SNIPPET: ... "The countryside offered us all kinds of delicacies: blackberries, bilberries, nuts, wild raspberries, sloes and haws. On a Sunday morning after early mass, men and youth would meet and go hunting across the moors and bogs, not for sport but for the pot. There were grouse, partridge, pheasant, rabbits and hares; also wild duck and geese, and woe betide anyone who killed out of season. There was a strict country code which, in latter years, as tourists came, was ignored ... Farmers eventually forbade all trespassing on their property in order to the protect the wild life. We would fish the rivers and lakes with home-made fishing rods and live bait. We would use heather to make besoms for sweeping the house floors and barns. Rushes would be used as bedding for the animals. At a certain time of year, when the hens were about to moult, we hastened this procedure by keeping them in darkness and feeding them on boiled nettles. We would cut ling heather and carry great big bundles on our backs from the bogs. This would be used for bedding and the hens would gorge themselves, thus speeding up the process of growing new feathers. We made use of most things that grew wild around our area, and learned from older people about country lore. A massive sycamore tree grew in the field above the house and one of my brothers would climb into its tall branches and put a rope over the stoutest limb. We would then secure a piece of suitable wood to the end of the rope and up and away we would go on the swing, into the air and over the rooftop of our house, back and forth, until our heads got dizzy, with everyone awaiting their turn and screaming in anticipation of the thrill of sailing over the chimneys. Mothers in the village would warn their children about accepting the challenge of a ride on our swing, but they still sneaked in for the forbidden treat. Although our main source of heat was turf, sometimes we supplemented this by using logs. We never cut down trees indiscriminately, as they were essential as protectors against the elements ... First of all, we would tell the tree the reason for cutting it down. Then we would run around to the other trees and tell them not to cry..." -- Excerpt, "An Irish Country Childhood," Marrie Walsh's memoir dedicated to her late husband, Tom. Marrie was born under the shadow of the Ox Mountains in Attymass, Co. Mayo, the ninth child of a large farming family in a village situated about seven miles from Ballina, a town on the River Moy near Killala Bay. She left Ireland in 1946, emigrating to England where she met her husband, then returning to her home community some fifty years later.

THROUGH A GLASS BRIGHTLY Feet crunching in the gravel, the first few steps would be past yew trees and rows of raspberry bushes on one side, and rhododendrons, wild roses, lilacs and God knows what flower his mother had dreamt up, on the other. It was her lasting passion. The day would be fine, probably a Sunday in late June before the lane was tarmacadamed. Then past the entrance (more flowers) and onto the road, turning right. The grove would be to the left - it's gone now, his father reclaimed it - the young trees (were they pines?) outrageously perfuming the breeze, and the cows, taking refuge from the heat, would stupidly stare at him. There would be wild strawberries under the milkstand, and if he looked up, There were more lilacs under the telegraph wires. Below the grove was the rushy field (even the rushes are gone) and on the other side of the road, the fallow field where he and his brothers would play hurling on summer evenings, sometimes in the rain - like the fanatics they would never be again. The lighter shade of grass marked their pitch, three jackets and a shirt made the goalposts and hacked branches of trees the hurls. The ball was usually for real. In the distance beyond that, a sleeping Annagh Hill, the colour of raspberry juice, and Croghan Kinsella, mountain of the legendary gold. A few yards more and he'd be flanked by briars, the long stalks green and strong, invading the road. Then to the bridge, once swept away by a flood which carried a man who survived to wear a bump like a boulder on his forehead. The river, calm but strong (now it's calm and feeble, widened to save crops from floodwaters) would show off trout doing dazzling turns on fins, or high jumps for insects under the cluster of tall, benign oaks. Then he'd end his voyage, pushing in the gate to the two-roomed cottage where the old couple lived in a shade of former glory, wading his way through guinea hens, and while the dog barked and bared his teeth, they would set tea and cakes, and he would be a prince, listening to the affairs of the realm. -- Philip CASEY was born to Irish parents in London in 1950 and grew up in Co. Wexford, now resides in Dublin

THE WALKING SHADOW Cows are not milked by hand anymore and so will never again swoon to the rhythms of Shakespeare. O Macbeth, I learned by heart your soliloquy against the warm belly of a cow every syllable matched by a rich swish into a frothing bucket. In that sharp dark morning my brothers grasp adhesive stars of frost on the aluminum milkcan. The number 28 sways, the milkcan bangs against their ankles. As the step of one rises, the other's has fallen onto the frozen gravel towards the stand And then is heard no more. -- Philip CASEY was born to Irish parents in London in 1950 and grew up in Co. Wexford, now resides in Dublin.

SNIPPET: In all his years, Edward HARVEY has never been able to resist the urge to trudge the shoreline and seek out whatever has been cast up; in fact, he is teased about his stoop from looking down at his feet for "treasures." Five generations ago his people were Cornish seafarers. In his schoolboy days, the early years of WW-II, he was evacuated with his London school en mass to Westward Ho in North Devon. There was an infinite possibility to roam the shore towards Clovelly and glean whatever floated in from the many ships being sunk in the Western Approaches. The U-Boats were enjoying their early successes in torpedoeing whatever ships they sighted. He and friend Mike NEWELL would cut school to spend an hour or two searching the shoreline. Apparently their none-too-observant, but brilliant and extremely kind, Welsh math teacher, Mr. THOMAS, never seemed to notice their absence and they would sneak back before the end of class. Despite all this they absorbed enough math for Mike NEWELL to later navigate the Spitfires, Vampires and Meteors which he later flew in the RAF, and Edward HARVEY served his years in the complexity of Airborne Radar. On that long expanse of beach they gathered all kinds of flotsam and jetsam, splintered wreckage, bits of aircraft. The most coveted of all prizes were the enormous bales of crude rubber, each weighing more than 100 pounds, from ships sunk in transit from Malaya (Malaysia). Each merited a bounty of 10 shillings from the Coastguard. That was ten weeks' pocket money! One find was a half-drowned dog whom they rescued and befriended. The truant beachcombing ended in 1943 and Mr. HARVEY's parents moved house to North Foreland in Kent after the war where Edward amassed a sizeable collection of fossils, mostly sea urchins of superb quality. They were driven out of the chalk cliffs by stormy seas in winter. His mother found fine examples of golden amber that were made into a ring still worn by his sister. When beachcombing the gleaming beaches in the West of Ireland and the shores of Connemara, he found magnificently created seashells. He searched for specimens of intensely mauve tropical violet-snail of family Janthinidae, a pelagic and specialised creature which lives on the surface of the Atlantic Ocean supported by a tiny raft of bubbles. He discovered pudding stones, small pebbles within larger pebbles, and he made necklaces from Connemara green marble, red jasper (a form of red quartz), and white quartz, and looked for rare "floating stones." When he had two he would rub them together in darkness to see mysterious, brilliant internal flashes of light. He found a piece of very rare Beryl in Galway, a flash of palest green that caught his eye; this prize became the cabochon stone which he fashioned for setting into a ring. In the summer of 1940, on a holiday in Wales, he and a friend rigged a crude mast and sail on a two-seater canoe. They sailed out to sea to scour the secluded and inaccessible coves of Dinas Head where they found an airman's life-vest. Donning it for the return journey proved to be a stroke of fate, as the wind picked up and the canoe capsized and they were flung into the sea, to swim half a mile to shore. -- Excerpts, Dublin's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine/July-Aug 2002

SNIPPET: Giraldus CAMBRENSIS (1146-1223), a member of a Norman Welsh family involved in the Norman invasion of Ireland in the late 12th century, left an unflattering portrait of the Irish, although he did remark on their prowess in battle and admired their musical skills. His illustrated manuscript, "Topography of Ireland," can be found in the National Library of Ireland, Dublin. Miniature drawings include 'Harper Seated on Chair' and 'Bareback Rider on Horse' (12th century). Per Gerald of Wales .... "They are a wild and inhospitable people. They live on beasts only, and live like beasts They have not progressed at all from the primitive habits of pastoral living. While man usually progresses from the woods to the fields, and from the fields to settlements and communities of citizens, this people despises work on the land, has little use for the money-making of towns, contemns (abhors) the rights and privileges of citizenship, and desires neither to abandon, nor lose respect for, the life which it has been accustomed to lead in the woods and countryside. They use the fields generally as pasture, but pasture in poor condition. Little is cultivated, and even less sown. The fields cultivated are so few because of the neglect of those who should cultivate them. But many of them are naturally very fertile and and productive. The wealth of the soil is lost, not through the fault of the soil, but because there are no farmers to cultivate even the best land: 'the fields demand, but there are no hands.' How few kinds of fruit-bearing trees are grown here! The nature of the soil is not to be blamed, but rather the want of industry on the part of the cultivator. He is too lazy to plant the foreign types of trees that would grow very well here. The different types of minerals too, with which the hidden veins of the earth are full, are not mined or put to any use, precisely because of the same laziness. Even gold, of which they are very desirous - just like the Spaniards - and which they would like to have in abundance, is brought here by traders that search the ocean for gain. They do not devote their lives to the processing of flax or wool, or to any kind of merchandise or mechanical art. For given only to leisure, and devoted only to laziness, they think that the greatest pleasure is not to work, and the greatest wealth is to enjoy liberty...."

SNIPPET: Giraldus CAMBRENSIS (1146-1223), also called Gerald of Wales, was a member of a Norman Welsh family involved in the Norman invasion of Ireland in the late 12th century. His basically unflattering portrait of the Irish as uncivilized barbarians, reserving his only positive comments for their musical skill, caused great offense to the Irish, but because there are so few sources about medieval Ireland available, his books are still consulted today. In part, he wrote: "I have thought it not superfluous to say a few things about the nature of this people both in mind and body, that is to say, of their mental and physical characteristics. To begin with: when they are born, they are not carefully nursed as is usual. For apart from the nourishment with which they are sustained by their hard parents from dying altogether, they are for the most part abandoned to nature. They are not put in cradles, or swathed; nor are their tender limbs helped by frequent baths or formed by any useful art. The midwives do not use hot water to raise the nose, or press down the face, or lengthen the leg. Unaided nature according to her own judgement arranges and disposes without the help of any art the limbs that she has produced. As if to prove what she can do by herself she continually shapes and moulds, until she finally forms and finishes them in their full strength with beautiful upright bodies, and handsome and well-complexioned faces. But although they are fully endowed with natural gifts, their external characteristics of beard and dress, and internal cultivation of the mind, are so barbarous that they cannot be said to have any culture. They use very little wool in their dress and itself nearly always black -- because the sheep of that country are black -- and made up in a barbarous fashion. For they wear little hoods, close-fitting and stretched across the shoulders and down to a length of about eighteen to twenty-two inches, and generally sewn together from cloths of various kinds. Under these they wear mantles instead of cloaks. They also use woollen trousers that are at the same time boots, or boots that are at the same time trousers, and these are for the most part dyed. When they are riding, they do not use saddles or leggings or spurs. They drive on, and guide their horses by means of a stick with a crook at its upper end, which they hold in their hand. They use reins to serve the purpose both of a bridle and a bit. These do not keep their horses, accustomed to feeding on the grass, from their food. Moreover, they go naked and unarmed into battle. They regard weapons as a burden, and they think it brave and honourable to fight unarmed. They use, however, three types of weapons -- short spears, two darts ... and big axes well and carefully forged, which they have taken over from the Norwegians and the Ostmen ... They are quicker and more expert than any other people in throwing, when everything else fails, stones as missiles, and such stones do great damage to the enemy in an engagement."

SNIPPET: In the great age of railway travel, before the coming of the motorcar and aeroplane, travelling Victorians itineraries were leisurely, by steamer, train, carriage and foot. Englishman Richard LOVETT's notes as he travelled throughout Ireland were first published in 1888 by The Religious Tract Society: "After leaving Cashel there is not much of very special interest until Cork is reached. From the train fine views of the Galty Mountains are obtained, especially in the early part of the year, when the snow is lying in the gullies, and crowning the summits. But for the most part, the gently undulating country is devoid of attractiveness. Queenstown, Youghal, and Kilcolman are places that make demands upon the attention, and as they are all easily reached from Cork, we may best visit them after we have seen that city. The metropolis of Southern Ireland is a city of 80,000 inhabitants, well situated on the banks and in the valley of the Lee. It is a great port, and also the centre of the butter trade for South-western Ireland. Provisions and grain are also exported in considerable quantities. There are many evidences of trade and busy life in the city; but there are also signs of depression so common in Irish towns. Empty and ruined houses may be seen in or near the main thoroughfares; and, busy as the streets and wharves undoubtedly are, they yet do not convey the impression of being utilized up to the full measure of possibility. Cork produces strangely mixed impressions upon the stranger. Looked at as a whole from the heights commanding the city, the impression is pleasing. Some of the streets, as for example, the Grand Parade, George's Street, the South Mall, and Patrick Street are fine wide thoroughfares, filled with well-stocked shops, handsome buildings, and well-dressed people intent upon business. The quays and the bridges, six in number, are also fine and commodious, the most noteworthy being St. Patrick's and Parnell's, the latter a fine swivel bridge, opened in 1882. But many of the other streets are narrow, irregularly built, and not at all inviting to the passer-by. Still Cork ought to be estimated as a great sea-port, and judged on these lines it is perhaps ungracious to find much fault. The city possesses some very handsome buildings, notably the Cathedral of St. Fin Barre, which stands on the site of an ancient monastery, and was consecrated in 1870. This magnificent building is an example of what can be done by the energy of one man. The late bishop, John GREGG, obtained the money, laid the foundation stone, consecrated the building, and arose from his bed, only a few weeks before his death, to place the top stones upon the towers and the spire. The Roman Catholic Cathedral is a handsome structure, and Trinity Presbyterian Church is one of the architectural ornaments of the town. One of the Queen's Colleges is situated in Cork. In the churchyard of St. Anne's at Shandon, lie the remains of Father PROUT, near the spot he loved, and within sound of those bells of which he wrote: With deep affection And recollection I often think of These Shandon bells, Whose sound so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee. I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate -- But all their music Spoke naught like thine; For memory dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee. The easiest, and in some respects the pleasantest, excursion from Cork is a visit to Queenstown, or, as it used to be called, the Cove of Cork. The most enjoyable way is to go by steamer, but the trip by rail affords good views of the finest scenery. For some miles the route lies along the river, which soon begins to widen out into a very fine stream. On the north bank the land rises rapidly to a considerable elevation, and is very well wooded. The citizens of Cork have been not been slow to avail themselves of the fine sites thus afforded for comfortable residences, and many fine houses adorn both the north and south shores. A conspicous landmark upon the southern bank is Blackrock Castle, a modern building, situated upon a promontory at a bend in the river, which here turns sharply to the south, and broadens into a fine estuary. The railroad to Queenstown runs along the north shore, while the Cork and Passage railway occupies the southern. Passing Carrigaloe and Monkstown, the steamer rounds a point and then enters one of the most commodious and also one of the loveliest harbors in the world. It is three miles long and two miles wide, and is completely landlocked, being entered by a channel two miles long and one wide. The expanse of water is broken by two islands, Haulbowline and Spike Island. The harbour runs east and west, and along its northern shore the town is built. The land rises abruptly to a height of several hundred feet, and a very easy climb will bring the visitor to one or other of many points of vantage. The enormous steamers of several of the Transatlantic lines call here, the harbour is generally busy with shipping, and seen under a sunny sky, few landscapes are so fair."

A STOR MO CHROI (Darling of my heart) A stor mo chroi when you're far away >From the home that you'll soon be leaving. Tis many the time by night and by day That your heart will sorely be grieving. For the stranger's land is bright and fair And rich in its treasures golden But you'll pine I know for the long long ago And the love that never is olden. A stor mo chroi, in the stranger's land There is plenty of wealth for the willing Where jewels adorn the great and the grand While our faces with hunger are paling. For the road may be toilsome and hard to tread And the lights of their cities may blind you. Then turn a stor to the Eastern shore To the ones that you're leaving behind you A stor mo chroi when the evening mists O'er mountain and sea are falling, Then turn away from the throng and list, And maybe you'll hear me calling For the sound of a voice that I sorely miss, for somebody's quick returning. A run, a run, won't you come back soon To the love that always is burning.

I SAW FROM THE BEACH I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; I came when the sun from that beach was declining, The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. And such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave that we danc'd on at morning ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night; Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light! -- Thomas Moore

SNIPPET: In each issue of "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine published in Dublin is a column by author and travel expert Christopher MORIARTY, in which he suggests little one-day round-trip excursions off the beaten path, describing the history behind the points of interest and exactly how to find them. Provided also are maps showing the recommended route, the distances involved, and there are charming, colorful cartoon drawings of the sites he describes. Below is an example of his writing from the May-June 2000 issue -- "Christians of many kinds settled in the valley of the River Barrow over the centuries, as they did in many parts of Ireland, and a wealth of material remains within a circle of 20 miles to the north of Carlow town, an easy hour's drive from Dublin. Carlow itself was chosen by the Anglo-Normans as a strategic point on the Barrow. They left their mark in the form of a magnificent castle on the river bank. Time, warfare and industrial development all took their toll. Seventeenth century battles reduced the proud castle to a pair of tall turrets joined by a wall. Canal builders removed the river from the castle, leaving it isolated in the town, but still looking splendid from the river bank. The castle has been given a neat little lawn to preserve it from new building development nearby. The river runs calm and deep, restrained by the curved weir which directs it towards the navigation lock on the far side. Two tall and graceful spires stand out above the town. The taller belongs to the 18th century Church of Ireland church. The smaller, a graceful octagonal structure, crowns the Roman Catholic cathedral, distinguished as the first of its kind to be built following Emancipation in 1829. At the feet of these buildings, the town is a charming network of narrow shopping streets. Seven miles north of Carlow lies Castledermot, in neighbouring Kildare, which has stood on a highway for more than a thousand years - so no approach by byway here! Diarmuid who, the annals tell us, was an anchorite and a distinguished doctor, established a monastery there before his death in A. D. 823. Some hundred years later, exceptionally talented sculptors set to work on the two wonderful crosses that still stand in the old churchyard. First, you may stop briefly at the ruins of the Franciscan friary, which stand to the left, on a bend on the road as you enter the road. A large and costly building, begun in 1302, it was rebuilt and enlarged in the 14th century and the walls and current layout testify to numerous repairs and restructurings. Only a shell remains, just enough detail to show its former glories. A signpost on the right, a little way along the road, takes you to the site of St. Diarmuid's community. Today it is a charming country churchyard, with old trees shading the graves and the 19th century parish church. Nearby, the entrance to a much older building stands in isolation, a romanesque arched doorway restored from an even more ruinous state. A small round tower is used as the belfry. Built a thousand years ago of big irregular granite boulders, as a bell tower and place of refuge, in the middle ages, it was adapted to military use by the addition of battlements round the top. The real treasures of Castledermot are its two high crosses, standing north and south of the church. The available local granite has a coarse crystalline texture which precludes fine detail by the sculptors. They met the challenge by decorating the crosses with wonderfully bold representations of various scenes from the scriptures and popular legends of the lives of the saints of the eastern church. The base of the south cross has a delightful scene of Noah encouraging a group of recalcitrant animals to enter the ark. Above them on the cross shaft Adam and even stand beneath a tree laden with voluptuous fruits, its trunk encircled by the serpent. The base of the north cross has a fine illustration of loaves and fishes representing the feeding of the five thousand. Three miles north of Castledermot take a left turn at the large sign for the Moone High Cross Inn, a very attractive old stone-built dwelling. A mile of winding road brings you to a little old octagonal gate lodge. Turn to the right in front of a large white house and proceed in a straight line for two miles to a signpost for the cross of Moone. There is no Celtic cross to equal this one. Tall and graceful, it is covered with the most exquisite relief carvings -- at the one time extremely simple in design and yet bubbling over with character and good humour. The twelve apostles, and others have square bodies, pointed feet and triangular faces. Equally geometrical figures illustrate familiar tales such as the Flight into Egypt and Daniel in the Lions' Den. Various beasts adorn the shaft of the cross and there is an incomparable panel of intertwined serpents. Rebuilding of the dismal ruined friary, is in progress to give the cross a more secure and worthy home. The road north from Moone is the byway to Ballitore, a village associated with a remarkable group of articulate and industrious Quakers. Turn right at the crossroads just over two miles north of Moone, then be diverted by sign for Crookstown Mill. In a shady hollow, this 19th century watermill has been lovingly restored by its owner, Jim MAHER, who bought it in 1971 and raised his family there. In the summer months it is open to visitors to tour the mill, enjoy a cup of tea, see an exhibition of artefacts and perhaps buy local craftwork. A phone call in advance will assure you of a welcome in winter, (tel. +353 507 23222). . After a gap of some years, during which their Meeting House was converted to a public library, Ballitore Quakers meet for worship there on Sundays. An exhibition commemorates their presence over the past three centuries. In the 18th century one of the community, Abraham SHACKLETON, opened a school which welcomed all religions and educated people, such as Edmund BURKE, who would obtain world renown. Later, one of SHACKLETON's granddaughters, Mary LEADBETTER, wrote 'The Annals of Ballitore,' a diary of local events, which included incidents in the Rising of 1798. Her home by the riverside has been restored and opened as a museum. From Ballitore you may return quickly to Dublin - or perhaps be tempted to continue to explore the Barrow Valley. A signpost to Athy, off the main rod a little to the north of Ballitore takes you to that charming town and to a pleasant rod along the river back to Carlow to complete a circuit. The region abounds in B&B's and hotels of great character including Kilkea Castle, an ancient family seat of the FITZGERALD clan."

BOOK REVIEW: "There is no present or future - only the past, happening over and over again - now." That is a line from Eugene O'NEILL's "A Moon for the Misbegotten." In 1976 celebrated author Leon URIS published his powerful 751-page novel "Trinity," set in Ireland between the period of the famine of the 1840s and the Easter Rising of 1916. Per the author, much background research went into his work which gives voice to the generations of Catholic hill farmers in Donegal fighting for survival against the harshness of the land and the injustice in their lives. His novel also attempts to give us insight into the times and events from the perspective of families of the British aristocracy, who ventured to Ireland to conquer, colonize and exploit. Also portrayed are the lives of devout Belfast shipyard workers whose Scottish-Presbyterian ancestors were planted in Ulster to secure the Crown's interests. "This is his Trinity, the oil and water of the Irish epic that would never mix, their interrelations of love and hate in a terrible and beautiful drama spanning over half a century." You should be able to find a copy in your local library if the subject interests you.

SONG Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair, The breath of young roses is fresh on the air, The sun has long glanced over mountain and lake - Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. Oh, come whilst the flowers are still wet with the dew - I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you; The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy sake - Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone, The coot to the water already hath flown; There is life on the mountain and joy on the lake - Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. -- Jeremiah Joseph CALLANAN, born 1795 near Balinhassig, Cork.

SNIPPET: Oliver CROMWELL's ruthless attack on the medieval walled town of Drogheda in September 1649 was swift and efficient; no one escaped. The Protestant Ascendancy and the systematic transplantation of the Irish landowners out of all the arable land in Ireland began harshly. With self-righteousness, CROMWELL wrote one week later to the Honorable William LENTHALL, Speaker of the Parliament of England, stating "that which caused your men to storm so courageously, it was the Spirit of God." CROMWELL (1600-58), Ireland's first and only commoner lord lieutenant, campaigned in Ireland between 15 Aug 1649 and 26 May 1650. Backed by a 20,000 strong army, a huge artillery train, and a large navy, he projected himself as a providential liberator from Irish barbarism, royalist misrule and Catholic hypocrisy. His best remembered actions were the sieges of Drogheda (11 Sept. 1649) and Wexford exactly one month later. CROMWELL's triumphant return from Ireland, coupled with the revolutionary situation in England, gave him the opportunity for political power that some previous lord lieutenants had merely contemplated and he ruled England as lord protector from 1653 until his death. He continued to exercise influence in Ireland through his sons-in-law Henry IRETON and Charles FLEETWOOD, and later through his younger son Henry CROMWELL. Although Oliver CROMWELL's direct connection with Ireland lasted only nine months, his dominance in England has meant that his name is associated with the events of the whole period 1649-58, which saw the ruthless suppression of Catholic and royalist resistance, the execution, transportation, or imprisonment of substantial numbers of Catholic clergy, and the wholesale confiscation of Catholic lands. Further reading: R. C. Richardson (ed.), "Images of Cromwell," (1993).

SNIPPET: Effective English control in Ireland had once been limited to "the Pale," the area including Dublin and 20-30 miles surrounding it, but during the 16th century, wanting even more control over the Irish, the English government started a long process of "colonizing" Ireland, removing property from the Irish noblemen, forcing the Irish off their land and settling "plantations" of English settlers. The Ulster land of Hugh O'NEILL was planted with thousands of Scots Presbyterians. The 17th century was one of utter defeat for the Irish. The Battle of Kinsale in 1601, a revolt led by Hugh O'NEILL, confirmed the end of the old Irish world and the downfall of the last of the Gaelic lordships. Less that fifty years later, CROMWELL's massacre of hundreds of Irish at Drogheda in September 1649 was one of the most savage attacks in history. In CROMWELL's letter to the Speaker of the Parliament of England he righteously rationalized the attack as being in God's name. But the English government wanted the land of Ireland and that meant that they had to eliminate the present landowners - the Catholics. The Catholics were moved to Connacht or Clare; land in the rest of Ireland was confiscated for government use. The Cromwellian settlement aimed to transfer the sources of wealth and power from the Catholics to the Protestants. As the poet Egan O'RAHILLY said, "foreign devils have made our land a tomb." The Irish rally to support the Catholic JAMES II of England, was quelled by the Protestant armies at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, the third defeat for the Catholic cause in 17th-century Ireland. On top of this misery was added the incredibly harsh "Penal Laws." No Catholic could own land, vote, worship, hold public office, receive an education, own a horse worth more than 5 pounds, etc., etc. The new settlers in Ireland levelled the forests to build their homes. The 18th century anonymous poem, "Kilcash" chronicles the sorrow of the lost woods, homes, and a longing that "the great come home again." Jonathan SWIFT, dean of St. Patrick's, attacked the society that could tolerate the terrible conditions of the poor. George BERKELEY, Protestant Bishop at Cloyne, directed attention to the social and economic evils of the country by asking hundreds of questions in "The Querist." Maria EDGEWORTH portrayed the excesses of wasteful land lords in "Castle Rackrent." William CARLETON and Charles KICKHAM wrote of the "dispossessed," the Irish peasants, while Charles LEVER concentrated on the privileged atmosphere of Trinity College in Dublin. Excerpts, "The Irish, A Treasury of Art and Literature," ed. Leslie Conron Carola (1993).

Cromwell came to Ireland for more reasons than converting the people to protestinism ala the 7th and 11 centuries style of the early Muslims. He came to steal the land and to murder whole towns of people who opposed him. In history he was pretty much a psychopathic freak of nature, not a hero by any standard. The other side of history can be pretty bad when told what it was. Don Kelly ----- Original Message ----- From: "Jean R." <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]> Sent: Monday, February 19, 2007 11:43 AM Subject: [IGW] CROMWELL ("To Hell or to Connacht") ---- PEARSE ("Close Tothe Gates of Heaven") > SNIPPET: In 1649, when Oliver CROMWELL came to Ireland, determined to > bring the entire population to the Protestant faith, he once ordered the > Irish natives to go "to Hell or to Connacht...," to make room for his > planters. Maybe he, too, got it right by happenstance. Many millions of > visitors would, today, join with the natives in claiming that Connacht is > so far away from Hell that it is, in the words of Patrick PEARSE, as close > as you can get on this earth to the gates of Heaven. > > Galway and Mayo, Sligo and Roscommon and lovely little languid Leitrim, > these are stops along the twisting road which runs west into the heart of > Connacht. Along the edge of that road in a small place called Rosmuc in > Connemara, one can still visit Patrick PEARSE's cottage, the summer > holiday home of the schoolteacher-poet who championed the clandestine > Irish Republican Brotherhood and was later executed for his part in the > Easter Rising of 1916. One imagines he must have often sat inside the > small windows dreaming his revolutionary dreams and writing poetry, "The > little fields where mountainy men have sown, And soon will reap, Close to > the gates of Heaven." > > Although by far the poorest of the provinces economically, it is, by > common consent, infinitely the richest in what it has to offer those who > comes to see, to hear, to smell, to touch; to taste the core of a culture. > > Gaelic is still the musical mother tongue in parts of Connemara as it is > on many of the offshore islands where the tough yet delicate currachs > nimbly dance on waves, as durable as the culture itself. There are many > more musicians per acre of flute, fiddle and accordion than anywhere else > except maybe in Co. Clare. In the quietest corners of the great mountains > of the west there are still hardy bands of moonshiners in a ritual, > although illegal, almost as old as the hills themselves. Hay is still cut > and saved the old, slow way on many farms, turf is burned aromatically > through old chimneys, salmon are still poached from the rivers as they > have always been poached. > > The Currach Boat-racing Competition is the highlight of "An Patrun (the > pattern) Festival" which is held at the end of June on the island of > Inishmore in honor of St. Peter and St Paul's feast day. Three-man rowing > teams come to Inishmore from all over Connemara and the nearby islands to > compete with ancient rowing skills; nowadays the event has taken on a > "new" spirit which allows the "fairer sex" to demonstrate their prowess on > the sea. > > State grants are helping to preserve thatched cottages, approximately > 2,550 nationwide with 500 of which are found in Connacht. The cottages in > the Aran Islands would have been typically made of rye straw and rope. > Visitors from Northern Ireland pour into Connacht in their tens of > thousands when summer comes to get away from the hustle and bustle. > > You can still see Connemara funeral groups following the coffins to > seaside cemeteries in Carraroe, Co. Galway. > > ------------------------------- > To unsubscribe from the list, please send an email to > [email protected] with the word 'unsubscribe' without the > quotes in the subject and the body of the message >

LULLABY OF THE WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN O little head of gold! O candle of my house! Thou wilt guide all who travel this country. Be quiet, O house! And O little grey mice, Stay at home to-night in your hidden lairs! O moths on the window, fold your wings! Stay at home to-night, O little black chafers! O plover and O curlew, over my house do not travel! Speak not, O barnacle-goose, going over the mountain here! O creatures of the mountain, that wake so early Stir not to-night till the sun whitens over you. -- Padraic Pearse, translated by Thomas MacDonagh.

SNIPPET: In 1649, when Oliver CROMWELL came to Ireland, determined to bring the entire population to the Protestant faith, he once ordered the Irish natives to go "to Hell or to Connacht...," to make room for his planters. Maybe he, too, got it right by happenstance. Many millions of visitors would, today, join with the natives in claiming that Connacht is so far away from Hell that it is, in the words of Patrick PEARSE, as close as you can get on this earth to the gates of Heaven. Galway and Mayo, Sligo and Roscommon and lovely little languid Leitrim, these are stops along the twisting road which runs west into the heart of Connacht. Along the edge of that road in a small place called Rosmuc in Connemara, one can still visit Patrick PEARSE's cottage, the summer holiday home of the schoolteacher-poet who championed the clandestine Irish Republican Brotherhood and was later executed for his part in the Easter Rising of 1916. One imagines he must have often sat inside the small windows dreaming his revolutionary dreams and writing poetry, "The little fields where mountainy men have sown, And soon will reap, Close to the gates of Heaven." Although by far the poorest of the provinces economically, it is, by common consent, infinitely the richest in what it has to offer those who comes to see, to hear, to smell, to touch; to taste the core of a culture. Gaelic is still the musical mother tongue in parts of Connemara as it is on many of the offshore islands where the tough yet delicate currachs nimbly dance on waves, as durable as the culture itself. There are many more musicians per acre of flute, fiddle and accordion than anywhere else except maybe in Co. Clare. In the quietest corners of the great mountains of the west there are still hardy bands of moonshiners in a ritual, although illegal, almost as old as the hills themselves. Hay is still cut and saved the old, slow way on many farms, turf is burned aromatically through old chimneys, salmon are still poached from the rivers as they have always been poached. The Currach Boat-racing Competition is the highlight of "An Patrun (the pattern) Festival" which is held at the end of June on the island of Inishmore in honor of St. Peter and St Paul's feast day. Three-man rowing teams come to Inishmore from all over Connemara and the nearby islands to compete with ancient rowing skills; nowadays the event has taken on a "new" spirit which allows the "fairer sex" to demonstrate their prowess on the sea. State grants are helping to preserve thatched cottages, approximately 2,550 nationwide with 500 of which are found in Connacht. The cottages in the Aran Islands would have been typically made of rye straw and rope. Visitors from Northern Ireland pour into Connacht in their tens of thousands when summer comes to get away from the hustle and bustle. You can still see Connemara funeral groups following the coffins to seaside cemeteries in Carraroe, Co. Galway.

THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans. The nineteeth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon these brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away? -- William Butler Yeats

SNIPPET: Young mother Linda FLYNN shares a wonderful tale of family tradition: "The great famine was a sad and grey period in Irish History. It has touched many families and stories were passed on from generation to generation. Notorious English landlords, like the infamous Lord Leitrim, reigned over the native Irish population. My great-grandmother, Esther Mary Anne (AISLING) BRENNAN, was born in 1839 in Dunlavin, County Wicklow. She was the eldest daughter of James Anthony BRENNAN and Mary Anne COGGANS. Coming from a small farm family she travelled to The Big Smoke of Dublin to serve in the big houses in Dublin's Inner City. It was there she met my great-great-grandfather, Adriaan van GALEN, who was a sailor. His father was a farmer, too, but because he was not the eldest son he would not inherit the farm under Saxon inheritance laws and took to the sea instead. He persuaded Esther, after a period of courtship, to become his wife and make the journey to The Netherlands. They got married and settled in Woensel, now part of Eindhoven, in the Southern Province of Brabant. Esther's parents were, of course,sad to see their daughter go away but in those days it was a parting that was inevitable in many families all around Ireland. People immigrated to England, America, Canada, or even Australia to seek a better future. In a wooden box that her mother gave to Esther at their last farewell was amongst other things a delicate christening dress and matching bonnet. Her mother told her to make sure to be a good catholic and christen her children (if she and Adriaan were blessed with them) in this christening dress so that they would always have something Irish on the most special moment of their lives. The dress was said to be made of material of a wedding dress. Esther brought it safely over to Holland and never returned to her beloved Ireland or to her family again. The only contact was through letters of which a few are still kept by the family to this day. The dress was worn by Esther and Adriaan's children and passed on to her eldest daughter Anna. When she did not have any children she gave it to her brother, my great-grandfather, Peter van GALEN. All his children wore the dress and he passed it on to my granny Lamberta. Her children wore the dress and she in turn gave it to her eldest daughter, my mother Annie. My sister, my brother and myself were christened in the dress. My first visit to Ireland was in 1987 when myself and two of my cousins had a pleasant holiday. We visited many places and followed the trail of our Irish Ancestors. Most of them hail from Wicklow and Sligo but the journey also took us to Antrim in the North. Many holidays to Ireland followed from then on. I met Peadar in 1996 in Dublin and I moved to Ireland a year later. When we got married in 1999 in Amsterdam my mother gave me the dress. In July 2000 our little girl Shannon Anne Marie was born and she was christened in St. Patrick's Church in Mohill, Leitrim, wearing none other than AISLING's Christening Dress. Altered and mended through years of wear and tear it survived the two world wars. It was kept under the floor boards by my granny to hide it from the ever-plundering German soldiers who occupied The Netherlands under HITLER. It has survived all those years and hopefully when Shannon is grown up I can pass the christening dress on to her and she in turn can pass it on there after. AISLING's Christening Dress has gone full circle. It left Ireland in 1860 and returned to Ireland in 2000, around 140 years later, only not to Wicklow but to Lovely Leitrim. I live in Mohill with my husband and daughter and I have made many good friends over the years. I still like to visit The Netherlands because my family and friends live there but it is always good to come home to Mohill." -- Photos of Esther Mary Anne BRENNAN (1839-1919), Linda FLYNN and infant Shannon Anne Marie FLYNN in the christening dress, can be found in the 2005 issue of the yearly "Leitrim Guardian" magazine.

SNIPPET: In 1820, Fr. Thomas HORE (24) of Wexford visited America. More than two decades later, as the Famine ravaged Ireland, Fr. HORE became deeply concerned about his followers and felt strongly that America offered them their best chance for survival.. Fr. HORE led 450 of his followers to New Orleans, LA, planning to buy land in AR. When Arkansas did not welcome them, HORE instead took his people to St. Louis, MO, and then went on ahead to IA to buy 3,000 acres of land. Upon returning for the group, however, he discovered that many had joined the CA gold rush, while others were happy in St. Louis. Still, a dozen families followed HORE to IA, where they founded the new community of Wexford. (As I recall, one of his BREEN families helped to establish Wexford, IA). There is a chapter on Fr. HORE and his flock in Edward Laxton's book, "The Famine Ships," (1996).