It happened one bright Saturday
in Galway city fair;
some girls and boys came out to play
street theatre in the square,
and show in mime the licenced crime
that northerners had to bear,
show how the native Irishry
were ceaselessly harrassed
by racist boys with lethal toys
sent to preserve the past
within the Pale, of English Pales
the vilest and the last.
The Galway players had hired some props -
battledress, army gear.
Some of the women brought dustbin lids
to wack when the 'Brits' came near.
One or two held wooden guns,
and this was to cost them dear.
City of culture and the arts,
high jinks and happenings,
of occult trades and queer parades
and jugglers and things -
How could we guess the Thought Police
were lurking in the wings?
But so they were, and taking care
the tourists would not see,
they only struck when the coast was clear,
in the quiet of Woodquay.
Six were arrested on the spot,
one on his way to tea.
They took their prints, they took their mugs,
they took away their gear.
They tried to take their dignity
and fill the gap with fear -
fear that news of their doings might reach
the Grand Panjorum's ear.
For seven hours they held them
till the evening was wearing late,
muttering of Sections This and That
and of Offences Against the State.
What drives your small-town sheriffs to this?
Is it zeal? Is it fear? Is it hate?
Meanwhile in Dublin, similar groups
were telling the same home truth,
and the city cops, knowing the ropes,
carefully held aloof.
Why is it your petty provincial powers
are always so uncouth?
So what had they done, these dangerous young men,
these wild women of Galway?
Were they muggers or thugs, had they peddled drugs?
Had they peed in a private hallway?
Had they robbed a bank, or poisoned our drink,
or damaged the town in some small way?
Had they progromed some campers or ethnically cleansed
travellers out of our bars?
Had passports been sold for a song? Had some bold
boyos been battering cars?
Had the evel young heathens been heavily breathin'
down telephones after some jars?
Had they bothered small boys or tampered with girls
whom custom had placed in their trust?
Ah, devil the bit - something worse, only fit
to fill all good souls with disgust.
I am loath, I am loath to disclose it, God knoweth,
but afraid that disclose it I must.
'Twas military drilling, unauthorised drilling -
Quiet there, Connolly and Pearse!
Rehearsing they'd been for their out-of-door scene
to make it convincingly fierce.
So watch it, you actors, the fact is to practice
a murder could end in real tears.
Their actions were, the Walrus said,
a threat to our security,
a threat to God and the tourist trade,
and Ireland's moral purity.
'We'll not appease shit-stirrers like these
but squash them for all futurity!'
Is this the way to keep good friends -
never to make them frown,
to lull them with a stunning mix
of leprechaun and clown?
Is ostrichism plus ostracism
the future of this town?
Is this the way to win new friends -
to harp a harmless ditty,
and sweep beneath the oul green rug
the painful nitty gritty?
Is ostrichism plus ostracism
fair prospect for this city?
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©Renate Mitchell. May not be reproduced in any form online or offline without explicit written permission.