Belfast Poem

This blog is mainly about me putting up things that I have done but I read this and it described Belfast so well that I have to post it.


I'll speak to you dear stranger, if you really want to know
So listen and I'll tell you why I love this city so . . . .
BELFAST is an Ulsterman with features dour and grim
It's a pint of creamy porter and a Sunday morning hymn
It's a grimy little café, where they serve you dainty teas
It's fish and chips in paper or vinegar with peas
It's a banner on July the Twelfth, a sticky candy apple
A righteous little gospel hall, a Roman Catholic chapel
It's a ' Tele ' boy with dirty face, a piece of apple tart
A fry upon a Saturday or coal ' breek' on a cart.

It's a corporation gas man, complete with bowler hat
It's a wee shop at the corner, a friendly bit of chat
It's an ' oul ' lad in a duncher, a woman in a shawl
A pinch of snuff, a tatie farl, a loyal orange hall
A tobacco smell in York Street, a bag of yellow man
It's an Easter egg that's died in whin, a slice of Ormo pan
A youngster with some sprickly backs inside an ' oul ' glass jar
It's a meeting at the Customs House, or an ' oul ' Victorian bar.

It's mudbanks on the Lagan, when the tide is running low
It's a man collecting refuse, bonfires on Sandy Row
It's a bag of salty dullis, a bowl of irish stew
A goldfish bought in Gresham Street, a preacher at a queue
It's a portrait of King Billy upon a gable wall
A flower seller on a stool outside the City Hall
A half-moon round a doorstep, a ' polisman ' on guard
A pedlar crying "delph for regs", a little whitewashed yard.

It's a market on a Friday, the ships lined at the docks
It's a shiny polished fender, a bunch of green shamrocks
It's herrings fried in oaten meal, with a drink of buttermilk
It's a snowy linen hanky, as soft as finest silk
It's a bap with country butter, a dander round the zoo
A climb up Ben Madigan to get a splendid view
It's a bunch of savoury scallions, a plate of buttery champ
A hopscotch on the footpath, a swing around the lamp.

It's delph dogs on the mantelpiece, the wee man from the Pru
It's a chimney sweep on a bicycle, coming to do the flue
It's an ever present vista of the hills of Castlereagh
It's the deathly hush on Saturday, when Linfield plays away
It's "By Killarney's Lakes and Fells" on the bells of Assembly Hall
It's spiky broken bottles, stuck on the backyard wall
It's bacon boiled with pamphrey, served when piping hot
With Comber spuds like balls of flour, cracked laughing in the pot

It's the smell of Mansion polish on the lino in the hall
The Sunday School excursion, a treat for one and all
It's the island men who build great ships, that take us far to sea
It's the S D Bell's in Ann Street, where they sell the best of tea
It's friends home from America, who have you thinking long
The Salvation band on Sunday, to save the singing throng
It's a wee walk up the Lisburn Road and back by the Malone
It's the Albert Clock in High Street with it's rich and mellow tone.

And there's your answer, stranger, and now I'm sure you'll see
Why Belfast is the only place in all the world for me.

I don't know who wrote it and it's probably really famous, but its description is 'Bang On Big Lad'

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