The Legend

The Legend of The Dirty Duck

Now here’s a story sure to charm
Of a noble captain and his sinking swan
Lost in folklore changed by time
A ripping yarn that will stretch the mind
Old Donald Drake was a man of steel
A captains ticket, a trusty keel
Where all his life just these and Ale
His ship a Hooker, no gleaming gem
But to him much more, his heaven his hell
A name so apt as to cause disbelief
For the Black Swan herself was an ugly beast
It was mostly coal that filled her bows
And its dust and dirt marked her deep inside
The captain’s too was marked by soot
From his blackened cap to his sailors boots
This look he suited and as soon came true
The Dirty Duck as his nickname grew.

Folklore starts with a living tale
Of a dirty duck and his life of sail
Where legends grow the facts are lost
And myth becomes with time embossed

And so is true for our captains demise
At the hands of wind and a failing tide
That fateful night was Xmas eve
One century hence when the seas did heave

The Swan was full of finest ale
The bows were creaking in a winter’s gale
From Bristol port he had set out
To service Belfast’s real ale drought

The Irish sea was passed with ease
But in Belfast Lough with a growing breeze
His luck ran out and the captain’s failed
Some say because of the love of ale

At Kinnegar a bar of sand
Delivered Drake to the Promised Land
Or maybe not as legends grow
And myth distorts what people know

For now when Kinnegar folk are asked
They say his fate was astride a cask
Drifting off towards the moon
Singing loud an old folk tune

Whether true or whether not
The Swans lost cargo marked a spot
For casks of ale both rare and fine
Drifted shorewards and just in time
Were saved from peril against the rocks
By some thirsty men from the Kinnegar docks

From far and wide they came to gloat
About the Dirty Duck and his sunken boat
The casks washed up and cleaned and tapped
Were quickly savoured chap by chap

As Christmas day both came and went
With ale to help and tongues not spent
The story grew and myth began
The legend now was close at hand

The press of course would have its say
With presses hot on Christmas day
Newsletter, Wig and Telegraph
Would toast the Duck and its howling gaff

But paper men should well look out
For the power of drink when its handed out
For by the time the presses ran
Distorted facts and shaking hands
Had grown the Duck beyond a man

Tales of daring would without
Due of course to a cask of stout
The Dirty Duck a hero now
Must have a shrine to his great renown

So as you stand and look around
Although the thought may be profound
This place, this warmth, this atmosphere
Is a lasting memorial to a love of beer

Now rest a while in this hallowed ground
And get off your arse and buy a round!