For the English on the list -- Childhood Memories Apple blossom, and new-mown hay, Memories of childhood days. Walks by the river and tea on the lawn, Picking mushrooms at early dawn. Bluebells and buttercups and daisy chains, Cycling through the country lanes. Mother waiting at the gate, Worrying if we were late. Those days are gone, But the memories stay, To help me through the lonely days. Logs burning in the open grate, Toast for tea and seedy cake, Winkles eaten with a pin, Happy days to have lived in. Carrying milk home from the farm, Watching the sheep being sheared in the barn. Hearing the cuckoo in early spring. Happiness is a simple thing. As I grow older, I think of those days. The memories will forever stay. Petticoat starched, high button boots. Spinning tops, bowling hoops, Holding my little sister's hand, Pushing the baby in the pram. My brother teasing and pulling my hair. I didn't always say, "Well, I don't care." Our Saturday penny was always well spent, It surprises me now how far it went. The laughter and happiness of bygone days, Memories of childhood that will ever stay. -- L. A. Tedder, Chobham, Surrey, 'Poets Corner,' "Best of British, Past & Present" magazine October 1998.

SNIPPET: In 1888, Victorian traveller to Ireland, Englishman Richard LOVETT, referred to an event in history as a "most brilliant exploit performed by Limerick's military hero, SARSFIELD." "When, in 1690, WILLIAM III was marching upon Limerick expecting an easy capture, it was only by SARSFIELD's energy and courage that the resolution was taken to resist to the last. Things looked gloomy indeed for the Irish cause. WILLIAM and his army arrived and pitched their tents; at some distance in the rear followed ammunition trains and supplies, together with some heavy ordnance, and a bridge of ten boats. SARSFIELD, with the skill of a true soldier, saw that his one supreme hope was to destroy the enemy's train. The incident can hardly be better described than in LORD MACAULAY's words: 'A few hours, therefore, after the English tents had been pitched before Limerick, SARSFIELD set forth under cover of the night with a strong body of horse and dragoons. He took the road to Killaloe, and crossed the Shannon there; during the day he lurked with his band in a wild mountain tract named from the silver mines which it contains. He learned in the evening that the detachment which guarded the English artillery had halted for the night seven miles from WILLIAM's camp on a pleasant carpet of green turf, and under the ruined walls of an old castle; that officers and men seemed to think themselves perfectly secure; that the beasts had been turned loose, and that even the sentinels were dozing. When it was dark the Irish horsemen quitted their hiding-place, and were conducted by the people of the country to the spot where the escort lay sleeping round the guns. The surprise was complete; some of the English sprang to their arms, and made an attempt to resist, but in vain; about sixty fell, one only was taken alive. The victorious Irish made a huge pile of waggons and pieces of cannon. Every gun was stuffed with powder, and fixed with its mouth in the ground, and the whole mass was blown up. The solitary prisoner, a lieutenant, was treated with great civility by SARSFIELD. 'If I had failed in this attempt,' said the gallant Irishman, 'I should have been sent off to France.' SARSFIELD returned to Limerick, WILLIAM was compelled to retreat, and it was not until the following year the SARSFIELD honourably capitulated to GINKELL, and retired with a part of his army to France. A fine statue of the general now adorns one of the streets of the city."

RAMBLES OF SPRING There's a cold and wintry breeze blowing through the buddin' trees and I've buttoned up my coat to keep me warm But the days are on the mend and I'm on the road again With me fiddle snuggled close beneath my arm I've a fine felt hat and a strong pair of brouges I have rosin in me pocket for me bow and my fiddle strings are new and I've learned a tune or two So I'm well prepared to ramble, I must go. I'm as happy as a king, when I catch a breath of Spring and the grass is turning green as winter ends and the Geese are on the wing, as the Thrushes start to sing and I'm headed down the road to see my friends I've a fine felt hat and a strong pair of brouges I have rosin in me pocket for me bow and my fiddle strings are new and I've learned a tune or two So I'm well prepared to ramble, I must go. I have friends in every town as I ramble up and down Makin' music at the markets and the fairs to the Dumphies and the Friels and the farmers makin' deals and the Yellow-headed tinker sellin' wares I've a fine felt hat and a strong pair of brouges I have rosin in me pocket for me bow and my fiddle strings are new and I've learned a tune or two So I'm well prepared to ramble, I must go Here's a health to one and all, to the big and to the small to the rich and poor alike and foe and friend And when we return again, may our foes have turned to friends And may peace and joy be with you until then I've a fine felt hat and a strong pair of brouges I have rosin in me pocket for me bow and my fiddle strings are new and I've learned a tune or two So I'm well prepared to ramble, I must go I've a fine felt hat and a strong pair of brouges I have rosin in me pocket for me bow and my fiddle strings are new and I've learned a tune or two So I'm well prepared to ramble, I must go. -- Tommy Makem

LA DAME JAUNE She took the curious amber charms >From off her neck, and laid them down, She loosed her jonquil-coloured gown, And shook the bracelets from her arms. She loosed her lemon-satin stays, She took a carven ivory comb, Her hair crawled down like yellow foam, And flickered in the candle's rays. I watched her thick locks, like a mass Of honey, dripping from the pin; Each separate hair was as the thin Gold thread within a Venice glass. -- Dublin born to unconventional parents - Oscar Wilde's father, William Robert Wilde, was an eminent eye doctor appointed Surgeon Occulist to the Queen and was knighted. His mother, Jane Speranza Francesca Wilde, wrote patriotic Irish verse under the pseudonym Speranza.

THE ENIGMA. PALE victims, where is your Fatherland? Where oppression is law from age to age, Where the death-plague, and hunger, and misery rage, And tyrants a godless warfare wage 'Gainst the holiest rights of an ancient land. Where the corn waves green on the fair hillside, But each sheaf by the serfs and slavelings tied Is taken to pamper a foreigner's pride-- There is our suffering Fatherland. Where broad rivers flow 'neath a glorious sky, And the valleys like gems of emerald lie; Yet, the young men, and strong men, starve and die, For want of bread in their own rich land. And we pile up their corses, heap on heap, While the pale mothers faint, and the children weep; Yet, the living might envy the dead their sleep, So bitter is life in that mourning land. Oh! Heaven ne'er looked on a sadder scene; Earth shuddered to hear that such woe had been; Then we prayed, in despair, to a foreign queen, For leave to live on our own fair land. We have wept till our faces are pale and wan; We have knelt to a throne till our strength is gone; We prayed to our masters, but, one by one, They laughed to scorn our suffering land; And sent forth their minions, with cannon and steel, Swearing with fierce, unholy zeal, To trample us down with an iron heel, If we dared but to murmur our just demand.-- Know ye not now our Fatherland? What! are there no MEN in your Fatherland, To confront the tyrant's stormy glare, With a scorn as deep as the wrongs ye bear, With defiance as fierce as the oaths they sware, With vengeance as wild as the cries of despair, That rise from your suffering Fatherland? Are there no SWORDS in your Fatherland, To smite down the proud, insulting foe, With the strength of despair give blow for blow Till the blood of the baffled murderers flow On the trampled soil of your outraged land? Are your right arms weak in that land of slaves, That ye stand by your murdered brothers' graves, Yet tremble like coward and crouching knaves, To strike for freedom and Fatherland? Oh! had ye faith in your Fatherland, In God, your Cause, and your own right hand, Ye would go forth as saints to the holy fight, Go in the strength of eternal right, Go in the conquering Godhead's might-- And save or AVENGE your Fatherland! -- Lady Jane F. (Elgee) Wilde

SNIPPET: Sir William WILDE (1815-76), born near Castlerea, Co. Roscommon, was an internationally famous eye and ear surgeon, medical historian, statistician, and archaeologist. WILDE qualified in medicine in Dublin in 1837 and later studied in London and Vienna. After returning to Dublin, he established St. Mark's eye and ear hospital in 1844, which in 1897 became the Royal Victoria eye and ear hospital. In addition to practising as a surgeon and publishing a major textbook on aural surgery (1853), WILDE also worked on both the 1841 and 1851 censuses. His medical appendix to the 1851 census is a pioneering work in medical history and statistics. He also wrote accounts of his travels in the eastern Mediterranean (1839) and Austria (1845), and published archaeological studies of the Boyne river (1849) and Lough Corrib (1867) areas. WILDE had several illegitimate children, but in 1851 married Jane Francesca ELGEE. They had two sons, William (1852-99), a Dublin barrister, and Oscar (1854-1900), the playwright and poet. -- Elizabeth Malcolm, Professor of Irish Studies, University of Melbourne.

SNIPPET: One of the highlights of my recent visit to Ireland was dining one afternoon with my sister and two Irish e-mail friends at the beautiful Lake Hotel, a charming, family-run establishment superbly located on the shore of the famous Lakes of Killarney. It is nestled at the water's edge of the lower lake in the shadow of a picturesque mountain range - what a gorgeous view! Built in 1820, the award-winning Lake Hotel combines old world charm with modern facilities. The hotel is located just 2 km from Killarney town centre and just steps away from Killarney National Park. It is a perfect base from which to explore the Ring of Kerry, Dingle Peninsula and Killarney's many attractions. Guests of the hotel may also avail themselves of the hotel's private tennis court, golf practice area and fishing facilities. Killarney offers outdoor facilities for visitors including golfing, angling, pony-trekking, hill-walking, cycling, boating and botanical study. Note that children under eight years of age are apparently accommodated only between 6:15 p.m. and 7 p.m. in the lovely Castlelough Restaurant. Beautiful Muckross House and Gardens are less than five minutes away by car or 25 minutes walking distance, which my sister and I, and our friends, enjoyed touring very much! The Lake Hotel, built in 1820, still exhibits the original elegant lounges, with open log fires. In 1861, the Lake Hotel hosted Queen Victoria of England during her stay in Ireland. Down through the years the families, COTTER, COFFEY, MORROUGH, BERNARD and COURTNEY owned the hotel. In 1897 Mr. HILLARD of Killarney acquired the hotel and in 1940 it was purchased by the HUGGARDs of Waterville, and operated by the late Hilda HUGGARD. The HUGGARDs were also presented with Ashford Castle in Cong, Co. Mayo by the Irish Government to restore the castle to a top quality hotel. This was done under the guidance of Hilda's brother Noel, their mother Mary, as well as the directors of Bord Failte. Well-known for her hospitality, service and friendly welcome, Hilda passed on the HUGGARD traditions and hospitality to her nephews, Tony, Colman, Niall and Joe who are actively involved in the hotel to the present day. Many nephews, nieces, grand nephews and grand nieces are also continuing the HUGGARD tradition in the Irish tourism industry. From the window of the Lake Hotel can be seen the ruins of a Medieval Castle. From here Donal MacCARTHY ruled the two Munster's as Titular King of Desmond. He is reputed to have been extravagant and had a fondness for drink. He was a rich and strong leader of Desmond in a difficult era and protected his territory with diplomacy rather than force. More information: www.lakehotel.com

A very useful and interesting - and beautiful ( which always helps ) book on how the ordinary Irish people lived their lives in Ireland in the late 18th,19th and early 20th century is; IRISH RURAL INTERIORS IN ART by Claudia Kinmouth, published by Yale University Press, HB, ISBN 0-300-10732-3 It covers all aspects of life - cooking, work, interiors of the house and workshop, beds and ways of sleeping ( very informative ), weddings and wakes, holy days and holidays, pubs and shops, and health and education - from illustrations using contemporary paintings and drawings. And it is so revealing, really, really helps to understand how our families lived, covering all Ireland. My brother gave it to me for my birthday, and a nicer present I could not have had. Mary p.s. Amazon have it.

BLACKBERRY-PICKING Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. -- Seamus Heaney, from 'Death of a Naturalist' (1966)

PLEASE CANCEL RUTH FEATHER'S INFO. MRS. FEATHER PASSED AWAY, FEB 17, 2007. FRED BURNETTE, [email protected] ************************************** See what's free at http://www.aol.com.

Hello, Mr. Burnette -- To unsubscribe Ruth, simply send an email to [email protected] with the word 'unsubscribe' (without the quotes) in the subject and the body of the message. That will ensure you do not receive any further e-mails from IGW. Thank you! Sorry about your loss. J. ----- Original Message ----- From: <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]> Sent: Saturday, April 07, 2007 9:50 AM Subject: Re: [IGW] "Soaking Up Sun" (contemp.) -- Heard on "The Writer'sAlmanac"/Publ... > PLEASE CANCEL RUTH FEATHER'S INFO. MRS. FEATHER PASSED AWAY, FEB 17, 2007. > FRED BURNETTE, [email protected] >

SOAKING UP SUN Today there is the kind of sunshine old men love, the kind of day when my grandfather would sit on the south side of the wooden corncrib where the sunlight warmed slowly all through the day like a wood stove. One after another dry leaves fell. No painful memories came. Everything was lit by a halo of light. The cornstalks glinted bright as pieces of glass. From the fields and cottonwood grove came the damp smell of mushrooms, of things going back to earth. I sat with my grandfa- ther then. Sheep came up to us as we sat there, their oily wool so warm to my fingers, like a strange and magic snow. My grandfather whittled sweet smelling apple sticks just to get at the scent. His thumb had a permanent groove in it where the back of the knife blade rested. He let me listen to the wind, the wild geese, the soft dialect of sheep, while his own silence taught me every secret thing he knew. -- Tom Hennen, "Good Poems," selected by Garrison Keillor (2002)

FOR OUR PENANCE This Spring indeed is crucifixion time On February nights the stars are nails The rains of squally March are lashing flails The year has its own Calvary to climb The sun may shine but all too soon it pales Blue skies cloud over; stony grey prevails And many things recall the Friday Crime But golden bells are calling us to pray And know that our salvation has begun And though dreaded Cross stands in our way We know that when the awful deed is done Easter will roll those stone grey clouds away And show the glory of the risen sun. -- Warren O'CONNELL

1. "The Lightning Tree," by P. J. CURTIS, Bandon, ISBN 0-86322-347-8, h/b. "At the southern edge of the Burren region of north County Clare, in a sheltered, compact, whitewashed house, the central character of this popular author's story lived. Mariah ' the oldest, wisest and most feared woman in the whole of the Burren' (we are not giving her surname) died at the age of ninety-six in 1954. P. J. was then ten years old and familiar with the sight of his elderly neighbour 'snoozing in her whitethorn armchair,' resembling a life-sized carving, 'until, that is, she awoke and her bright, sloe-black eyes transformed her features utterly.' A lifetime later, P. J. tells Mariah's story as she might have told it and in a fashion which might please her ... a most charming biographical book." 2. "The Fertile Rock: Seasons in the Burren," by Carsten KRIEGER, Collins Press, ISBN 0-905172-02-8, h/b. "Carsten Krieger grew up in southern Germany, moving to live in Co. Clare in 2001 and this is his first book. It is a most handsome production, lavishly illustrated by his fine photographs carefully and informatively captioned, the result of three working days each week for three years, spent in the Burren in Clare. Normally domineering Leamaneth Castle looks positively welcoming against a bright summer sky. Magnificently horned goats roam the steep limestone cliffs as though their feet were made of some magical glue. The familiar and delightful Burren flora gleam like precious jewels on Mr. Kreiger's pages. Worth every cent." 3. "The Museums of Ireland: A Celebration," The Liffey Press, ISBN 1-904148-88-3, p/b. "This guidebook attracts attention for the sheer specialisation it displays. Eighty museums and galleries are listed and described - amongst them the National Gallery of Ireland, the Sheelin Irish Lace Museum, Dublin City Gallery the Hugh Lane, the Foynes Flying Boat Museum, the Chester Beatty Art Museum and Library, the Museum of the Master Saddler, the Hunt Museum, the four branches of the National Museum (Archaeology, Decorative Arts, Natural History and Country Life) and the Model Railway Museum - with all the details of the location, background, the important collections and objects, opening hours, admission fees, special programmes or educational course appropriate to each one. To quote Walter PHELAN, the owner of the Irish Fly Fishing and Game Shooting Museum in Portlaoise (Queen's Co.) - 'Museums are the homes of objects of the past, reminding us where we came from, our traditions, cultures, hobbies and so on. We cannot proceed into the future without understanding the past.' Per review, "Beautifully and lavishly illustrated in full colour, this book celebrates the current diversity and high quality of Irish museums." 4. "There Might Be A Drop of Rain Yet," by Brendan LYNCH, Currach Press, ISBN 1-85607 937-6, p/b. "Brendan LYNCH escaped his authoritative, orthodox Irish life, to live the way he wanted, as a journalist and political activist in Britain. 'Then hey for boot and horse, lad/And round the world away/Young blood must have its course, lad/And every dog his day.' Years later, he came back to a changing Ireland when his mother became ill and needed the support of his presence. This delightful memoir traces the great changes he encountered in that part of Dublin which had been his youthful stamping ground - Grafton Street, Stephen's Green, Merrion Square, Baggot Street with Parson's iconic bookshop on the canal bridge and the verdant joys of home in Toomevara and boyhood holidays in Scarriff - as well as his gradual acceptance of his mother's diminishing grip on life ..."

SNIPPET: In 1810 the fathers of the prospering city of Cork decided that a new facility was required to replace the centuries-old Bridewell. An area on the hillside above was chosen. The architect was Sir Thomas DEANE ( who afterwards designed the exquisite quadrangle of University College Cork) and the work was carried out by builder Richard NOTTER. In 1824 the first prisoners were taken to the new gaol, considered a model of its kind in three kingdoms. The Gaol's story encompasses innumerable lives with their own events and circumstances from the pre-Victorian days of transportation to daring deeds of passionate freedom fighters in the first decades of the 20th century. Transportation was the early favoured solution for most offenders and as Cork was the main sailing port for convict ships, literally thousands of prisoners from all over Ireland were channelled down to the City Gaol before being sent away from their homeland, forever, in most cases. The Down County Museum, for example, has records of its detainees sent south to Cork for transportation. This is what makes the Heritage Centre such as a magnet for family historians from all over the world. It can be a very moving experience to touch the very same walls where your great-great-great grandfather may have touched. Over 40 thousand were transported through the port of Cork by the 1830s alone! Crowded into huge rough wagons known as tumbrils, they were taken down to Queenstown, (now Cobh, to be herded onto the convict ships. These ships - "Elizabeth," "Lady Rowena," "Marquis of Hastings," "Hougemont" among others - were usually freighters which had brought commercial goods from the other side of the world; now they took human ballast back. Later it tended to be political prisoners who were transported. Starving Famine victims who committed petty crimes at least had food and shelter here; life outside in the early 19th century was not a good time to be poor. Famous writes served their time for the offence of loving their country. Even a Countess was imprisoned within these walls. The old Cork City Gaol nestles in the terraced wooded hills of the city between Sunday's Well (named for an ancient healing spring) and Farranree. The enormous H-shaped stone building. Dwarfing in size and extent all around, its high walls and massive archway entrance give a clue to its original identity. It last held prisoners in 1923. In 1927 Radio Eireann, the Irish national radio broadcaster, took over the top floor of the Governor's house, its lofty location making it ideal as a broadcasting station, and programmes continued to go out from the Cork station until the 1950s when a more modern studio was built in the heart of the city . Slowly the once majestic building crumbled into disrepair, forgotten and overgrown. In the late 1980s, a Cork business couple, Diarmuid and Mary KENNEALLY, embarked on a courageous project - to bring the old City Gaol back of life as a Heritage Centre that would not only tells its own story but that of the city it served. Elizabeth KEARNS is the Heritage Centre Administrator and has been involved with the project from the beginning. Living history is evident as soon as you step through the imposing entrance archway with life-like figures. In a doorway you see a shrinking woman in shabby clothes, grasped firmly by a tough female wardress. This is the unfortunate seamstress Mary SULLIVAN, being brought to see the governor, John BARRY-MURPHY, who oversaw the prison from 1856-1973, was the first Catholic to be appointed to the post and was renowned for his tolerance and humanity. Interesting, one of his descendants, Deirdre BARRY-MURPHY, worked at the Heritage Centre until she left for Spain. Everywhere you see these figures - a kind and worried doctor hurrying to the cell of a sick inmate, little Mary-Ann TWOHIG nursing her newborn babe, the prison chaplain hearing the confessions of Thomas RAILLE, etc. In the cells occupied by the Fenian or Republican prisoners, you can see the actual inscriptions scraped on the walls during long hours of confinement. Denny LANE, a member of a prominent Cork distilling family, was held here in 1848 for his connection with the Young Irelanders. The Jan-Feb 2005 issue of Dublin's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine has a several-page article (w/photos) on the Goal, other case histories, by Jo KERRIGAN, freelance writer in Macroom, Co. Cork. Cork City Gaol, Convent Avenue, Sunday's Well, Cork City, hours of admission, etc. - Website: www.corkcitygaol.com

SNIPPET: One of the best-known but oddest partnerships of the 19th century was that of GILBERT and SULLIVAN, who collaborated on the famous Savoy Operettas which began in 1875 with their one-act 'Trial by Jury.' Arthur Seymour SULLIVAN was Queen Victoria's favourite composer, a serious musician who wrote such well-known pieces as the hymn 'Onward, Christian Soldiers,' and 'The Lost Chord.' SULLIVAN was born into the squalor of Cockney London in 1842 into a musical family. His Irish father was military bandmaster at Sandhurst. From his Italian mother and Irish father, SULLIVAN received his warmth, charm and musical gifts. By the age of 8, he could play competently every musical instrument in his father's band. He also had the gift of a remarkable voice and sang sacred music in scarlet and gold in the Chapel Royal Choir. At the age of 14 he was awarded a prestigious scholarship to the Royal Academy of Music under the terms of which he went to Leipzig Conservatory and met Liszt, Spohe and Grieg. On returning to England he was appointed organist at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. In spite of fragile health that plagued him all his life, SULLIVAN worked hard and accomplished a large amount of work. In London he composed concerti, piano work and symphony, marches, overtures, an oratorio, a ballet, songs, religious music, and two comic operas. Of note - SULLIVAN was commissioned to write three special works including the "Wedding March," celebrating the marriage of the Prince of Wales to the beautiful Princess Alexandra of Denmark, which marked the beginning of the composer's relationship with the royal family. SULLIVAN was also a close friend of novelist Charles DICKENS. After a visit to Ireland, SULLIVAN composed his Symphony in E Flat ("The Irish Symphony") in 1863, which became a great success after its first performance at the Crystal Place in 1866. In 1871, SULLIVAN began a collaboration with the talented and fairly successful English playwright and poet, William Schwenck GILBERT, the son of a retired naval surgeon. GILBERT was born in London in 1836, his parents were well-to do, and he spent much of his youth travelling through Europe with them. He was kidnapped in Italy at a young age, released by ransom, but otherwise appears to have had an uneventful upbringing. He had three younger sisters. GILBERT was tall, bore himself with a military air and had a great wit, which he used frequently to crush those with whom he came into conflict, a not-infrequent occurance. When asked by a boring American lady: "Tell me, Mr. Gilbert, is Bach still composing?" he replied, "No Madam, Bach is by way of decomposing!" In 1877 GILBERT and SULLIVAN co-operated on "The Sorcerer." In 1873 they wrote their full-length masterpiece "HMS Pinafore," which became a huge success - so much so that ten thousand copies of the sheet music were being sold daily. By now the two were very much in demand, and this led to the establishment of a firm partnership between GILBERT, SULLIVAN and D'Oyly CARTE, manager of the Royalty Theatre in Dean Street. London, and who was to be their promoter and manager. The next operetta was a variance on "Pinafore" - "The Pirates of Penzance," which was first produced in NY in 1879 and in England in 1880. Success after success made the trio rich and famous as they followed on with projects to include "The Mikado" in 1885. So well-established had the operas now become that CARTE opened a new London theatre, The Savoy, to be devoted almost entirely to their productions which were then named the Savoy Operas. It ws said to have been GILBERT's egotism and jealousy that began to cause a great deal of friction. He quarrelled with nearly everyone and resented the fact that SULLIVAN was knighted in 1883 for services to music while he himself was ignored by Queen Victoria. The cantankerous GILBERT also complained that SULLIVAN's music was drowning his witty words, which further strained their relationship. Their great alliance finally ended in 1896. SULLIVAN took to gambling in the European casinos, suffering greatly from a painful kidney ailment. He died suddenly in London in 1900, leaving a Grand Opera, 'The Emerald Isle,' only half-finished. GILBERT became a magistrate and retired to his rambling house at Harrow, receiving a belated knighthood in 1907. Sir GILBERT died from a heart attack in 1911 after rescuing a drowning girl in the swimming pool at his home. In the end, it was success and mutual respect that held these masters of comic operas together rather than mutual affection. The Savoy operas were kept alive by the D'Oyly CARTE company which continued to stage them until 1982, when hard times in the theatre caused the company to close down. This was re-formed in 1988, however, after a legacy was received by them from the late Bridget D'Oyly CARTE.

SNIPPET: "A thousand crows fill the twilight with wings and voice like some vast black shattering of glass. Then, as by an order, they wheel and come to roost in Burnham Wood, claws locked on branches, heads buried under wings, silent as ancient sins," wrote Bryan HODGSON, in the April 1976 issue of the "Smithsonian" Washington DC magazine in his marvelous article 'Irish Ways Live On in Dingle." Perhaps you can locate a copy - 27 pages of history and stories of Kerry's Dingle Peninsula and 20 outstanding photos of the area and residents by Linda BARTLETT. The cover of the magazine has a close-up of a little freckled-face, red-haired Irish boy. "We are silent, too, chilled by the primeval echoes and trapped somehow in time. We have come on a pilgrimage of sorts, from the Holy Stone in Goat Street to the grounds of Burnham House, the graceful mansion that gazes across Dingle Harbour toward the town. The stone is a rude lump, hollowed to catch the rain. In the days when Catholicism was a crime, legends tells, fugitive priests blessed the water for their parishioners. At the bottom of the street the Protestant Church of St. James has lost its tower to age and neglect. A crumbling vault commemorates the family of Frederick MULLINS, a British colonel who bought land near Dingle in 1666. His descendants built Burnham and ruled there as Lords of Ventry. Today (1976) it is a boarding school where young girls study lessons all in Irish. As we turn away, we hear the choir practicing for tomorrow's Mass. The hymn is to the Virgin. The distant voices seem filled with longing. Later, in Tommy GEORGE's Bar near Ballydavid, we hear the longing note again. Micheal O DULAINE, sings for us one of the traditional Irish songs telling of pure love turned to ashes and regret: 'You have taken east from me, and west/You have taken before from me, and behind/You have taken moon and sun from me/And great my fear that you have taken God from me.' Seainin O'SULLIVAN is there, too, and he plays a wild reel that brings four couples to the floor for a Kerry set. It is much like a square dance, with great flourishes of heel and toe. Partners challenge each other's eyes, and their energy charges the room until everyone is clapping and stamping his feet. We salute each other then in pints of stout, with foam like spindrift and a bitter taste of charred malt. 'Slainte mhaith,' says Micheal. 'Good health to you.' 'Go raibh maith agat,' I reply. 'May it go well with you.' The evening is long, and the songs joyful and sad by turns. Irishmen drink not to forget, but to remember." Photos include one captioned: "After a long night of empty nets, bone-weary fishermen console themselves with a pint of stout in Johnnie Frank SULLIVAN's Bar in Ballydavid. Fish processing and trout farming help rank the fishing industry among the area's most important."

1972 For countless ages down the glen, the little stream has flown, Along its steeps, the golden gorse, the fern and rowan grown. Small beast found shelter in its depths, the birds sang here all day, While generations came and went and empires passed away. A cleft between two limestone hills, preserved from man's intrusion, Far from the bullets and the bombs, the anguish and confusion. A place to sit and ponder on the lessons of the past, While politicians rant and rave, from Derry to Belfast. Injustice breeds rebellion, rebellion breeds excess. Violence countering violence brings horror and distress; The widow's tear, the child's lament, the strong man's cry of pain, The burning home, the haggard face that never smiled again. As resurrection follows death, so hope succeeds dismay, And peace will come to this fair land when people kneel to pray. And love will bloom as hatred dies within the souls of men, But I am listening here, alone, to the message of the glen. -- The late Matt Duggan was born in Maguiresbridge, Co. Fermanagh in 1914. His family emigrated to Scotland when he was six, but at the age of nine he was adopted by an uncle in Derrylin, Co. Fermanagh and finished his schooling there. Mr. Duggan was a POW in WWII for four years and a postman in Derrylin for 25 years. Some of his poems appear in "From Mountain to Lough."

SNIPPET: The notes of enthusiastic and observant Victorian traveller in Ireland, Englishman Richard LOVETT, were published by the Religious Tract Society in 1888. His itinerary was leisurely, by steamer, train, carriage and foot, in the days before the coming of the motorcar and aeroplane. "Under the shadow of Lissoughter the road skirts the shores of Glendalough, a lovely lake, but, like Killarney, apt to suffer somewhat from the extreme claims put forth on its behalf by too enthusiastic admirers. From this point onwards the road to Clifden runs through a succession of valleys either by the side of a rippling mountain stream or along the delightful shores of Glendalough and Derryclare and Ballynahinch. Dominating the whole western half of the drive, and affording a succession of delightful mountain views, stands the cluster of 'peaks of Beola,' the word 'bin' or 'ben, 'mountain,' having been corrupted from 'pin.' Benbaun, the highest of the group, is 2,395 feet above the sea level. Clifden is a well-situated little town, standing at the head of Ardbear Bay, and shut in to the north, and east by a circle of mountains. There is not much trade carried on here, and this whole district has never recovered fully from the terrible famine experiences. But on a market day the crowd of peasants and various business transactions present much that catches the attention of a stranger. The women in blue or scarlet cloaks, the men in frieze coats and knee-breeches, the pigs and sheep, the lively actions and conversations all combine to make up a picturesque and animated scene. The best excursion from Clifden is through the Martin country to Roundstone and Urrisberg, a hill which although only 987 feet high, yet from its isolated position affords a lovely view, and presents phenomena interesting alike to the botanist and geologist. Those who follow the beaten track, after staying the night at Clifden, will proceed by car another 40 miles to Westport. This route also carries the traveller through some magnificent scenery. Soon after reaching Letterfrack, the Pass of Kylemore is entered. If a choice had to be made among the many exquisite scenes of this region, not a few would award the palm to Kylemore." ....

FERN HILL Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the tilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and a maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace, Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea. -- Dylan Thomas. (Elizabeth Davies, 72 , retired teacher, San Diego, CA, wrote - "This poem, to me, is a spoken memory of my own happy childhood on my grandmother's farm. I spent more hours there, with my siblings and cousins, than I did in may own home. I was raised in that same green corner of Wales where Dylan lived and is buried. The poem is a lyrical evocation of the glories of a happy childhood, spent in a beautiful place, yet it underscores the sadness of childhood's ephemerality." - 'Americans' Favorite Poems,' ed. Pinsky and Dietz, W. W. Norton/2000).