THE WHISPERING ROOTS Roots are for holding on, and holding dear. Mine, like a child's milk teeth, came gently away >From Ireland at the close of my second year, Is it second childhood now -- that I overhear Them whisper across a lifetime as if from yesterday? We have had blood enough and talk of blood, These sixty years. Exiles are two a penny And race a rancid word; a meaningless word For the Anglo-Irish; a flighty cuckoo brood Foisted on alien nests, they knew much pride and many Falls. But still my roots go whispering on Like rain on a soft day. Whatever lies Beneath their cadence I could not disown; An Irish stranger's voice, its tang and tone, Recalls a family language I thrill to recognize. All the melodious places only seen On a schoolboy's map -- Kinsale, Meath, Connemara; Writers -- Swift, Berkeley, Goldsmith, Sheridan: Fighters, from Vinegar Hill to Stephen's Green: The Sidhe, saints, scholars, rakes of Mallow, kings of Tara -- Were background music to my ignorant youth. Now on a rising wind louder it swells >From the lonely hills of Laois. What can a birth - Place mean, its features comely or uncouth, To a long-rootless man? Yet still the place compels. We Anglo-Irish and the memory of us Are thinning out. Bad landlords some, some good, But never of a land rightfully ours, We hunted, fished, swore by our ancestors, Till we were ripped like parasite growth from native wood. And still the land compels me; not ancestral Ghosts, nor regret for childhood's fabled charms, But a rare peacefulness, consoling, festal, As if the old religion we oppressed all Those years folded the stray within a father's arms. The modern age has passed this island by And it's the peace of death her revenants find? Harsh Dublin wit, peasant vivacity Are here to give your shallow claims the lie. Perhaps in such soil only the heart's long roots will bind -- Even, transplanted, quiveringly respond To their first parent earth. Here God is taken For granted, time like a well-tutored hound Brought to man's heel, and ghosting underground Something flows to the exile from what has been foresaken. In age, body swept on, mind crawls upstream Toward the source; not thinking to find there Visions or fairy gold -- what old men dream Is pure restatement of the original theme, A sense of rootedness, a source held near and dear. -- Cecil Day-Lewis, born Co. Laois, IR, late Poet Laureate England, visiting professor Harvard.

BEAUTY SHOW: CLIFDEN, CO. GALWAY They're come to town from each dot on the compass, they're Wild as tinkers and groomed to the eyelash, And light of foot as a champion featherweight Prance on the top of the morning. They walk the ring, so glossy and delicate Each you'd think was a porcelain masterpiece Come to life at the touch of a raindrop, Tossing its mane and its halter. The shy, the bold, the demure and the whinnier, Grey, black, piebald, roans, palominos Parade their charms for the tweedy, the quite un- Susceptible hearts of the judges. Now and again at the flick of an instinct, As if they'd take off like a fieldful of rooks, they will Fidget and fret for the pasture they know, and The devil take all this competing. The light is going, the porter is flowing, The field a ruin of paper and straw. Step neatly home now, unprized or rosetted, You proud Connemara ponies. -- Cecil Day-Lewis, born Ballintubbert House, Co. Laois (Queen's) 1904. Late Poet-Laureate England.

IMMIGRANT DAUGHTER'S SONG All gone, the silver-green silk of time winding down centuries of custom and kinship the pouring of the sea the stars, bright pictures on the slate of night, the moon stamping forever the spire of the church on the sand, bird-song, wind-songs, mother-song Even time itself changed to a ticking, a dot on a line Customs of grace and gentleness gone name-saying and knowing who begat who and when and where and who could work and who could sing and who would pray and who would not and where the fish ran and the wild plums hid and how the old mothers fit their babies' fingers to the five-flowered hollows of blue ladyfingers And whose father fought whose with golden swords a thousand years ago at Ballyferriter on the strand below the church All gone changed from a silken spool unwinding to rooms of relics and loss behind whose locked doors I dream not daring to wake. -- Mary Ann Larkin born 1945 in Pittsburg, PA to Irish-American parents, is a poet and teacher living in Washington, D. C. A book of her poems, 'The Coil of Her Skin, was published in 1982.

SNIPPET: "In the spring of 1847 an English Quaker, William BENNETT, arrived in Ireland with the intention of touring the worst-hit areas. He believed that as the potato had proved to be an unreliable source of food there was a need to encourage a greater diversity of crops. To this end he and his son acquired seed from W. DRUMMOND & SONS in Dawson Street His main choice was turnip seed together with carrots and mangelwurzel and later he included cabbage, parsnip and flax. William BENNETT distributed most of his seed in Mayo and Donegal and while he was there he also made cash grants to local craft industries that had been set up to provide employment. After six weeks he returned to England where he published a book entitled "Six Weeks in Ireland" and this was influential in encouraging the flow of donations. Some of the local Quaker committees became involved in the distribution of seed but the central committee in Dublin was hesitant, believing that any crops grown would be distrained by the landlords in lieu of rent owed. However, in May 1847, Sir Randolph ROUTH, the government's Commissary-General, gave some eighteen tons of seed to the committee for distribution. The task of organising distribution was given to William TODHUNTER, who managed to do so by means of the postal system together with free carriage donated by a coach company and a steampacket company. Some 40,000 smallholders received grants of seed and it is estimated that 9,600 acres of crops were sown. Following the success of this operation the Quaker central relief committee repeated the exercise in the spring of 1848, laying out an initial sum of 5,000 pounds to purchase and distribute almost sixty tons of seed. It is estimated that 32,000 acres of crops were grown as a result and that about 150,000 people would have been supplied with food as a result." -- Rob GOODBODY, member of the Historical Committee of the Religious Society of Friends in Ireland, excerpt from article Dublin's "History Ireland" magazine Spring 1998 issue. For further reading: R. GOODBODY, "A Suitable Channel: Quaker Relief in the Great Famine" (Dublin 1995), and M. J. WIGHAM, "The Irish Quakers: A Short History of the Society of Friends in Ireland" (Dublin 1992).

DARK ROSALEEN I thirst beside the heather-laden bogs - no samaritan for me; no one here to see that I shall die amidst the plenty, in the field - and that its yield will sail to shores beyond the sea. How can it be that flocks of sheep can find their fill while I lie empty and in pain? or is it vain to beg attention to my plight? How can I fight when I am listless, drained alone, shrunken to the bone while others eat what I have grown in toil? Woman of the soil - I fade against a wall of human greed and - sower of the seed - I languish as it grows ... Sr. Anne Therese Dillen

O YOU AMONG WOMEN When pails empty the last brightness Of the well, at twilight-time, And you are there among women -- O mouth of silence, Will you come to me, when I sign, To the far green wood, that fences A lake inlaid with light? To be there, O, lost in each other, While day melts in airy water, And the drake-headed pike -- a shade In the waves' pale stir! For love is there, under the breath, As a coy star is there in the quiet Of the wood's blue eye. -- F. R. Higgins ( 1896-1941)

Hi Barbara, Probably not what you are referring to, since you mention "shepherds," but there were wealthy individuals, i.e. - Col. Harry ALCOCK and a Margaret ALCOCK (reps. of, she might have been deceased) of Wilton Castle, Enniscorthy - who owned land in Co. Wexford in 1876. ----- Original Message ----- From: "Jean R." <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]> Sent: Saturday, February 17, 2007 9:54 AM Subject: Re: [IGW] ALCOCKS - ?Winfield Castle > Hi Barbara, Where is Winfield Castle - England? Jean > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "barbara logan" <[email protected]> > To: <[email protected]> > Sent: Friday, February 16, 2007 9:01 PM > Subject: [IGW] ALCOCKS > > >>I am interested in the Alcock name who lived as shepherds , alongside the >>names Hawkins and Moody. >> I believe near Winfield Castle. >> My husbands' Mother's family came from there. >> Anyone know of this family ? >> I have been doing genealogy for twenty years, but have not followed this >> path before. >> I have the Alcock name in Canada for many generations but got stuck at >> the >> Irish border. >> I have recently got aa few more facts from a genealogical friend.

Hi Barbara, Where is Winfield Castle - England? Jean ----- Original Message ----- From: "barbara logan" <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]> Sent: Friday, February 16, 2007 9:01 PM Subject: [IGW] ALCOCKS >I am interested in the Alcock name who lived as shepherds , alongside the >names Hawkins and Moody. > I believe near Winfield Castle. > My husbands' Mother's family came from there. > Anyone know of this family ? > I have been doing genealogy for twenty years, but have not followed this > path before. > I have the Alcock name in Canada for many generations but got stuck at the > Irish border. > I have recently got aa few more facts from a genealogical friend.

I am interested in the Alcock name who lived as shepherds , alongside the names Hawkins and Moody. I believe near Winfield Castle. My husbands' Mother's family came from there. Anyone know of this family ? I have been doing genealogy for twenty years, but have not followed this path before. I have the Alcock name in Canada for many generations but got stuck at the Irish border. I have recently got aa few more facts from a genealogical friend.

SNIPPET: The July-August 1998 issue of "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine published in Dublin had some interesting comments about Ireland from some of their readers: Lily Sillert WEBB, Houston, TX, shared: "Your article on the Avoca Handweavers in the Jan-Feb 1998 issue really did bring back memories - how I ran every morning to get to school from my Granny's house up in Knockenree, which is just up above the road from the Mill. The 'up above the road' was 4 or 5 miles from the village and the school. I would drop off my Uncle Peter CULLEN's lunch and would look around the mill at the wonder of it all: water wheels, little bridges, heaps of coloured wool drying outside, white-washed buildings more wonderful when the sun was shining, the busy little ducks waddling around in and out of the little brooks, the green grass, the flower pots. Wave hello to my cousins the BASS family, who were weavers there. I think about ten of them were trained and worked as weavers for years. I remember the big house, the beautiful gardens. I still remember shaking in my shoes as my cousin, Lily BASS, raised the knocker on that big door to drop off some knitting for the lovely WYNNE sisters who lived there - the friendly hello. I was only ten years old at the time but I guess that I recognised beauty and magic when I saw it. Thank you for bringing back the wonderful memories." M. J. RIGHETTI, Brooklyn, OH, wrote: "In July of 1996 the night before my sister and I were preparing to make our first trip abroad, the tragedy of Flight 800 from JFK happened. We were so upset that we decided not to go, but in the morning we said a prayer, flipped a coin and later that afternoon we left. We arrived safely in Dublin. A tour guide told us plenty of stories and myths as we drove through each county. Through your magazine I am able to live all those memories again and again. You hear about the beauty of Ireland, but you can never truly appreciate it until you visit it yourself." Edward P. INGOLDSBY, King of Prussia, PA, shared: "In your May-June issue of 1993 you had an article about "The Lantern Lodge" Bed & Breakfast. I was so impressed with the article that I saved it for many years. I made up my mind that some day I would return to Ireland and visit the O'DONNELL farm. On September 9, 1997, I landed in Shannon. It was a long first day: o I took the bus, train, walked and hitch-hiked to Ballyorgan. When I arrives Frances O'DONNELL greeted me at the door. She looked just like her photograph in "Ireland of the Welcomes." She made me feel right at home as she treats her guests as part of her family. I was like a child on Christmas morning: I took photographs of the deer, the exotic birds and beautiful countryside. On the second day I went to the Ballyhoura mountains. The weather was perfect and scenery spectacular. My two days at the O'DONNELL farm were the high-light of my trip. "The Lantern Lodge" is a great place to get away from it all." Julie MAYNARD, Brookings, OR, wrote: "My mother was of Irish descent (GALLAGHER/COSGROVE) and was intrigued by her visits to Ireland. After her death I was determined to go to Ireland. I planned a trip in late October. I too feel there is genetic memory when one finds oneself brought to her emotional knees in an inexplicable manner!" Pamela Gill TODD, New Oreans, LA, wrote: "My husband and I went on a tour in Ireland last summer led by the musicians Danny and Patrick O'FLAHERTY who were raised in Connemra and who now have a pub in New Orleans. They played traditional music whereever we went, which was the main reason for the tour. They are very interested in encouraging this type of music, especially among young people. Since my husband and I love traditional Irish music, our trip was a combination of everything we hoped it would be. We got to meet the O'FLAHERTY family both on the Aran Islands and in Connemara. Ireland is so much more real to us now and we look forward to the time that we can return to your fair Emerald Isle." Alexander BREED, Watertown, MA, wrote: "I was glad to see the stories in Irish, which you have included lately in "Ireland of the Welcomes." "Patrick," Mallachtai Cholm Cille, and "St. Brigid." I'm sure that many of your readers are interested in the Irish language. As you know, many travellers to Ireland attend Irish language summer schools, myself included. While not all of us may speak great Irish yet, we love the language and we are very encouraged when see it in the pages of this important magazine. Keep it up!" Harold A. NELSON, Hermitage, PA, sent in this verse which it appears he composed, titled "Nostalgic Thoughts on Ireland." Up early to a breakfast of just-right eggs and the unique flavour of potato-fed ham, bacon and blood pudding topped off with soda bread and 'Barry's Tea.' Then outdoors to an open, level country, crossed by lanes, closely defined by hedge-covered stone walls, and low white cottages roofed by warm yellow thatch. To the north, Galway Bay is changing from Atlantic blue to slate under the large white clouds charging in from the sea. In the distance is a line of bright green tree-less mountains, their hues alter with the cloud shadows. The low, steady wind carries the sound of cattle and the wash of waves. So cool after a Pennsylvania heatwave.

SNIPPET: Louth, in the province of Leinster, is the smallest Irish county, lying on the border of the Republic and Northern Ireland. The area around the picturesque village of Omeath was Gaelic-speaking into the beginning of the last century, the last indigenous outpost of the ancient tongue in eastern Ireland. The beautiful fishing port of Carlingford, where the Slieve Foye Mountain tumbles into the sea, is known for its local oysters and prawns which are washed down with Guinness or Harp lager from a brewery in the county town of Dundalk. At Monasterboice, ornate Celtic crosses and round tower are some of the remains of a monastery founded by St. Buithe in the 5th century. This ruined monastery is visit-worthy - the ornately carved high crosses are some of the best in Ireland. In the Dark Ages, these crosses, illustrated from top to bottom with Bible stories, gave monks a teaching tool as they preached to the illiterate masses. Today, Monasterboice, basically an old graveyard, is always open and free. The 18-foot tall Cross of Murdock (Muiredach's cross, A. D. 923) was named after an abbot. The carved sandstone's center panel shows the Last Judgment, with Christ under a dove symbolizing the Holy Spirit. Those going to heaven are on Christ's right, and the damned are being ushered away by devils on the left. Other scenes depict the Magi, Moses, scenes from the life of David, Adam, Eve, and Cain slaying Abel. St. Brigid, the patroness of Ireland, born at Faughart, four miles (6.5 km) north of Dundalk, founded the great abbey of Kildare and comes after St. Patrick and before St. Columba in the hierarchy of patron saints of the Irish. She is remembered throughout Ireland in the form of an irregular cross made from rushes, known as St. Brigid's cross, which hangs on the walls of many an Irish living room. In the 12th century, Drogheda's strategic position near the mouth of the Boyne was not wasted on the Anglo-Norman colonists who set up a castle and a bridge here, and by the Middle Ages, Drogheda, along with Dublin, was one of the most important English towns in Ireland. There was even a parliament which passed an Act, in 1465, for the setting up of a Drogheda University. Although Drogheda's significance would diminish over the centuries, there are still some magnificent architectural examples extant of the town's former splendour. The most impressive of these is St. Lawrence's Gate, a magnificent barbican complex at the junction of St. Lawrence Street and Palace Street, with its pair of great circular towers linked by double arches and topped by a battlement The southern part of Co. Louth has its seaside resorts and its historic connotations, centered mainly on the town of Drogheda where the River Boyne completes its journey to the sea. Down river on the north bank from the town is Baltray, home of one of the finest golf links in Ireland. Drogheda itself is remembered historically for the lack of quarter given to its residents by its most unpopular tourist, Oliver CROMWELL, in 1649. At that time Sir Arthur ASTON held Drogheda for King Charles I against the Roundheads, and on the 10th of September the town fell to CROMWELL's third assault. CROMWELL, a symbol of democracy in most parts of the world, was a man of his time, an era when the line between progress and barbarity was thinly drawn. He ruthlessly avenged the murder of Protestants by Catholic rebels in 1641 with the sacking of Drogheda and Wexford. He ordered the execution of some 2,000 of Drogheda's defenders, including ASTON, and many of the survivors were transported to the West Indies. .

The Cry of the Dreamer I AM tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men, Heart-weary of building and spoiling, And spoiling and building again, And I long for the dear old river, Where I dreamed my youth away; For a dreamer lives forever, And a toiler dies in a day. I am sick of the showy seeming, Of life that is half a lie; Of the faces lined with scheming In the throng that hurries by; >From the sleepless thought's endeavour I would go where the children play; For a dreamer lives forever, And a thinker dies in a day. I can feel no pride, but pity, For the burdens the rich endure; There is nothing sweet in the city But the patient lives of the poor. Oh, the little hands too skilful, And the child-mind choked with weeds! The daughter's heart grown wilful And the father's heart that bleeds! No! no! from the street's rude bustle, >From trophies of mart and stage, I would fly to the wood's low rustle And the meadows' kindly page. Let me dream as of old by the river, And be loved for my dreams alway; For a dreamer lives forever, And the toiler dies in a day. John Boyle O'Reilly O'Reilly arrived in Boston in 1870, and for the next 20 years was recognised as a powerful spokesman for the downtrodden, at times single-handedly bridging the gap between people of various races, creeds and nationalities. O'Reilly was one of the most prominent journalists of his day promoting the rights of Jews, American Indians and Blacks.

FOREVER Those we love truly never die, Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, A ring of flowers, types of life and death, Are laid upon their graves. For death the pure life saves, And life all pure is love; and love can reach >From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach Than those by mortals read. Well blest is he who has a dear one dead: A friend he has whose face will never change -- A dear communion that will not grow strange; The anchor of a love is death. The blessed sweetness of a loving breath Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years. For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears, She's thine unto the end. Thank God for one dear friend, With face still radiant with the light of truth, Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth, Through twenty years of death. -- John Boyle O'REILLY

JUST FOR FUN -- Well-known syndicated USA humor columnist Dave BARRY says,"I recently spent a week in Ireland, and I can honestly say that I have never been to any place in the world where it is so easy to partake of the Irish culture - by which I mean beer. Ireland also contains history, nice people, enormous quantities of scenery, and a rich cultural heritage. Geographically, Ireland is a medium-sized, rural island that is slowly but steadily being consumed by sheep. It consists mostly of scenic pastures,occasionally interrupted by quaint towns with names such as Cullybackey,Ballybunion, Dingle, Feakle, Nutt's Corner, Fishguard, Knockaderry,Meentullynagarn, Ringaskiddy, Stradbally, and Tang. Thse towns are connected by a state-of-the-art system of medieval roads about the width of a standard bar of hotel soap; the result is that motorists drive as fast as possible in hopes of getting to their destinations before they meet anybody coming the other way. The only thing that prevents everybody from going 120 miles-per-hour is the nationwide system - probably operated by the Ministry of Traffic Safety - of tractors being driven very slowly by old men wearing caps; you encounter these roughly every two miles, rain or shine, day or night. As an additional safety measure, the roads are also frequented by herds of cows, strolling along and mooing appreciatively at the countryside... A typical Irish town consists of several buildings, one of which is always a bar, called a "pub." Next to this there will typically be another pub, which is adjacent to several more pubs. Your larger towns may also have a place that sells food, but this is not essential. Inside the pubs you will usually find Irish people, who are very friendly to strangers, especially compared to the British, who as a rule will not voluntarily speak to you until you have lived in Britain for a minimum of 850 years. The Irish, on the other hand, will quickly start a conversation with you and cheerfully carry it on at great length, with or without your help. One evening in a busy Dublin pub I watched an elderly, well-dressed, cap-wearing gentleman as he sat in the corner and, for two solid hours, struck up a lively conversation with every single person who sat within ten yards of him. You definitely feel welcome in Ireland. But there's more to do there than just talk to Irish people in pubs. You can also drive around the countryside, alternately remarking, "Look, sheep!" and "Here's another tractor!" You can visit a bunch of old castles built by the Normans, who at one point, conquered Ireland, despite being called the "Normans," which is, let's face it, not an impressive-sounding name. It's kind of like being conquered by the "Freds." Probably the best-known castle is the one in the town of Blarney, which contains the famous Blarney stone. To get to it, you have to climb steep, narrow, tourist-infested steps to the top of the castle; there, a local man holds you as you lean out over the castle wall and kiss the Blarney Stone. Legend has it that if you do this, you will give the man a tip. But in my opinion the cultural highlight of the trip occurred in the town of Ennis, Co. Clare, where a pub called Brandon's had a sign outside that read, Traditional Irish Music." This turned out instead to be traditional Irish Elvis impersonator. He sang along to a tape of instrumental Elvis tunes, which he played on a sound system that he never, not once in two solid hours, got adjusted right. Every tme he'd start singing a song, the sound system would screech and honk with feedback; Elvis would then whirl around and spend minutes at a time unsuccessfuly adjusting various knobs while he mumbled the lyrics. The crowd, which I will frankly admit was consuming alcoholic beverages, enjoyed this performance immensely, cheering wildly at the end of each song. They like their fun, the Irish. I'm definitely going back some day. Maybe, I'll rent a tractor."

SNIPPET: "Long before the American Revolution, Irish immigrants came together to form societies to allow a bit of the Old World to survive in the new. At first these groups were largely the domain of the prosperous middle and upper classes that emerged in coastal cities north and south, such as Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Charleston, and Savannah, but as the mid-19th century approached, the fever for organizing spread to all classes, resulting in the formation of hundreds of local Irish societies in large cities and small towns across America. While societies such as the Charitable Irish Society of Boston, independent societies called Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick in both Philadelphia and New York, and local Hibernian societies in Charleston and Savannah toasted Saint Patrick's Day with elaborate banquets in drawing-room fashion, most of the Irish societies that emerged after the Great Hunger in the late 1840s-1850s were composed of laborers and small tradesmen more interested in providing for their families in the event of sickness or death. A few of the local societies developed into national organizations that attempted to link together the far-flung elements of the Irish diaspora, but it was a slow process that took decades to develop. Each branch of the larger Irish societies, such as the Ancient Order of Hibernians, the Father Mathew Total Abstinence and Benevolent Society, and the Saint Patrick's Mutual Alliance, functioned as a primitive insurance organization. The members pooled their limited resources together to allow benefits to be disbursed to members or their families in times of need. Typically one dollar a day for serious illness or between 100 and 150 dollars to a widow in the case of death made thing a bit easier for a member or his family to survive the calamities of 19th century life. Public occasions such as the Saint Patrick's Day parades were used to hammer home the image of just how precarious life could be for the average immigrant. The obligation to turn out on Saint Patrick's Day was often written into the requirements of membership, but it was not mere obligation alone that caused the Irish to demonstrate an almost fanatical desire to trudge along in horrendous storms and freezing temperatures. Just as the Irish societies used parades to preach that they could take care of their own, the long, orderly ranks of Irishmen marching in solemn attire and handsome regalia attempted to show their oftentimes critical non-Irish fellow citizens that the Irish could look every bit as prosperous as anyone else. The fact that so many of the early Saint Patrick's Day parades made a point of marching right by city hall for the official review by the mayor and the political leaders was no accident either. The thousand of disciplined paraders not only made for a pretty sight but strongly hinted at disciplined voters marching to the ballot box on election day as well." -- Born in Brooklyn of Irish immigrant parents from Co. Galway and Co. Longford, John T. RIDGE is the author of several books, including "Erin's Sons In America: The Ancient Order of Hibernians."

SIREN SONG See her there with the wind in her hair singing from her rock, calling out to passing ships with naked plea to stop. She'll embrace you. She'll drown you. She makes love beneath the waves. Fishes dance through her floating hair and her arms are a sailor's grave. She loves the men who know the kiss of the stars that roam the night. Who thrill to the violence of a sea-god's wrath with a Viking's wild delight. She needs their hunger for the brooding deep to caress her fathomless soul, for her passions answer no mortal cry but the dirge of a sea-death's toll. Her eyes are deep obsidian pools bathed by the moon's pale light. Her body is a sepulchral reef beckoning in the night. Its promise torments a lookout's watch seeking safe waters to sail, but her eyes are churned by unmapped tides and her cry a rising gale. She's been alone for timeless years singing softly that sad song, singing of some eternal lover from salt-washed ships hard-blown along. Calling out with irresistible voice that no man has yet failed to heed. Sand drifts about these broken boats, their ribs wrapped by clinging weeds. So make your peace and close your ears when she gives voice to that sad cry. Cross yourself, and pray for the soul of a sailor such as I. One who heard and had to know to what such sounds belonged, who dared winter waves to try to love this singer of siren song. -- Patterson , Lorne - Poetry Book Longford Writer -- "Tides and Ceremonies" Mellen Poetry Press c. 1997

Renee at [email protected] writes: << I am trying to find a town in Cork Ireland around the 1840's to 1860's called Laslee or Lasleeg or some similar variant >> Renee, In additon to Jean's Lislee advice, you might want to consider a couple of Lisleagh townlands in the county. One Lisleagh is in Kilgullane civil parish, about two and a half miles NE of Glanworth town. The other Lisleagh is 5 miles SW of Buttevant town, and is in Ballyclogh civil parish. .............................................................................. ... Pete Schermerhorn, in the glorious Berkshire hills of western Massachusetts

Delightful read! Thank you. Mary McCanney Finley ----- Original Message ----- From: "Jean R." <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]> Sent: Wednesday, February 14, 2007 5:43 PM Subject: [IGW] A Tale of Two Dublin Tailors -- Patrick MURPHY & Des LEECH > SNIPPET: The following piece by Patrick COONEY w/ photos by Seamus > MURPHY appeared in the Spring 1998 issue of now out of production "The > World of Hibernia" magazine.

SNIPPET: Ciaran CARSON, Irish musician, poet and novelist, was born in Belfast (Antrim) No. Ireland in 1948 and has won awards in England and America. In the latter case, his books of poetry are published by the Wake Forest University, Winston-Salem, NC. Here are some excerpt from one of his books - "Last Night's Fun ..." pub. 1996 -- including a marvelous poem "Rubber Legs" by John LOUGHRAN. "We are in Garrison on the Fermanagh-Leitrim border. It is a late summer's evening. A gang of us -- flute-players Mick Hoy, Andy Dickson, Seamus Quinn and Deirdre Shannon; the concertina-player and singer Gabie McArdle and others - have been recruited from the pub. The Festival committee has switched on the fairy lights that drape the back of the lorry parked in the carpark; the lough beside reflects a still-enduring streak of sky, and the whole dusk seems to glow. Precarious on the makeshift mobile stage, we play a few tunes to the crowd that's scattered round in knots and dots and couples. Then Gabie sings 'Edmund on Lough Erne Shore'" - 'Each step I take by the winding river/Makes me reminded of days of yore.' The song ends; there is a little ripple of applause. Someone comes up and hand us cigarettes, and asks for 'The Harvest Home.' We sit and talk and smoke a while, then nick our cigarettes and start to play. Almost instantly, one knot of the crowd unravels and this old man in a topcoat and a hat and big boots tied with yellow laces steps out. From another dark annex of the carpark, his counterpart appears. By the time we hit the last part of the first part first time round, they're poised and ready - arms not stiff and rigid like the modern over-educated dancer, but relaxed, palms held outwards in a gesture some way between a welcome and a challenge. They face each other, one foot pointing outwards, while the crowd has shifted and coagulated round them in a focus of attention. But they have space, the dancers. As we hit the first part of the repeat, their feet begin to move. Their hands accompany the dance in little wristy arcane movements, thumbs alternating with their digits. Their feet are hardly off the ground as they heel and toe and tap, till it seems there is a skim of twilight shimmering between their boot-soles and the black wet tarmac. Loose change jingles in their pockets as they waver gravely in the pre-determined figures, facing, backing off and circling, making pirouettes and formal quarter-bows, catching one another's little fingers on occasions, sometimes going for a full hand-clasp, instantly and rhythmically released. They doppelganger one another. Nods and winks are witnessed as they undergo the subtle drama of the ceili house. They reinvent the past and all their past encounters; then the pattern comes to its conclusion. Four feet stand on terra firma for one instant, then they break apart and take the gait of normal human beings. Everyone's relaxed now. Cigarettes are passed around and lit. There is a surreptitious bottle full of who knows what. A buzz of conversation. Laughter shimmers out across Lough Melvin; the fairly lights are swaying, chinking gently in the desultory breeze..." RUBBER LEGS But then I mind Keenan and this man Brian McAleer, there was a big barn dance in it one night and the thing got going that good and Brian came out of the kitchen. Och, he was going on maybe seventy years of age at the time. But a light, thin man, you know, and always with good spirit. Great singer too. And him and Keenan hit the floor for a reel. Well, if you seen them two men dancing, boy, they were dancing from when they were young fellows, you know, in their youth, and still this was a great meeting for them to meet again two old men, you know, they'd been dancing whenever they were young fellows. I'll tell you what they done too and they sung together and they herded, when there was no ditches and no fences about and you went out and herded your cattle the whole day and him and Brian was raised together. That was Keenan's farm there and McAleer's farm was here and the two men herding on the one mountain together and they sung together the whole day and exchanged songs. And Brian and him going out that night on the floor and if you seen them boys, you would just think their legs was rubber. I could mind Brian McAleer, you want to see that man and him over eighty, and the thin light legs of him, and I can see him yet. And Keenan was down below, and Keenan was a small man, a small tight wee man, sort of wee pernickety man, you know, and he was down there dancing. And Keenan and McAleer was up and then they would change places. Well, you want to see McAleer; you'd think the legs was rubber, for a man like that, no pains nor arthritis nor rheumatism nor damn what else. He was quivering and carrying on with his feet and Keenan was down below and Keenan was putting in nice fancy steps, you know. Ah Jesus, you want to see them two men dancing, you could have played for them for a week. -- John Loughran

I am trying to find a town in Cork Ireland around the 1840's to 1860's called Laslee or Lasleeg or some similar variant, that it was recorded my Barry ancestors were born in. I know that it was listed on their Wales census records as well. Either the town? changed its name or there is a spelling error. If anyone can help please let me know. [email protected]_ (mailto:[email protected]) Renee