Read introduction

This is a wee poem written some years back about a farmer I know from the country, having to move his prize bull. It is written in the tongue that he did spake, a kind of Ulster Scot dialect of English.
It may be hard to follow and its really an experiment for me to publish it here. I have a couple of others in the same vernacular, so I just want to see if it can be followed.
A key to some words:
Craigbane = a townland, pronounced Craig-bann
base = herd of animals or beasts
wan = one
abeen = above
thran = stubborn
huxtered = moved with difficulty
clabber = muck & dirt

You've got the gist. Way you go!

There's always wan...

Fdf5205c-8b5b-4da8-a6dc-63fe28d680a9by Billy J. Stewart07 Jan 2014

Am blowed if Ah can count them
On the fingers o' a han',
The times a've hid to leg it
Down the lanes abeen Craigbane.
The base are aisy jittered,
An' it takes a steady han'
But no matter how they're huxtered
Up the road, there's always wan.
When its time tay go from pasture,
Me Charolaise bull tay mountain lan'
Ah git me wellies, kep an' pokin' stick,
Sure ah luk like Despert Dan.
The gates are tethered open
As ah execute me plan,
But the buggers naw for shiftin'
Sure as hell, there's always wan.
Well ah take me stick and wave it
Like a great big magic wan'
But ah might as well be signin'
On the brew down in Strabane.
So ah whistle an' ah holler,
An' ah canny unnerstan'
How the blazes will ah shift him
Tay the hills abeen Craigbane.
Then al' at once the buggers aff
Wi' me chasin' cap in han',
Naw fer him the gate to pass it,
Straight through the hedge, there's always wan.
Down the lane, across the ditches,
Sprayin' clabber like a fan,
Over crooked bridge tay Devines,
Then into Jimmy Charlies caravan.
Well, ye've heard o' flyin' sassers
Come from Mars tay visit man,
That is nothin' tay the clatter,
Of a flyin' fryin' pan.
Such commotion an' disaster
Like ten prisoners on reman'
Who were on the "dirty protest"
In the back of Jimmy's van.
Well ah dunno how we dawn it,
But we chased him out an' ran
Up the road tay Tracey's Brae
In the hills abeen Craigbane.
Such a scene of divistation,
Reeked by baste so thick 'n' thran,
Put me half in min' o' cal'ing
For the vitinary man.
But ah hay him safe in fodder now,
Til summers al but gan,
When again, the bugger must be shifted
Down the street to lower lan'.
When the gate is tethered open,
Ah will execute me plan,
Wi' me wellies, kep an' pokin' stick,
For as ah say, there's al'ways wan.