File nó fíodóir ríme, ar a dtugtar Bard Bhaile Caraidh, ab ea James Orr (1770 - 24 Aibreán 1816), Contae Aontroma ó Bhaile Caraidh i gCúige Uladh in Éirinn, a scríobh i mBéarla agus in Albainis Uladh. Ba é a dhán is cáiliúla ná The Irishman . Bhí sé ar thús cadhnaíochta mar fhíodóir ríme Uladh, agus bhí sé ag scríobh ag an am céanna le Raibeart Burns. Dar leis an bhfile mór Uladh eile, John Hewitt, tháirg sé roinnt ábhar éigin a bhí níos fearr ná Burns.
Thosaigh Orr le Cumann na nÉireannach Aontaithe i 1791 agus ghlac sé páirt in Éirí Amach 1798. Briseadh ar an Arm Aontaithe Uladh, a raibh sé ina chuid de, ag Cath Aontroma. agus tar éis dó dul i bhfolach ó na húdaráis, theith sé go Meiriceá. D'fhan sé ansin ar feadh tamaill bhig, agus é ag saothrú trí nuachtán, ach d'fhill sé ar Bhaile Caraidh i 1802 faoi ollmhaithiúnas. Fuair sé bás i mBaile Caraidh sa bhliain 1816, ag aois 46.
Tá séadchomhartha maorga ar Orr, arna thógáil ag Saoir Shaoránaigh áitiúla i 1831, suite i reilig Templecorran gar do Bhaile Caraidh, mar chuimhne ar an Mháisiún agus Fhíodóir Ríme Uladh. Bhí Orr ina bhall cairte den Lóiste.
Scríobhann James Orr (1770–1816) óna thaithí ar scéal na ndeoraithe ó Bhaile Caraidh tar éis an Éirí Amach 1798.[1]
The Passengers
How calm an’ cozie is the wight,
Frae cares an’ conflicts clear ay,
Whase settled headpiece never made,
His heels or han’s be weary!
Perplex’d is he whase anxious schemes
Pursue applause, or siller,
Success nor sates, nor failure tames;
Bandied frae post to pillar
Is he, ilk day
As we were, Comrades, at the time
We mov’d frae Ballycarry,
To wan’er thro’ the woody clime
Burgoyne gied oure to harrie:
Wi’ frien’s consent we prie’t a gill,
An’ monie a house did call at,
Shook han’s, an’ smil’t; tho’ ilk fareweel
Strak, like a mighty mallet,
Our hearts, that day
This is my locker, yon’ers Jock’s,
In that aul creel, sea-store is
Thir births beside us are the Lockes
My uncle’s there before us;
Here hang my tins an’ vitriol jug,
Nae thief’s at han’ to meddle ‘em
L—d, man, I’m glad ye’re a’ sae snug;
But och! ‘tis owre like Bedlam
Wi’ a’ this day
Aince mair luck lea’s us (plain ‘tis now
A murd’rer in some mess is)
An English frigate heaves in view,
I’ll bail her board, an’ press us
Taupies beneath their wives wha stole,
Or ‘mang auld sails lay flat ay,
Like whitrats peepin’ frae their hole,
Cried ‘is she British, wat ye,
Or French this day?’
‘Twas but a brig frae Baltimore,
To Larne wi’ lintseed steerin’;
Twa days ago she left the shore,
Let’s watch for lan’ appearin’;
Spies frae the shrouds, like laigh dark clouds
Descried domes, mountains, bushes;
Tha exiles griev’t – the sharpers thiev’t –
While cronies bous’t like fishes
Conven’t, that day
Whan glidin’ up the Delaware,
We cam’ fornent Newcastle,
Gypes co’ert the whaft to gove, an’ stare
While out, in boats, we bustle:
Creatures wha ne’er had seen a black,
Fu’ scar’t took to their shankies;
Sae, wi’ our best rags on our back,
We mixt amang the Yankies,
An’ skail’t, that day
- Liosta de scríbhneoirí Éireannacha
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