Welcome!

Dick Glasgow .... {aka Ptarmigan}

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I play and promote the playing of Traditional Music, on the Causeway Coast of North Antrim.

You'll find details here, on various aspects of my musical work, including the local Pub Sessions I anchor at Ma Kellys, Ballymoney, the House of McDonnell, Ballycastle, the Springhill Bar, Portrush, the Bushmills Inn, Bushmills  & the Anchor Bar, Portstewart. 
I also provide Music Tuition in Primary Schools, also the music my wife & I play for Weddings, in costume for Medieval Events & Films.
The various instruments I play, include the Fiddle, Mandolin, Tenor Banjo, Tenor Guitar, Anglo Concertina, English Concertina  & Hammered Dulcimer.  

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Pat M'Carty ~ Rhymes of an Antrim Farmer

I came across this collection today.

These are Rhymes written by an Antrim Farmer, one Pat McCarty. 

I felt sure readers would enjoy exploring this site.

Pat M'Carty ~ Rhymes of an Antrim Farmer

Tha Garry Kat

Tha Garry Kat

Oul North Antrim noo haes got a kat, 

Nae ordinary moggie wha lies on tha mat, 

But a big blak thing that ates yer sheep, 

An gaes intae tha Garry an haes a sleep. 

Noo this big boy haes bane sa far an wide, 

An appears jest at wull alang tha dake side, 

In Conagher moss twa polis got a sicht o' him, 

Thae said he luked weel an wus in guid trim. 

Tha USPCA follaed him for a brave while, 

Ower monies a moss, feil, sheugh an stile, 

But this moggie niver staps for mair nir a minit, 

He's aff in a flash lake a flay doon yer simmit. 

Thers yins that wud sweer that he haes a brither, 

That wus sa' near Bushmill in a feil fu' o' heather, 

An oul boy frae Bogey sa him rin ower tha tap feil, 

Saes tha kat dinnae fool him for its surely tha deil. 

Noo tha hale cuntry side is oot efter this Kat, 

For he haes become famous thers nae doot o' that, 

He haes run rings roon them aa for monies a dey, 

An nae odds o' tha toonlan sure hae aye gets away. 

Noo maesel A think haes lakely o' tha blak airt, 

An micht turn intae a burd or a doag or a kert, 

An whun tha wunther comes tae tha oul Garry 

Sur tha kat in these airts wull nae langer tarry. 

by 'Tha Poocher'

The Puma's Tail - or Tale?

The Puma's Tail - or Tale?

Just a few lines from the "Puma" hoping this finds you all well, 

Just lately all this attention has this Puma's nerves shot to hell, 

It started one idyllic evening as I went for a stroll 'as you do', 

Alas ! I was seen by a farmer, who started a hullabaloo. 

Next day as I went for my breakfast 'I fancied the ear off a ewe', 

Well such a crowd of police and reporters 'one could hardly believe the to-do', 

As you know this was just the beginning I was harried by air and by land, 

I was chased to the bridge at 'Burn Gushey' by men in a white Transit van. 

To elude these intrepid intruders, I thought, I'll visit my cousin in Clare, 

In my haste I forgot 'was I in for a shock' t‚was the week of the Oul Lammas Fair, 

The tailback it stretched to Moyarget this spoiled my weekend by the sea, 

And as I went for a rest in Clare forest some-one took a photo of me. 

Now, this when it got to the news-desk it started the cat-hunt anew, 

Some folk just kept 'mum' some said, "can't be done" and decided of 'me' there is two, 

The experts they said, 'most unlikely' for a 'moggy' now 'that's quite a hike', 

But in you I'll confide, I come from a pride, of Pumas who ride motor bikes. 

Will you please spare a thought for the Puma, do not sit in judgement in haste, 

Although a chewer of ears, I did not wish to be here, and for mutton I've quite lost my taste 

As I write from this secret location I know I might sound a 'right prat', 

But to avoid confrontation and my own ruination, I am one vegetarian cat. 

by 'Moggus Garrybogus'

The Poocher's Reply

The Poocher's Reply

A hae read tha rantins o tha 'Kat' himsel, 

An he disnae fu' me wae hes tunge sae swell, 

For the English he scrieves in, brecks nae delph wae me, 

For Am nae doser A wisnae boarn at tha fit o' a tree. 

A ken weel eneuch what he's tryin tae dae, 

Wae his big wurds that maist folk jest cannae sae, 

He's tryin tae sweetyba‚ tha puir fermers an aa, 

As if he had niver committed nae crimes ava. 

An he'll shane larn that tha guid folk frae roon here, 

Dinnae fa' for sich tak an wull no leeve in fear, 

For thae hae aa cum thegither wae yin thocht in mine, 

Its time that North Entrim sa' tha last o yer behine. 

Sae cum on ye boy ye' hae sense whun ye ir still free, 

A hae a listen tae mae wurds an advice that A gie, 

Tak yersel an yer 'brither' bak hame tae yer lair, 

An stie in tha Garryboag ir tha sweet forest o' Clare.

 

An sae noo tae conclude A hae this jest tae sae, 

Yer naw invited tae roon here for yer tay, 

A hae naethin but respect for tha folk o Bogey an aa 

For A wus boarn in Benverdin jest ayont the Wee Ha‚

 

by 'Tha Poocher'

Garrybogus Two

Garrybogus Two

(this time it's personal!)

Oh! Poacher man your so unkind, 

To slight me so, but never mind , 

My feline feelings you have hurt, 

With comments dastardly and curt.

 

And quite outrageously uncivil, 

To liken me unto your "divil", 

By such talk I am misunderstood , 

The "Phantom of the Garry wood " 

My grace and beauty you may trace 

The epitome of feline race, 

I emplore you Sir if you don't mind, 

Don't point your gun at my behind. 

The Poacher" takes the game of others, 

Beneath the skin Sir, are we brothers ? 

The sport the thrill at worst affray, 

We both thus far have got away. 

When winter nips as soon it might, 

Do not forget this Puma' s plight, 

While you in slippered feet recline, 

I shiver in a land not mine. 

So watch your telly sip your wine, 

Oh! don't mind me, misplaced fe-line, 

Or for old Puma spare a thought, 

I did not come here I was brought.

 

by 'Moggus Garryboggus'

The Hunter

The Hunter

I WAS HEADING FOR THE 'YUKON',
WITH A SHOVEL AND A PICK, 
WHEN A RIDER OVERTOOK ME, SAYIN‚, 
I HAVE BRUNG YOU WORD FROM 'DICK',

OLE‚ DICK'S STILL ON THE FIDDLE, 
WELL! I AIN'T SURPRISED AT THAT, 
THEN HE SAID PLEASE COME TO ANTRIM, 
AND CATCH THE 'BOGEY CAT',

WELL I GUESS I OWE THE OLD GUY ONE , 
SO I TURNED THE MULE AROUN‚
AND BACKTRACKED DOWN THE 'DAWSON TRAIL',
DESTINATION 'BOGEY' TOWN. 

YOU SEE I USED TO BE A HUNTER, 
THEY SAY OF SOME RENOWN, 
SO THAT 'PUMA'S' ASS I MEAN TO KICK, 
NEXT TIME HE COMES AROUN. 

MY WALLS ARE HUNG WITH TROPHIES, 
EXOTIC BEASTS ADORN, 
A BIT FORLORN WITH JUST ONE HORN, 
I STUFFED THE UNICORN. 

I WRESTLED WITH THE 'YETI', 
IN THE MOUNTAINS OF NEPAL, 
WITH A FOREARM SMASH I SETTLED HIS HASH, 
HE NOW STANDS IN MY HALL, 

ON THE SUNBLEACHED 'SERENGETI' PLAINS, 
THE LIONS BREATH I TOOK, 
NOW HE'S MOUNTED ON MAHOGANY, 
TO GRACE MY CHIMNEY NOOK. 

OF POLAR BEARS I HAVE A BRACE, 
OF GRIZZLIES TWO OR THREE, 
AND A GREAT WHITE SHARK, ALL BITE NO BARK 
IS HERE FOR ALL TO SEE. 

I SCOURED THE PLAINS FOR BUFFALO, 
WITH THE BLACKFOOT AND THE CREE, 
MAE FETHER COME FAE GUNYUCK, 
AN MAE MA'S A CHEROKEE . 

SO NIGHT- NIGHT MR PUMA, 
I WILL SOON BE ON YOUR TRAIL, 
AND ON JOHNNY KENNEDY‚S PETROL PUMPS , 
I'LL HANG YOU BY THE TAIL. 

WHO AM I YE MICHT WEEL AX, 
AM I THE SPIRIT O THE NIGHT, 
OR SOME OUL DOTIN EEJIT, 
WHA TAKS A LOAD O' RUBBISH . 

by 'THE PICT'