Welcome sign outside the Girls Secondary School


Fr. Anthony Gaughan among the greats

Fr. Anthony Gaughan and Gabriel Fitzmaurice at Listowel Writers’ Week 2022

Mark Holan writes a really interesting blog

Mark Holan’s Irish American blog

Recently he sent me this email;

Hello Mary. Happy New Year. I hope you are well. 

My wife received a Neiman Fellowship last spring for a year of study at Harvard. We’ve been in Cambridge, Mass. (Boston) since August and will return to Washington in June. I am semi-retired and taking some Irish Studies classes at Boston College and working on a book about how American journalists covered the Irish revolution.

I’ve enjoyed access to Harvard’s many libraries through my wife. The other day I was wandering the stacks of the flagship Widener Library (It’s more fun than online searches!) and came across ‘Listowel and its vicinty’ by Gaughan.

I thought you might enjoy the attached photo for Listowel Connection. I enjoy your blog. My own blog reached its 10th anniversary last July. I’m still having fun!

With best wishes,



Tae Lane

Tae Lane, February 2023

John Fitzgerald remembers Tae Lane in a different era.

Places like The Casbah and The New Road will be familiar only to Listowel natives of a certain age.

I enjoyed this epic poem of deeds of yore.

The Battle of Tae Lane

John Fitzgerald

There’s a one eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,

there’s a cavalcade of cavalry lost in Death Valley too.

there’s the pharaohs in their pyramids and the Eiffel on the Seine,

but who of you remembers the famous Battle of Tae Lane.

Napoleon planned his sorties from a galleon out at sea,

and Hannibal crossed the Great Alps on an elephant you see,

Bush set his sites on Bagdad as  mighty Caesar did on Spain

and the Casbah planned new boundaries to encompass  sweet  Tae Lane.

‘Twas in the year of fifty nine, at the back of Sandy’s shed,

 long since Hitler went to Poland and Paddy to Hollyhead,

and of all the wars you’ll mention, there is none will hold a flame

to the fight fought by the Gravel Crushers defending their Tae Lane.

For weeks before the New Road was a tranquil place by day

as the boys played round the grotto and the old ones knelt to pray,

but at night behind the Astor, they gathered one and all

to plan their deadly battle and The Gravel Crushers fall.

The sally and the hazel were long stripped before the fall.

Nature played no part in this of that I well recall.

‘Twas the hand of Tarzan Murphy paring sticks both thick and tall

as he swung through trees and branches letting bows and arrows fall.

The signs were all apparent if only eyes would see.

Paddles Browne went round the town on an errand of mystery.

From Moss Scanlon’s up to Shortpants he gathered off cuts by the score,

leather pouches for the making of the deadly slings of war.

Bomber Behan scoured the backways, picked up bits from forge to forge.

Each scrap of steel, the point he’d feel, an arrow tip or sword.

‘Til at the back of Charles Street, as the last forge he did pass

he felt the boot of Jackie Moore go halfway up his ass.

His shouts and bawls off  backway walls went half way round the town

Mutts Connor and Gigs Nolan thought ‘twas the Bandsroom falling down.

But the ear of Tommie Allen, sharp as any corner boy

Heard the beans were spilt , they’d all be kilt , and he began to cry .

“The game is up”, he shouted from Scully’s Corner’s vantage point

“Poor Bomber he’s been captured as he was struggling to find

live ammo for the battle in the cold and p p pissing rain

Pat Joe Griffin must be warned to strike early on Tae Lane.”

Brave Victor of the Broderick clan defied the daring raid,

He called his troops together and ‘twas then this plan he made.

“We’ll meet them at the bottleneck” that went by the shithouse name

under Dan Moloney’s garage in the heart of sweet Tae Lane.

He marshalled troops to left and right, of the gushing sewer outfall.

No silver from these waters flowed of that I well recall.

 Half were placed on the market cliff and half on Dagger’s dump

and there they’d wait in soldier’s gait ‘til Victor shouted jump.

The Gravel Crushers ammo was got ready for the drop,

gattling guns and  gadgets from Fitzgibbon’s  well armed shop,

no trees they’d cut, no face they’d soot, yes, they’d face no blame or shame

those gallant lads from William Street who defended their Tae Lane

The butcher boys, the Shaughnessys were such an awesome sight.

Young Mickey climbed the saddle of the King’s Tree on the right

Titch  and Teddy ever ready,  pointed bamboos on the bank

As P.J. stood next to Victor, his brothers he outranked.

While Back The Bank they gathered just below the Convent Cross,

where Mickeen Carey taught us all the game of  pitch and toss.

John Guerin took no notice, no thoughts for God or man

only the rushing of those waters where the silver salmon ran.

Pat Joe was the leader of the Casbah’s fearsome band,

with the Nolans, Long John and Spats, he’d backup at his hand.

There were the  Reidys and the Roches, the Cantys and the Keanes

and they all set off together to capture sweet Tae Lane.

‘Twas a battle worth recalling, there were heroes more than few,

as the sky above grew darker when the stones and arrows flew, 

and in the close encounters , it then was man to man

one a Gravel Crusher and one a Casbarian.

With blood flowing towards the river, it all came down to two,

the leaders of those fighting hordes, Victor Broderick and Pat Joe.

They wrestled in the nettles, in the rubbish they did fight

among stickybacks and dockleafs and Mary B’s pigshite.

The duel it was well balanced as they struggled on the grass,

a rabbit punch, an elbow  a kick in shin or arse.

No mercy would be given, sure the day would end in pain

such was the price one had to pay for lovely sweet Tae Lane.

The bold Mickey took a horsehoe  which he’d pinched from Tarrant’s forge.

No more in vain he could watch in pain his brother  poor Pat Joe.

The glistening shoe of steel he threw, it caught Pat Joe’s left grip.

“The odds have changed”, Eric Browne exclaimed “we’re on a sinking ship”.

Just then the sky above  them changed, the sun  shone through instead

as round  by Potter Galvin’s came the flash of Ollie’s head.

Mounted on a milk white stallion from Patrick Street he came

thundering to the brother’s rescue as he lay wounded in  Tae Lane.

There are mixed views of what happened next, but I was surely there.

No classic from the Astor or the Plaza could compare.

Mac Master or Mc Fadden could never stage the play.

Who won? Who lost?  What matter, all were Gleann Boys on that day.

That battle royal still lingers in the confines of my mind.

No time nor tide dare loose it as long as I’m alive.

‘Twas the battle of all battles  that held no blame or shame

fought fiercely by those boys of yore for the right to rule Tae Lane.


Yellow Dresses for Cailíní

I spotted these in Dunnes Stores. Is it just me or do these have a cailín chiúin vibe?