A Belfast Street
By Author unkown
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Memories of a Belfast street
Memories so bitter sweet
Memories producing tears
To mark the passing of the years
Life today its clear to see
Is not the way it used to be
Lacking warmth, devoid of grace
Lived at much too fast a pace
More and more I reminisce
Of all I know and loved and miss
And often sit and sadly brood
On better days now gone for' good
Children playing piggy stick
Trimming down the tilley wick
A willow patterned dinner plate
Rubbing Zebo on the grate
Ardglass herrings on a cart
A slice of mince and onion tart
A bicycle with luscious stocks
Of ice cream in a wooden box
A half moon scrubbed around the door
Mansion polish on the floor'
Riding on a clanging tram
The taste of home made damson jam
A scullery with smells delicious
Jaw-box filled with dirty dishes
Wintergreen upon a bruise
Heelball on my Sunday shoes
Meccano sets and Dinky trucks
Windows filled with drinking ducks
Soot inside the chimney flue
Walls with greetings from Skiboo
A griddle baking soda bread
A Gaslight glowing overhead
Butter running in the champ
Youngsters swinging round a lamp
Torn newspapers in the loo
Melting bones for making glue
A pig's foot with a glass of stout
A horse that pulled a roundabout
Going to a beetle drive
Woodbine's in a pack of five
A man dispensing delph for rags
And giving kiddies paper bags
Trundling with cleek and hook
A grocer with a sugar scoop
Noisy clicking metal frogs
Marmalade with gollywogs
Soup from Sunday's remnant bone
Co-op quarters, cobblestones
Caley suckers, catching spricks
Playing tig, liquorice sticks
Women gossiping in shawls
Oilcloth shining in their halls
Gypsies selling wooden pegs
Tasty little banty eggs
Sunday round the parlour fire
A street Salvation Army choir
A tick man calling, Friday night
Senna pods to keep you right
McCooeys on the radio
A church hall magic lantern show
Jumping with a skipping rope
Fine toothed combs and Derbac soap
Coalbricks steaming, freshly made
Ross's sparkling lemonade
Wooden pens with blotty nibs
Spinning peeries on the crib
Memories of a Belfast street
Recollections hard to beat
And crying when I dwell upon
A Belfast that has long since gone
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