Outings

TO Peel to-day
Not the O.K.
But in the car
Of Alan Parr.
A number went
With the intent
Of having larks
And knocking sparks
With all the mob
‘Neath Corrin’s Knob.
In spirits high
And blue the sky
We sped along
To many a song
That must have shook
The fish in the brook,
The bird in the tree,
The peasantry,
And all we passed
In numbers vast.

We passed the Mills
And took the hills
At breakneck speed,
Paid little heed
To cocks or hens
Or sheep in pens,
Or ox or cows,
Or rusty ploughs.
Crosby, Greeba,
Where lived Sheba,
On and on
Towards St. John,
Where the green mound
On Tynwald’s ground
In the sun shone.
It soon was gone.
‘Mid hedgerow reel
We came to Peel
And did alight
In the full sight
Of maids and mens,
The citizens
Of this red city
Who, more’s the pity,
In curiosity
Were all agape.
But we made shape
For Funland where
With carefree air
We had a dance,
And at a glance
From Harry Cooil
I took the stool
And played the fool
With jigging ease
On piano keys.
And later still
We had our fill
Of chips and peas
At sweet Maggie’s.
I did not see
My cher Jenny,
Whose dark-browed eyes
Once lit my skies;
Nor that one other
Whose snub-nosed brother
I once did gloat
I’d cut his throat.
Walter we met—
Who could forget
His classic screed
On railway speed?
Or that reply
In hot July
When asked to share
In tug of war?
Off Market Square
We had a din
And did begin
To sing and shout
And caused a rout,
So were thrown out.
The café crowd
Were not too proud
To give us room
And lift our gloom
With cups of tea
And gaiety;
And to repay
Her friendly way
We took with us
(She’d missed the bus)
She of the ones
Lived at St. Johns.
Then homeward sped
And so to bed
To think with pain
That ne’er again
Can I cavort
And have such sport
For prison drear
Is very near.

14. 9. 1927