FEIS 2016 poems - Feis Dhun Geanainnfeis-dhungeanainn.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/... · James Reeves Event 47 P6 Boys Confined ref 1 p19 . Event 48 P6 Girls Confined ref 2 p6

F EIS Dhun Gea nain n 2016

Speech & Drama Poems

Ref 1 – Once Upon a Rhyme – edited by Sara & Stephen Corrin, Young Puffin

Ref 2 – 100 Best Poems - edited by Roger McGough, Penguin

Ref 3 – A Young Puffin Book of Verse – compiled by Barbara Ireson, Puffin

Mr Giraffe O Mister Giraffe, you make me laugh,

You seem to be made all wrong;

Your head is so high up there in the sky

And your neck is so very long That your dinner and tea, it seems to me,

Have such a long way to go,

And I’m wondering how they manage to know

The way to your tummy below.

Geoffrey Lapage

Event 37 P1 Boys Confined ref 1 p. 90

In the Mirror In the mirror

On the wall

There’s a face

I always see; Round and pink,

And rather small,

Looking back again

At me. It is very

Rude to stare,

But she never

Thinks of that, For her eyes are

Always there;

What can she be

Looking at?

Elizabeth Fleming

Event 38 P1 Girls Confined ref 1 p99

Event 39 P2 Boys Confined ref 1 p 29

The Hippopotamus Behold the hippopotamus!

We laugh at how he looks to us,

And yet in moments dank and grim

I wonder how we look to him. Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!

We really look all right to us,

As you no doubt delight the eye

Of other hippopotami.

Ogden Nash

Mrs Peck Pigeon Mrs Peck Pigeon

Is pecking for bread;

Bob, bob, bob,

Goes her little round head.

Tame as a pussy cat

In the street

Step, step, step, Go her little red feet.

With her little red feet

And her little round head Mrs Peck Pigeon

Goes pecking for bread.

Eleanor Farjeon


A Boy’s Song

(1 st 3 stanzas only)

Where the pools are bright and deep,

Where the grey trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,

Where the nestlings chirp and flee,


Where the mowers mow the cleanest,

Where the hay lies thick and greenest,

There to track the homeward bee,


James Hogg

Event 41 P3 Boys Confined ref 1 p 58

Miss T.

It's a very odd thing - As odd can be -

That whatever Miss T eats

Turns into Miss T.;

Porridge and apples, Mince, muffins and mutton,

Jam, junket, jumbles -

Not a rap, not a button

It matters; the moment They're out of her plate,

Though shared by Miss Butcher

And sour Mr Bate;

Tiny and cheerful, And neat as can be,

Whatever Miss T. eats

Turns into Miss T.

Walter de la Mare


I asked the little boy who cannot see

I asked the little boy who cannot see, ‘And what is colour like?’

‘Why, green,’ said he,

‘Is like the rustle when the wind blows through

The forest; running water, that is blue; And red is like a trumpet sound; and pink

Is like the smell of roses; and I think

That purple must be like a thunderstorm;

And yellow is like something soft and warm; And white is a pleasant stillness when you lie

And dream.’

ANON.

Event 43 P4 Boys Confined ref 1 p28

CATS Cats sleep

Anywhere,

Any table,

Any chair Top of piano,

Window-ledge,

In the middle,

On the edge, Open drawer,

Empty shoe,

Anybody's

Lap will do, Fitted in a

Cardboard box,

In the cupboard

With your frocks- Anywhere!

They don't care!

Cats sleep

Anywhere.

Eleanor Farjeon


THE PAINTING LESSON ‘What's THAT dear?’ asked the new teacher.

‘It's Mummy,’ I replied.

‘But mums aren't green and orange!

You really haven't TRIED. You don't just paint in SPLODGES

- You're old enough to know You need to THINK before you work . . .

Now - have another go.’

She helped me draw two arms and legs, A face with sickly smile,

A rounded body, dark brown hair, A hat - and, in a while,

She stood back (with her face bright pink): ‘That's SO much better - don't you think?’

But she turned white

At ten to three When an orange-green blob

Collected me.

‘Hi, Mum!’

Trevor Harvey


What is Pink? What is pink? A rose is pink

By a fountain's brink.

What is red? A poppy's red

In its barley bed. What is blue? The sky is blue

Where the clouds float through.

What is white? A swan is white

Sailing in the light. What is yellow? Pears are yellow

Rich and ripe and mellow.

What is green? The grass is green,

With small flowers between. What is violet? Clouds are violet

In the summer twilight.

What is orange? Why, an orange,

Just an orange!

Christina Rossetti


Fireworks

They rise like sudden fiery flowers

That burst upon the night, Then fall to earth in burning showers

Of crimson, blue and white.

Like buds too wonderful to name, Each miracle unfolds,

And catherine-wheels begin to flame Like whirling marigolds.

Rockets and Roman candles make

An orchard of the sky, Whence magic trees their petals shake

Upon each gazing eye.

James Reeves



PLEASE MRS BUTLER

Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew

Keeps copying my work, Miss.

What shall I do?

Go and sit in the hall, dear.

Go and sit in the sink. Take your books on the roof, my lamb.

Do whatever you think.

Please Mrs Butler

This boy Derek Drew

Keeps taking my rubber, Miss.

What shall I do?

Keep it in your hand, dear. Hide it up your vest.

Swallow it if you like, my love.

Do what you think is best.

Please Mrs Butler

This boy Derek Drew Keeps calling me rude names, Miss.

What shall I do?

Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear.

Run away to sea.

Do whatever you can, my flower.

But don’t ask me !

Allan Ahlberg

The Petshop

If I had a hundred pounds to spend,

Or maybe a little more,

I’d hurry as fast as my legs would go Straight to the Petshop door.

I wouldn’t say, ‘How much for this or that?’

‘What kind of a dog is he?’ I’d buy as many as rolled an eye,

Or wagged a tail at me!

I’d take the hound with the drooping ears

That sits by himself alone;

Cockers and Cairns and wobbly pups

For to be my very own.

I might buy a parrot all red and green,

And the monkey I saw before,

If I had a hundred pounds to spend,

Or maybe a little more.

Rachel Field


Horrible Things “What’s the horriblest thing you’ve seen?”

Said Nell to Jean.

“Some grey-coloured, trodden-on plasticine; On a plate, a left-over cold baked bean;

A cloakroom-ticket numbered thirteen;

A slice of meat without any lean;

The smile of a spiteful fairy-tale queen; A thing in the sea like a brown submarine;

A cheese fur-coated in brilliant green;

A bluebottle perched on a piece of sardine.”

What’s the horriblest thing you’ve seen?”

Said Jean to Nell.

“Your face, as you tell Of all the horriblest things you’ve seen.”

Roy Fuller


Event 52 P1 Boys Open ref 3 p39

The Window Cleaner When I grow up I want to be

A window cleaning man

And make the windows in our street

As shiny as I can. I’ll put my ladder by the wall

And up the steps I’ll go

But when I’m up there with my pail

I hope the wind won’t blow.

M. Long

Event 53 P1 Girls Open ref 3 p17

Wanted

I’m looking for a house

Said the little brown mouse,

with One room for breakfast,

One room for tea

One room for supper,

And that makes three.

One room to dance in,

When I give a ball, A kitchen and a bedroom,

Six rooms in all.

Rose Fyleman


The Barber

I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip, Calling out, 'Next please!’ and pocketing my tip.

All day you'd hear my scissors going, 'Snip, Snip, Snip!'

I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip

While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip. But I wouldn't be a barber if ...

The razor was to slip.

Would you?

C.J. Dennis

There are Big Waves

There are big waves and little waves, Green waves and blue.

Waves you can jump over,

Waves you dive through,

Waves that rise up Like a great water wall,

Waves that swell softly

And don't break at all,

Waves that can whisper, Waves that can roar,

And tiny waves that run at you

Running on the shore.

Eleanor Farjeon


The Lonely Scarecrow My poor old bones - I've only two -

A broomshank and a broken stave,

My ragged gloves are a disgrace,

My one peg-foot is in the grave.

I wear the labourer's old clothes;

Coat, shirt and trousers all undone.

I bear my cross upon a hill

In rain and shine, in snow and sun.

I cannot help the way I look. My funny hat is full of hay.

- O, wild birds, come and nest in me!

Why do you always fly away?

James Kirkup


Jemima Jane JEMIMA JANE,

Oh, Jemima Jane,

She loved to go out

And slosh in the rain. She loved to go out

And get herself wet,

And she had a duck

For her favourite pet.

Every day

At half-past four

They’d both run out The kitchen door;

They’d find a puddle,

And there they’d stay

Until it was time To go away.

They got quite wet,

But they didn’t mind; And every rainy

Day they’d find

A new way to splash Or a new way to swim.

And the duck loved Jane,

And Jane loved him.

Marchette Chute



Bedtime

Five minutes, five minutes more, please! Let me stay five minutes more!

Can't I just finish the castle

I'm building here on the floor? Can't I just finish the story

I'm reading here in my book?

Can't I just finish this bead-chain —

It almost is finished, look! Can't I just finish this game, please?

When a game's once begun

It's a pity never to find out

Whether you've lost or won. Can't I just stay five minutes?

Well, can't I just stay just four?

Three minutes, then? two minutes?

Can't I stay one minute more?

Eleanor Farjeon

The Wind

I can get through a doorway without any key, And strip the leaves from the great oak tree.

I can drive storm-clouds and shake tall towers,

Or steal through a garden and not wake the flowers.

Seas I can move and ships I can sink;

I can carry a house-top or the scent of a pink.

When I am angry I can rave and riot;

And when I am spent, I lie quiet as quiet.

James Reeves


As Fit as a Fiddle

GRANDFATHER GEORGE is as fit as a fiddle,

As fit as a fiddle right up from his middle, Grandfather George is as fit as a fiddle,

As fit as a fiddle right down to his toes.

Grandfather George, whenever I meet him Nips my right ear and asks me a riddle,

And when Mother questions him how he is keeping,

He slaps his left leg and says ‘Fit as a fiddle!’

Once I said ‘Grandfather George, why a fiddle,

Why is a fiddle especially fit?’

He laughed very loud and said ‘Hey diddle-diddle,

I’ll give you a sixpence if you’ll answer that!’

So now I ask everyone, friends and relations,

People I talk to wherever I go, I ask them on buses, in shops and at stations:

I suppose, by the way, that you do not know?

Pauline Clarke



Noses

I looked in the mirror

and looked at my nose:

it’s the funniest thing, the way it grows

stuck right out where all of it shows

with two little holes where the breathing goes.

I looked in the mirror

and saw in there

the end of my chin and the start of my hair

and between there isn’t much space to spare

with my nose, like a handle, sticking there.

If ever you want

to giggle and shout

and can’t think of what

to do it about, just look in the mirror and then, no doubt,

you’ll see how funny YOUR nose sticks out!

Aileen Fisher


I THINK MY TEACHER IS A COWBOY It’s not just

that she rides to school on a horse

and carries a Colt 45 in her handbag.

It’s not just

the way she walks;

hands hanging over her hips.

It’s not just

the way she dresses;

stetson hat and spurs on her boots.

It’s not just the way she talks;

calling the playground the corral,

the Head’s room the Sheriff’s office,

the school canteen the chuck wagon, the school bus the stagecoach,

the bike sheds the livery stable.

What gives her away Is when the hometime pips go.

She slaps her thigh

And cries ‘Yee ha!’

John Caldwell


General Store Someday I’m going to have a store

With a tinkly bell hung over the door,

With real glass cases and counters wide

And drawers all spilly with things inside. There’ll be a little of everything:

Bolts of calico; balls of string;

Jars of peppermint; tins of tea;

Pots and kettles and crockery; Seeds in packets; scissors bright;

Bags of sugar, brown and white;

Biscuits and cheese for picnic lunches,

Bananas and rubber boots in bunches. I’ll fix the window and dust each shelf,

And take the money in all myself,

It will be my store and I will say:

‘What can I do for you today?’

Rachel Field

If Pigs Could Fly If pigs could fly, I’d fly a pig

To foreign countries small and big –

To Italy and Spain,

To Austria, where cowbells ring, To Germany, where people sing –

And then come home again.

I’d see the Ganges and the Nile; I’d visit Madagascar’s isle,

And Persia and Peru.

People would say they’d never seen

So odd, so strange an air-machine As that on which I flew.

Why, everyone would raise a shout

To see his trotters and his snout Come floating from the sky;

And I would be a famous star

Well known in countries near and far –

If only pigs could fly!

James Reeves



Danny Murphy He was as old as old could be,

His little eye could scarcely see,

His mouth was sunken in between

His nose and chin, and he was lean And twisted up and withered quite,

So that he couldn’t walk aright.

His pipe was always going out, And then he’d have to search about

In all his pockets, and he’d mow

- O deary me! and musha now! –

And then he’d light his pipe, and then He’d let it go clean out again.

He couldn’t dance or jump or run,

Or ever have a bit of fun Like me and Susan, when we shout

And jump and throw ourselves about:

- But when he laughed, then you could see

He was as young as young could be!

James Stephens

Event 66 Year 8 Boys Confined ref 2 p55

MY BEST ICE CREAM

The best ice cream

I think I've ever tasted

Was the one I fell in When I was only ten.

It was huge, I tell you -

The size of a small mountain,

And there is no telling When we'll see its like again.

The best stick of rock I think I've ever eaten

Was the one I climbed up

When I was only four.

It took six days, Then I started eating downwards

And when midnight chimed

I had gnawed it to the floor!

The best fizzy drink

I think I've ever swallowed

Was the one I sailed across

When I was only eight. It was wide across

As the great Pacific Ocean,

And I drank it with an albatross

Whose name was Kate.

Terry Jones

Something told the wild geese

Something told the wild geese It was time to go.

Though the fields lay golden

Something whispered -'Snow.'

Leaves were green and stirring, Berries, lustre-glossed,

But beneath warm feathers

Something cautioned -'Frost.'

All the sagging orchards

Steamed with amber spice,

But each wild breast stiffened

At remembered ice. Something told the wild geese

It was time to fly-

Summer sun was on their wings,

Winter in their cry.

Rachel Field

Event 67 Year 8 Girls Confined ref 1 p51

The house I go to in my dream

The house I go to in my dream

stands beside a little stream

full of dab and minnow and trout I try to catch by hand

but every single fish is

more elusive than my wishes.

For every time I wish, you see,

I wish that someone else was me.

I stand and wish and call up spells to turn me into something else

but no matter how I try

I finish up remaining I,

however hard I wish to be someone else, I am still me.

And so I think that I and you

and every other person, too, must really be a sort of fish

not to be caught just with a wish.

George Barker

Event 68 Year 9 Boys Confined ref 1 p100

Event 69 Year 9 Girls Confined ref 1 p53

Snow

No breath of wind, No gleam of sun –

Still the white snow

Whirls softly down -

Twig and bough And blade and thorn

All in an icy

Quiet, forlorn.

Whispering, rustling, Through the air,

On sill and stone,

Roof - everywhere,

It heaps its powdery Crystal flakes,

Of every tree

A mountain makes;

Till pale and faint At shut of day

Stoops from the West

One wintry ray, And, feathered in fire,

Where ghosts the moon,

A robin shrills

His lonely tune.

Walter de la Mare

Event 70 Year 10/11 Boys Confined ref 2 p59

GRAN’S XI

My Grandma’s in a football team.

Her age is seventy-eight.

She’s no longer like a palm tree Standing waiting for a date.

The goalie in my Grandma’s team,

Her age is seventy-four. Opponents rarely score a goal.

She’s built like a grey barn door.

The striker is a real antique,

Captain at eighty-eight.

She’s vicious, mean, and fouls a lot;

The kind of striker goalies hate.

Two of Grandma’s football team

Are quite acutely deaf.

They shout and wave most rudely At every weekend ref.

Most of Grandma’s football team

Have aged, aching bones, But in the showers, after games,

No single player moans.

The other week - a rare defeat. They lost: three goals to five.

But they don’t seem to care a lot.

They’re just glad to be alive!

John Kitching

THE DAFFODILS

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company:

I gazed- and gazed- but little thought

What wealth to me the show had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

Event 71 Year 10/11 Girls Confined ref 2 p126

THE SEA

The sea is a hungry dog, Giant and grey.

He rolls on the beach all day.

With his clashing teeth and shaggy jaws

Hour upon hour he gnaws The rumbling, tumbling stones,

And 'Bones, bones, bones, bones! '

The giant sea-dog moans,

Licking his greasy paws.

And when the night wind roars

And the moon rocks in the stormy cloud,

He bounds to his feet and snuffs and sniffs, Shaking his wet sides over the cliffs,

And howls and hollos long and loud.

But on quiet days in May or June, When even the grasses on the dune

Play no more their reedy tune,

With his head between his paws He lies on the sandy shores,

So quiet, so quiet, he scarcely snores.

James Reeves

Event 73 Year 8 Boys Post Primary Open ref 2 p53

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Event 76 Year 10/11 Girls Post-Primary Open ref 2 p54

FRIENDS

I fear it’s very wrong of me

And yet I must admit,

When someone offers friendship I want the whole of it.

I don’t want everybody else

To share my friends with me.

At least, I want one special one, Who indisputedly,

Likes me much more than all the rest, Who’s always on my side,

Who never cares what others say,

Who lets me come and hide

Within his shadow, in his house – It doesn’t matter where –

Who lets me simply be myself,

Who’s always, always there.

Elizabeth Jennings

Event 77 Year 12/13/14 Boys Post-Primary Open ref 2 p45

Event 78 Year 12/13/14 Girls Post-Primary Open ref 3 p15

An Old Woman of the Roads

O, To have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all!

The heaped up sods against the fire,

The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down!

A dresser filled with shining delph,

Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,

And fixing on their shelf again

My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night

Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed, and loth to leave

The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,

And roads where there's never a house or bush, And tired I am of bog and road

And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,

And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house - a house of my own -

Out of the wind's and the rain's way.

Padraic Colum

Event 85 Key Stage 1 schools of 150+ ref 1 p122

If all the seas …

If all the seas were one sea,

What a great sea that would be!

If all the trees were one tree, What a great tree that would be!

And if all the axes were one axe,

What a great axe that would be!

And if all the men were one man What a great man that would be!

And if that great man took the great axe

And cut down that great tree, And let it fall into the great sea,

What a splish-splash that would be!

Anon.

Jeremiah Obadiah

JEREMIAH OBADIAH

puff, puff, puff,

When he gives his messages he

snuffs, snuffs, snuffs,

When he goes to school by day he

roars, roars, roars.

When he goes to bed at night he

snores, snores, snores,

When he goes to Christmas treat he eats

plum-duff,

Jeremiah Obadiah

puff, puff, puff.

Anon.

Event 85 Key Stage 1 schools of 150+ ref 3 p43

Event 86 Key Stage 2 schools of 150+ ref 3 p31/32

Sing a Song of People

Sing a song of people Walking fast or slow;

People in the city,

Up and down they go.

People on the sidewalk,

People on the bus;

People passing, passing,

In back and front of us. People on the subway

Underneath the ground;

People riding taxis

Round and round and round.

People with their hats on,

Going in the doors;

People with umbrellas When it rains and pours.

People in tall buildings

And in stores below; Riding elevators

Up and down they go.

People walking singly, People in a crowd;

People saying nothing,

People talking loud.

People laughing, smiling, Grumpy people too;

People who just hurry

And never look at you!

Sing a song of people

Who like to come and go;

Sing of city people

You see but never know!

Lois Lenski

Event 86 Key Stage 2 schools of 150+ ref 3 p34/35

Skipping

LITTLE children skip,

The rope so gaily gripping,

Tom and Harry, Jane and Mary,

Kate, Diana, Susan, Anna,

All are fond of skipping!

The grasshoppers all skip,

The early dew-drop sipping, Under, over

Bent and clover,

Daisy, sorrel,

Without quarrel, All are fond of skipping!

The little boats they skip,

Beside the heavy shipping, And while the squalling

Winds are calling,

Falling, rising,

Rising, falling, All are fond of skipping!

The autumn leaves they skip,

When blasts the trees are stripping; Bounding, whirling, Sweeping, twirling,

And in wanton

Mazes curling, All are fond of skipping!

Thomas Hood

Event 87 Key Stage 1 & 2 schools less than 150 ref 2 p43

DUCKS’ DITTY

All along the backwater,

Through the rushes tall,

Ducks are a-dabbling, Up tails all!

Ducks’ tails, drakes’ tails,

Yellow feet a-quiver, Yellow bills all out of sight

Busy in the river!

Slushy green undergrowth

Where the roach swim –

Here we keep our larder,

Cool and full and dim.

Everyone for what he likes!

We like to be

Heads down, tails up, Dabbling free!

High in the blue above

Swifts whirl and call - We are down a -dabbling,

Up tails all!

Kenneth Grahame

Event 87 Key Stage 1 & 2 schools less than 150 ref 1 p64

Stocking and Shirt

Stocking and shirt

Can trip and prance,

Though nobody’s in them To make them dance.

See how they waltz Or minuet,

Watch the petticoat Pirouette.

This is the dance

Of stocking and shirt, When the wind puts on

The white lace skirt.

Old clothes and young clothes

Dance together, Twirling and whirling

In mad March weather.

‘Come!’ cries the wind

To stocking and shirt. ‘Away!’ cries the wind

To blouse and skirt.

Then clothes and wind

All pull together, Tugging like mad

In the mad March weather.

Across the garden

They suddenly fly And over the far hedge High, high, high!

‘Stop!’ cries the housewife

But all too late, Her clothes have passed

The furthest gate. They are gone forever

In the bright blue sky, And only the handkerchiefs

Wave good-bye.

James Reeves

THE SOUND COLLECTOR

A stranger called this morning Dressed all in black and grey

Put every sound into a bag And carried them away

The whistling of the kettle

The turning of the lock

The purring of the kitten The ticking of the clock

The popping of the toaster

The crunching of the flakes When you spread the marmalade

The scraping noise it makes

The hissing of the frying pan

The ticking of the grill

The bubbling of the bathtub

As it starts to fill

The drumming of the raindrops

On the window-pane

When you do the washing-up The gurgle of the drain

The crying of the baby

The squeaking of the chair The swishing of the curtain

The creaking of the stair

A stranger called this morning He didn't leave his name

Left us only silence

Life will never be the same.

Roger McGough

Event 88 Post Primary ref 1 p69

Colonel Fazackerley

Colonel Fazackerley Butterworth-Toast

Bought an old castle complete with a ghost,

But someone or other forgot to declare To Colonel Fazack that the spectre was there.

On the very first evening, while waiting to dine,

The Colonel was taking a fine sherry wine, When the ghost, with a furious flash and a flare,

Shot out of the chimney and shivered, ‘Beware!’

Colonel Fazackerley put down his glass

And said, ‘My dear fellow, that’s really first class!

I just can’t conceive how you do it at all.

I imagine you’re going to a Fancy Dress Ball?’

At this, the dread ghost give a withering cry.

Said the Colonel (his monocle firm in his eye),

‘Now just how you do it I wish I could think. Do sit down and tell me, and please have a drink.’

The ghost in his phosphorous cloak gave a roar

And floated about between ceiling and floor. He walked through a wall and returned through a pane

And backed up the chimney and came down again.

Said the Colonel, ‘With laughter I’m feeling quite weak!’ ( As trickles of merriment ran down his cheek).

‘My house-warming party I hope you won’t spurn.

You must say you’ll come and you’ll give us a turn!’

At this, the poor spectre – quite out of his wits –

Proceeded to shake himself almost to bits.

He rattled his chains and he clattered his bones And he filled the whole castle with mumbles and moans.

But Colonel Fazackerley, just as before,

Was simply delighted and called out, ‘Encore!’ At which the ghost vanished, his efforts in vain,

And never was seen at the castle again.

‘Oh dear, what a pity!’ said Colonel Fazack. ‘I don’t know his name, so I can’t call him back.’

And then with a smile that was hard to define,

Colonel Fazackerley went in to dine.

Charles Causley

Event 88 Post Primary ref 1 p120/121

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FEIS 2016 poems - Feis Dhun Geanainnfeis-dhungeanainn.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/... · James Reeves Event 47 P6 Boys Confined ref 1 p19 . Event 48 P6 Girls Confined ref 2 p6