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BY CLION
Camping out in Stradbally where the river meets the sea
in Post War time of forty-nine, is a lasting memory.
Dressed in dark blue uniforms and high round-brimmed hats
with insignia of “Scouts of Ireland” and badge for making knots.
The event of summer camping was the high point of the year
and each ambitious boy scout held this occasion dear.
The campsite centre feature was our flag from days of old;
Green, White and Gold flew high above the densely wooded fold.
Twelve bell tents were clustered near the wide, high marquee
and from the campfire, across the river, was seen the sparkling sea.
Soon after sunrise of the morning, the reveille bugle sound
would summon all the sleepy heads to come and gather round.
Then the sacred tricolour would be raised showing against the sky
to proclaim us sons of Eireann until the day we die.
In the evenings as the shadows near the bosky river grew,
we would muster for sundown then the rousing bugle blew,
while the flag was gently lowered and folded for the night
to await the morrows sunrise and start refreshed and bright.
All eagerly looked forward to whatsoever the plan would be,
whether a march across the headland or swimming in the sea.
The daily water-fetch from the village was by a working group,
picked by our senior leaders, from the third and seventh troop.
We hauled a milk churn in a cart up the steep, long, stony hill,
and at the village pump, plunged the handle until we made the fill.
Then Phelan’s Store was the next call on the east side of the green
for a treat of Keiley’s lemonade mixed with ice-cold soft ice cream.
We moved then with the surging load on the homerun trip
holding the restraining chains and the shaft with crosstree grip.
Upon arrival at the site, expecting shouts of glee,
they would merely shrug their shoulders, “Now go, and make the tea”.
In the evenings all would gather, singing like an angel choir,
the old songs that we knew so well, round the bright campfire.
Derry Kavanagh singing of Abdul, Percy French would surely bless,
and his brother recited of Shakespeare in the time of Good Queen Bess.
Parading to Sunday Mass led by pipes and drums of the band,
marching through the village to the church that lay beyond.
At the High Mass solemn service our reverberating bugle call
dramatically echoed like thunder from the roof and wall-to-wall.
Then a band display and concert on the crowded village green
of our winter-practiced repertoire made a vivid summer scene.
Later at the handball court, competition games were run
to decide who could outplay the rest in a struggle of friendly fun.
But by now a growing sadness crept into each ones’ mind
for the time was approaching swiftly when the fun must be left behind.
Then came packing of our scattered baggage and tidying of the site
and walking to the railway station to get home before that night.
Passing near Lord Beresford’s house, through his private estate,
we were hushed to a whisper and trudged softly to the North East gate.
The sounds of our piping in memory, echoes wistfully since then,
for that band of scouting comrades, not all would meet again.
The young faces of those companions do not ever age or fade
in the memory of an exile whose thoughts are of those happy days.
Recollections of those times when the world was spiced with fun
meld to a warm feeling for when adult life had not yet begun.