Four gentlemen went into town
One evening for the craic
On bicycles they rode along
From Glencullen’s mossy track
Cycling by the Big Turn
And Cloontiakilla straight
And round by Attawalla
And in the Bangor gate
I suppose it was the West End Bar
That brought them to a halt
To taste the lovely Guinness
And perhaps a little malt
My uncle Hugh was in the game
My daddy at his side
Pat Flannery at number three
O’Boyle made up the pride
They sat and supped and talked away
And cheerily passed the time
Until the darkness and the clock
Gave out its sombre chime
Then climbing on those bicycles
Like cowboys in the west
They headed back among those hills
Doing their level best
No street lights then to help them
To navigate their way
No lights on bikes I don’t suppose
Should they now go astray
But local men know well the road
And progress good was made
Until the Big Turn came along
And drama I’m afraid
Three bikes turned right along the tar
And looked to turn for home
But O’Boyle went straight into the ditch
A casualty alone
A crash was heard a sudden moan
O’Boyle was on his back
His bike beside him in the dark
Well off the beaten track
Are you okay the riders asked
As they turned to see his plight
And peering in the murky dark
They saw he was all right
His comment then to his brave friends
Has lasted down the years
Explaining his predicament
And calming all our fears
It wasn’t Guinness caused this mess
It wasn’t whiskey either
It wasn’t darkness if you please
That brought him all this mither
O’Boyle sat up and stared at them
And at his sudden fall
This bicycle he said to them
It doesn’t know me at all!
Brian Fahy
30 March 2021
Erris Poetry 