Bill Singleton Poem by Francis Duggan

Tree branches were often his ceiling and the cold ground was often his bed
And he had scary stories of Oregon to make the hair stand on your head
He spent his prime years at stock herding and in that wild land his fortune he made
And he was a straight talking fellow the type who called a spade a spade.

I often saw Bill Singleton at Hennessy's the old Millstreet greyhound trial track
From Carriglea near Mountleader he always rode down on horse back
His daughter Mary walked down with the greyhounds a happy smile lit up her face
The dogs that clocked fast times in Millstreet were sure to do well in a race.

Carriglea Prince his track and coursing dog began his journey to renown
Like great dogs before him and after at Hennessy's near Millstreet town
A dog who was never found wanting he performed well when put to the test
A Cork Cup and a Laurels finalist he coursed and raced against the best.

Bill Singleton one I remember and his Byronic sort of wit
When horse dung was referred to as horse droppings he always
called it horse's shit
The hoity toities may have been offended when in fact the man was down to earth
What's seen as rude to a few to most others is a reason for laughter and mirth.

And behind the hard like exterior there was far more warmth than cold
And of his generosity and kindness some marvellous stories were told
A great character in the true sense and there was none kinder than Bill
And he will always be remembered in Millstreet by old Clara Hill.