Paddy’s Hurling Days
By Mickey Kelly
He played hurling for Kilcotton in their white sashed green and gold,
Assigned to defensive duties his success is oft retold,
He played at No7, faced many a forward great,
and how he held them scoreless, is a matter of debate.
Now Paddy was a backman who played the game with glee,
and from his close attention did many a forward flee,
He could tap you on the ankle or catch you with his hip,
and if someone objected, they’d be wise to let it slide.
Paddy’s hurling had been learned hard playing oft against young Tipp,
If you left your ankle in too long you’d be sure to get a whip,
Your knuckles or your fingers, your sins too were fair game,
and the only choice a fellow had was to do the very same.
He had spent his many Sundays hurling ‘gainst these chaps from Tipp,
In those games there were “no rules” you were free to let things rip,
The motto was to win the ball, be the doing fair or foul,
and when you had the game won, you could argue about the rule.
When we played the country final game against Portlaoise town,
They were from ten thousand people, we, three hundred at a frown,
But when the leather sliotar by the tames ref was thrown in,
They were only fifteen fellows playing against our own fifteen.
He’d scored freely off McGovern, a Kilkenny cat of fame
When The Hackey spied our garsoon , he thought he could do the same
but our Paddy played him tight and hard, no score to him did yiell.
It was an unhappy Hackey Dunne that eventually left the field.
He’d hit you hard on the Hurling field, not fussy fair or foul,
And as you kicked your hurt self-up, the could treat you to a smile,
He cared not much for friend or foe if to him you were opposed,
You had been well warned long, don’t leave yourself exposed.
“The boy is the father of the man”
PS When you choose to tell your story be sure to tell it all,
If you miss important detail, blame on your head will fall,
‘cos your story’s noting history let it be good or bad,
and you must afford some credit to your dear departed Dad.​