Derrymacash

(Why anybody would want to name themselves after thon wee shinner huxter is beyond me … but there, as they say, you go.)

That remark you made about is wide of the mark, boyo, by a long shot. It's common knowledge that the "Campsite At Drumcree" was written by our loyal brothers as they camped out in that first summer of discontent. All hands chipped in, feverishly editing the words and honing it to perfection. Sorry if I'm coming on like a Queens University lecturer, but it's this authenticity which gives the song such resonance among our community.

The disparaging remarks you've made continue the age-old fallacy that it's only the taiglodytes that have any element of creativity or soul. The type of urban myth which no doubt contributes to the fact that Daniel O'Donnell records sell in cartloads the world over, whereas a troubadour from our own tradition, the Rev. William McCrea for example, struggles to shift any units whatsoever.

I'll give yous all a hand to think with a few more verses which a fellow white-glover passed my way.

On holidays some brethren go up North to Portrush Town
But I like to spend my fortnight in a field near Portadown
There are no flashing slot machines and no foaming billows roar
But we sit around the fire and sing "The Sash My Father Wore"
"The Sash My Father Wore", "The Sash My Father Wore"
We sit around the fire and sing "The Sash My Father Wore"

We don't care if it's lashing, our camp we'll not desert
For the causes's sake me boys, I'll proudly wade through dirt
(Besides my family residence is a few yards down the road
I sneak in round the back some nights when it gets a wee bit cold
When it gets a wee bit cold, when it gets a wee bit cold
I sneak in round the back some nights when it gets a wee bit cold)