Monty Alexander Poetry
Monty Alexander is a Northern Irish poet whose poems reflect his experiences and perceptions of life.
Included is a selection of poems written by my father. He was a natural poet from whom rhyme continually flowed. This gift manifested itself at an early age and the poem ‘Ringland’s Dream’, was written when he was 14 years old. He travelled extensively and loved to converse with people everywhere, being an accomplished linguist. He was an observer of life and this is reflected in his verse along with a great sense of humour. Unfortunately, lots of his poems have been lost or were never recorded. He also painted in oils and watercolour.
George Barnes b 1926 was the son of George and Lizzie Barnes and nephew of Hugh Alexander. George senior, formerly of the 4th, 8th and 14th Hussars was one of ‘The Old Contemptibles’ who fought and was wounded in the Battle of Mons 1914, later to serve in Mesopotamia and Persia. He was an accomplished…
This poem was written about 1911 and refers to Banbridge in the County of Down and its first Picture House situated at Kenlis Street in the town. The composer was Hugh Alexander aged 19 of Ballydown, who served his time as a mechanic in Kennedy’s Linen Factory, Banbridge. The Proprietor of the Picture House, Mr…
A landscape in oils by Hugh Alexander Included is a selection of poems written by my father. He was a natural poet from whom rhyme continually flowed. This gift manifested itself at an early age and the poem ‘Ringland’s Dream’, was written when he was 14 years old. He travelled extensively and loved to converse with…
What makes us loudly curse and swear What makes us rave and pull our hair What torment is the worst to bear The toothache! What makes the children roar and weep What makes the gossips silent keep What robs us of our precious sleep The toothache! What makes the coolest temper hot What…
On the death of his favourite Bard Times of the Danes Circa 800AD Your voice that once enraptured me With all its magic power of sound; Your songs of love and bravery, The hills no longer echo round. Your harp hangs silent on the wall, I gaze at it through blinding tears. Oh! How…
The springtime comes, the leaves and flowers appear And butterflies and bees pursue again, Their journeys o’er the meadows and the hills; The days grow warmer and the bloom appears, Upon the trees and perfume fills the air. The birds assume a brighter dress and sound; Among the woods a louder sweeter song. Then summer…
One bright May morning on a hill, Beside the River Bann; Amid a grove of shady trees, My love for her began. In Ballievey gathering flowers, That morning she had been; And that is where I chanced to meet, The blushing Rosaleen. The birds were fluttering in the trees As from the scene they…
Old Ringlin is a country wight, Well used to sleeping out at night, The way that he can drink and fight, Is awful and surprising; At Banbridge he got drunk one day, And in returning lost his way, To wander far by bog and brae, Just as the moon was rising. He happened soon…
(Above: Hugh Alexander’s Australian Passport Photograph) From this far distant region in which I sojourn, To my own native Ireland in dreams I return, And my sorrows all flee when I look at the smile, Of the sun on the hills of that evergreen isle. And I see mid the gloom of the…
An old fellow of Toomebridge was licensed to fish, In the River Bann and lough Neagh; He got a ‘still’ made and began a new trade, When fishing for eels did not pay. The Poteen he made was a powerful stuff, And cheaper than whisky or gin; The customers came from all over the…
A fearsome man was the Butcher when he took the Porker’s life, What brains it had he dundered in, then stuck in its throat the knife. On the palpitating carcass, hot water he poured with care, Then with a big broad scraper he ripped off the skin and hair. The farmer’s wife got the…
Have you ever seen Helen or listened her song, On a calm summer eve when it echoed along? From her garden of roses o’er valleys and dells; By the green shady banks of the Bann where she dwells. Within sight of the blue misty mountains of Mourne, And the town of Banbridge; Oh, could…
The hills of Holy Ireland have palaces inside, Where snugly in the winter the ‘little folk’ abide. They come out in the summer when all is fresh and green, We sometimes hear their music, but they are rarely seen. For pleasure they go planting, thorn bushes here and there, To cut them down…
There’s a little Irish Village And they call it Purdysburn, Where a little boy with ginger hair Is awaiting my return. And a loving wife and daughter Will fondly greet me there, And have such tales to tell me As we sit around the fire. How lovely is the Village In the early…
Oh, Grandpa do not light your pipe But tell us a story please, So say Heather and little John When they scramble upon my knees. I tell them stories of long ago, Legends and fairy lore, To the house of dreams and make believe, I open the golden door. Jack and the Beanstalk,…
To those who wish to save their coals, I recommend the plan, Invented by Scrapeha’penny Who was a very clever man. No fire except for cookery, Did in his house appear, And even so he still complained, That fuel was too dear. In summer and in winter time, His rule was still the…