The Hirin' Fair

The corn is stacked, the prittas dug,
The cattle housed a’ neat and snug
November’s breath is in the air
And brings yince mair Lairne Hirin’ Fair.

Frae ivery fairm for miles aroon
The lads an’ lasses mak’ the toon,
Wi’ shiney boots an’ shiney faces,
They seek mair wages an’ fresh places.

The past six months they’ve worked like mad,
For maisters, middlin, guid or bad;
Some weel-fed, happy an’ respected,
But ither craiters, starved, neglected.

Yet on this happy day o’ cheer
They soon forget the past half-year,
An’ flock in droves for guid or ill,
Tae Cross Street, near the Lairne Fair Hill.

An’ hopeful there they take their stan’,
Each servant lass an’ servant man,
Tae seek a job an’ better pay,
For six lang months, frae noo till May.

There’s servant men frae Killyglen,
That hasnae shaved since Lord knows when;
Lang, lanky raw-baned Mounthill toughs,
An’ gangs o’ big Kilwaughter roughs.

They come frae Ballynure an’ Straid,
Frae doon the shore, aye an’ the Braid,
Gleno, Raloo an’ Islandmagee,
Frae Feystown, Magheraban, Rashee.

A’ dressed up in their Sunday suits,
They’ve creeshed their hair an’ blacked their boots,
Intent for yince tae cut a dash,
An’ buy some fun wi’ hard-earned cash.

There’s watches goin’ for three an’ six,
There’s cork-screw knives an’ walkin’ sticks;
Drinks, apples, nuts an’ yellowman
An’ spae-wives there tae read yer han’.

That’s where you’ll find the servant girls
Before they go in search o’ erls,
For maybe printed on their han’–
Is some ‘rich, handsome, dark young man.’

This is their day, their faces show it;
They’re brave weel-like, an’ man they know it,
An’ mony a match that’s made this day
Is clinched in kirk afore next May.
These sonsy dacent weel-wrought lasses,
Though a wee bit blate, are no’ sich asses,
But show ambition, pride and zeal,
An’ dae their best tae marry weel.

Wi’ some mysterious seventh sense
The fairmer knows wi’ half a glance,
That this young lass, dress’t up tae kill,
Has niver wrought in toon or mill.

But knows the way tae milk a coo,
Tae feed a calf or stroke a soo;
At threshin’ time cud gie’ a han’,
Fork hay or corn wi’ ony man.

He sidles up – ‘ I s’pose,’ says he–
‘Ye’r hirin’.’ – ‘Aye, A am,’ says she;
They bargain, argue, chap, divide,
Till lang at last the erls is paid.

Guid ploughmen are in big demand
Tae coup Carncastle’s heavy lan’,
They’ll get their keep an’ ten poun’ clear,
An’ that’s no’ bad for yin half-year.

An’ then there’s useful handy chaps,
Sae guid at diggin’ dykes an’ sheughs;
Can milk a coo, or feed a pig,
Can swing a scythe, or set a rig.

They’ll clean the horses, plait their manes,
An’ gie a han’ at mindin’ weans.
Sich chaps as these at this Lairne Fair
Can get six guineas – less or mair.

Av coorse, there’s ither thaveless bein’s
Saft, hairmless, feckless doits – the lea’ins;
They’re happy hokin’ in a sheugh,
Or dungin’ byres, or somethin’ rough.

They get a bed, a bite tae eat,
A dud o’ claes, clogs tae their feet;
An odd half-croon frae time tae time,
An’ this arrangement works oot fine.

You’d nearly think some unwrit law
Provided places for them a’,
The way they fitted in sae weel,
Like cogs in some great nick-ed wheel.

An’ as the efternoon descends,
The fun begins, the hirin’ en’s.
They’re a’ fixed up for six months mair,
But still hae time an’ cash tae spare.

Their youthful healthy appetites
Go oot in search o’ toon delights,
For tay an’ buns, an’ pig’s feet broth,
Or pints o’ porter topped wi’ froth.

The fairmers slowly trickle hame
And lea’ the boys an’ girls alane
Tae spend an hour or twa thegither,
Makin’ trysts wi’ yin anither.

These golden hours – how soon they flee,
Yet what great happiness they gie,
Convoyin’ some young lass, an then–
A cuddle at some loanin en’.

How better end a perfect day?
I’ve only yin thing mair tae say –
It’s this – ‘ I’m no ashamed tae tell
I’ve sipped these simple joys mysel’.