A regular icon-o-clast!
I’ve frolicked in my early spring
And taken flight on fancy’s wing
I’ve ridden down the miles all day
With on my lips a roundelay
The singular joys of riding hard
To distant shires – no distance barred
And constant, changeful scenes to see
I thought myself an entity
Then when my early summer came
Pursuit of camping was my aim –
To kick my heels on rubber bed
While framing wisdoms in my head.
The sun was bright, the world still young
The mind was active, strong the lung
A pot of gold was mine to see
And satisfied security.
I’d known the gold on moor and fell
When Autumn spread his lavish spell
Now Autumn holds his hand for me –
A single pot of gold I see!
Not what I’ll do is now my theme
But what I did the constant theme
When in my pensive chair I brood –
How often pensive is my mood!
I’m just mutton dressed as lamb
That’s the kind of man I am
Apeing youth but ageing fast
A regular iconoclast. 26 Dec 1938
Written beside Bassenthwaite for an old chum.