Alison … would you away outa thon, chil' dear. Sure I couldn't be doin' wi' thon frippery. A black suit and a black tie, white shirt, white gloves, an umbrella and a bowler hat, topped off with me oul' da's sash … that's more my style. Though, min' you, daughter dear, there's damn the bit of cleanness I can keep about myself at all livin' like a wild baste with nothing over my head but an oul' bit of waxed cloth propped up on a few oul' sticks. Like a bedouin … an' me that has lan' an' men under me an' all! Oh Lord, damn the sowl of whoever got us into this tight spot.

Now, the Reverend William Marshall, "The Bard of Tyrone", wrote a wee poem one time called "Me An' Me Da" – which you might know otherwise as "Livin' In Drumlister". Myself and a clatter of the oul' diehards were sittin' roun' the fire night before last, tryin' to gain a bit of heat before lyin' down in our tents and between us we made a new poem out of his oul' one.

See what you think.

Oh, and by the way, Raparee, you're a guttery-gubbed glipe and an ingnorant big gulpen. I'll hear no more of your runnin' down the good people of Magheralin!

I'm camped in Drumcree churchyard
Though I'm getting' very oul'
I love to wear my fawr's sash
But it doesn't bar much coul'
There's de'il a man in this townlan'
Was claner r'ared nor me
But I'm in clabber since I listed
To camp out at Drumcree

I lie down in the gutters
To have my nightly rest
A stripe o' cloth above me
And me wi' a bawd chest!
But till the struggle's over
And dear oul' Ulster's free
I'll pad through Drumcree churchyard
In clabber to the knee

You'll never fin' me wav'rin'
I'll be loyal to the en'
Our freedom and religion
I'm committed to defen'
Though I'm a tiny bit arthritic
In my elbow and my knee
I'll defy the worl' by campin'
In the churchyard at Drumcree

Oh me name is Brother Isaac
And I'll never ben' me knee
To London or to Dublin
Or the Roman Holy See
I'll live an' die in clabber
If that it is what's required
For Ulster, like a hippo
I will wallow in the mire

So come all ye sons of William
And the boul' Ahoghill Doc
Ye fifers and drum-baters
Of good oul' Orange stock
Come gather up your sleeping bags
Your tents and pegs and ropes
And camp in Drumcree churchyard
This bastion of hope!