THE MYSTERY I am the wind which breathes upon the sea, I am the wave of the ocean, I am the murmur of the billows, I am the ox of the seven combats, I am the vulture upon the rocks, I am a beam of the sun, I am the fairest of plants, I am a wild boar in valour, I am a salmon in the water, I am a lake in the plain, I am a word of science, I am the point of the lance of battle, I am the God who created in the head the fire. Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain? Who announces the ages of the moon? Who teaches the place where crouches the sun? (If not I) -- Translated by Douglas HYDE

SNIPPET: "A Scottish Whig in Ireland, 1835-1838; the Irish journals of Robert GRAHAM of Redgorton," ed. Henry HEANEY, Four Courts Press, was published in Ireland in 1999, perhaps you can locate a copy if the subject interests you. This book contains day-to-day accounts from bound manuscripts in the National Library of Ireland of three visits to four Irish provinces by this gentleman born in Edinburgh (Midlothian) in 1784. As a well-travelled landowner who had served on government commissions, he had an eye for landscape, agriculture and social life in general; as one connected with aristocracy and army he had entrance to many of the big houses in Ireland and important people. These entries are seen in print for the first time and are well presented, annotated and indexed with a bibliography - Review, "Books Ireland," a magazine of the Irish book trade. Hardbound, 367 pp, ISBN (1-85182-454-5)

DAWN IN INISHTRAHULL The moon shines on the Isle of Inishtrahull, Bejewelling nuptial tinted herring gull, May-fly dancing in the balmy air, And moth returning to its daylight lair. A shoal of herring breaking out at sea Sparkle like hoar-frost on an aspen tree, Spindrift in the shaded rocky cleft, And raised-beach quartz that the ice-ages left. The droning beetles seek the crevassed walls To dive into when hungry lapwing calls; Earwigs, likewise into earthed homes, And red-ants under scarred lichened stones. An otter seeking rest on rock remote Glistens with phosphorescence on his coat The snail Arborum, with his watery glue, And bunch of pearlwort in a crystal dew. The flaming sun ascends o'er Cantyre's Mull, Flings out its arms, day breaks on Inishtrahull! -- D. J. O'SULLIVAN, island light keeper 1925-60, noted naturalist and poet.

SNIPPET: Irish landlords have never been particularly popular figures in Irish memory, per book review in Dublin's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine. Only a minority of them were benevolent in any sort of general way. John HAMILTON was exceptional in that he was humane, progressive and spoke six languages. For his tenants he almost bankrupted himself building houses, laying roads and founding schools. He knew in great detail the particular circumstances of every family on his estate. He kept a most detailed diary over many years, taking an interest in social and political matters and the events of his time. Further reading: "John Hamilton of Donegal 1800-1884," Dermot JAMES, published 1998, The Woodfield Press, 17 Jamestown Square, Inchicore, Dublin 8, p/b ISBN 0-9528453-4-2. Perhaps you can still locate a copy if the subject interests you

SNIPPET: The Emerald Isle is brought vividly to life by Victorian traveller, Richard LOVETT, whose notes were first published in 1888 by The Religious Tract Society. They evoke the pleasures of the late 19th century in the great age of railway travel, before the coming of the motorcar and aeroplane, when itineraries were leisurely, by steamer, train, carriage and foot. Speaking of the Donegal peasantry, he writes: "They are a fine sturdy race, well-made and seemingly well-fed. There are not the evident signs of mental quickness so readily seen in some districts of Ireland, and the hints that life is a hard struggle with poverty is abundant. But they are self-reliant and free from all tendency to cringe. They are not forward to make advances, but they respond readily to the kindly look or the civil word. Until recently, perhaps more than in many parts, they were strongly swayed by their landlords, and on this account possibly the Home Rule feeling runs very strongly among them. But they do not obtrude this side of their life upon the passing stranger. The author's experience of them exactly coincides with that of the writer of 'An Unknown Country': 'We saw in returning family groups sitting by the roadside on the moor or chatting outside their cabin doors. They just glanced up as we drove past, nothing more. There is nothing of the wild pursuit of tourists by child-beggars -- and grown-up beggars too -- and nothing of the fierce scowl at all supposed well-to-do people, which I had been told we should find in this land ripe for revolution. And thought they were as poor as poor could be -- a poverty which our English poor could hardly realize -- they all looked respectable; a word which implies more than at first appears, since a man who is worthy of respect must first respect himself. They would have been a problem to many English who pass rash and harsh judgments upon Ireland. ... Nothing strikes one more in Donegal, or indeed, throughout Ireland, than the exceedingly wholesomeness of the children. Ragged they may be, thin, and half-starved, but they are seldom either crippled or diseased. They can run like hares, and spring like wild-cats; they look up at you fearlessly with their big, bright, Irish eyes, and grin at you with their dazzling teeth, till you laugh in spite of yourself, and they laugh back again, as if, in spite of all this misery, life were a capital joke.'"

IT FELL UPON A SUMMER DAY It fell upon a summer day, When Jesus walked in Galilee, The mothers from a village brought Their children to His knee. He took them in His arms, and laid His hands on each remembered head; "Suffer these little ones to come To Me," He gently said. "Forbid them not. Unless ye bear The childlike heart your hearts within, Unto My kingdom ye may come, But may not enter in." Master, I fain would enter there; O let me follow Thee and share Thy meek and lowly heart, and be Freed from all worldly care. Of innocence, and love, and trust, Of quiet work, and simple word, Of joy, and thoughtlessness of self, Build up my life, good Lord. All happy thoughts, and gentle ways, And lovingkindness daily given, And freedom through obedience gained, Make in my heart Thy heaven. O happy thus to live and move! And sweet this world, where I shall find God's beauty everywhere, His love, His good in all mankind. O Father, grant this childlike heart, That I may come to Christ, and feel His hands on me in blessing laid, Love-giving, strong to heal. -- Stopford A. Brooke

SNIPPET: Francis LOUGHLIN, a second generation Irish born in Lancashire, England, in 1946, is a professional photographer whose work has achieved many accolades over 30 years. It is Ireland, however, and Connemara in particular, that is the focus of some of his most powerful and exciting images. Several of his colorful photographs are featured in the Jan-Feb 2004 issue of Dublin's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine. Connemara on the west coast of Ireland in County Galway is an area of outstanding natural beauty. It boasts a breathtaking coastline with white sandy beaches that contrast against an imposing backdrop of mountain ranges. For those who are only recent visitors to Connemara it might be difficult to imagine that it is only in the last decade or so that the west coast of Ireland has become easily accessible. LOUGHLIN's first impression of visiting Connemara some years ago was when journeying past Galway City, there was a change in the landscape and the roads. "The roads suddenly narrowed, became more rugged and strangely quiet, whilst the landscape was more dramatic and wild. I began to notice that passers-by were waving as if they knew me and a distinct, welcoming aroma of turf hung in the area." This was his first taste of Connemara life, and the Loughlin family returned sometime later to buy a homey cottage three miles from the tiny fishing village of Cleggan. Many of the fishermen in Connemara still depend on the currach, a traditional wooden fishing boat, to navigate their way around the rocky coastline. There are a number of islands dotted off the coast of Connemara. Many were once populated but now, with the exception of Inishbofin, one of the larger islands, there are only a few people remaining on them. Researchers interested in this part of Ireland should enjoy LOUGHLIN's photographs in the magazine which include: Sunset over Friar Island off Aughrusmore, Connemara; an Inishbofin cottage; Paddy TIERNEY who lived on Inishbofin all his life and is remembered as a great local character standing amongst colorful flowers in his red plaid shirt; the late Mary COOHILL and her dog, who lived in Omey Island with her husband Mickey; a magnificent Connemara pony standing out in the fading light as dusk falls at Aughrusmore; James BURKE at home in Inishbofin, his brightly painted mantelpiece holds family photographs and a picture of the Sacred Heart; Eddie O'TOOLE walking on the uninhabited High Island, Connemara with a fuzzy young seabird watching him closely from a field of flowers; a close-up panoramic view of the annual horse race on Omey Strand; photos of Mickey COOHILL, Omey Island, who was a farmer and fisherman whose distinctive hand-made lobster pots are remembered by many; Eddie O'TOOLE, again, setting lobster pots from his curragh with the sun glinting on the water; the beach and village at Inishbofin; Mr. Festy LACEY, resting from digging in the fields; a donkey stallion; the beach and village at Inishbofin. Island life breeds strong, interesting characters, and although the older generation is slowly fading away, a new one is continuing its forefathers' traditions that include cutting the turf, fishing and playing traditional music. Clifden is known as the capital of Connemara. Each August the Connemara Pony Show draws crowds of onlookers. Francis LOUGHLIN's images beautifully capture this peaceful part of Ireland and make his work very intimate, very special indeed.

SNIPPET: One of the most beautiful places my sister and I visited on our recent trip to Ireland was Kylemore Abbey in Co. Galway. This is a "must-see" for anyone visiting Ireland! There is a real sense of peace there. Kylemore Abbey was originally built as Kylemore Castle by Manchester textile tycoon Michael HENRY in the 1860's and was a present to his beloved wife. They'd fallen in love with the area when on their honeymoon in 1849 and reportedly spent £155,000 to buy the land. They spent a further £250,000 to create their dream world. Boggy land was drained and thousands of trees were planted to serve as a windbreak for the Medieval styled fruit orchard and exotic gardens, which has just been reopened in 2000 after restoration brought it back to Lord HENRY's original design. Tragedy struck the family when HENRY's beloved wife died after contracting Nile Fever in 1874. In her honor he commissioned the building of the Gothic Cathedral, which is situated at the far end of the estate and is accessible by the tree-lined footpath. It's an exact replica of Norwich Cathedral in England. His wife was embalmed and her body buried in the mausoleum next to the church. In 1892, HENRY's daughter was killed in a freak accident when her horse threw her into a nearby river. HENRY was so overwhelmed with grief that he put the estate up for sale in 1894 but was taken off market when the estate failed to fetch a reasonable price. It was finally sold to a U. S. tycoon named ZIMMERMAN from Cincinnati, OH as a gift for his daughter, the DUCHESS of MANCHESTER. But not long after it was sold to an order of Benedictine Nuns who still run a private girls school there today. There are a few rooms open in the abbey, as well as the styled gardens, tree walk and the church. The grounds by the lake are a bit of paradise on earth! Jean

SNIPPET: Co. Galway -- There are no more hunt balls or revels within the walls of Tyrone House. Its stately Georgian rooms lie empty. Music no longer echoes through its cavernous halls. The dance and all merriment have ceased. No warmth comes forth from its hearths. Now there is only the bone chill and the sad whistle of the wind from the sea. An arson committed in 1920, put an end to its grand days. The home never recovered from this affront, although it stands as a battered monument to the Irish ascendancy's decline and the nation's turbulent political past. Tyrone House was immortalized by the late Irish poet laureate Sir John BETJEMAN in his poem "Ireland with Emily." It was the inspiration for Edith SOMMERVILLE and her writing partner Violet ROSS when they wrote their novel, "The Big House of Inver." And George Henry MOORE drew from it the source of much recollection in "An Irish Gentleman." "There in pinnacled protection One extinguished family waits A Church of Ireland resurrection By the broken rusty gates. Sheepswool, straw and droppings cover Graves of spinster, rake and lover, Whose fantastic mausoleum Sings it own Te Deum In and out the slipping slates." Tyrone House was built in 1779 by the enterprising Christopher French ST. GEORGE (1754-1826), the scion of an old Co. Galway family with Norman Irish roots. The family's centuries-long success at good marriages expanded their properties and developed important blood connections to other large landowning families. Bolstered by his ever-expanding prosperity, ST. GEORGE chose John ROBERTS (1712-1796), the esteemed Co. Waterford architect, to design the splendid edifice. Built in the Palladian style, the house reflected the growing Irish passion for beauty and sensitive artistry in domestic residences. It was fashioned for sea views and Galway Bay sunsets, the grandest in Europe. A big solemn house, three stories high, Tyrone is dramatically located atop its ocean promontory and dominates the landscape for miles around. Within the house, no expense was spared for high detailed design or for whimsy. High in the massive front hall stood the image of the family's fortune and good luck, a life-size white marble statue of the second LORD ST. GEORGE, arrayed in the regalia of a Roman emperor. From his niche, he was a constant reminder of family bloodlines and the classical taste of the age. Emblazoned above the statue was the ST. GEORGE family coat of arms, replete with the baronial coronet. Entering the estate along the main avenue in its heyday, the visitor would first pass the old dower house, Kilcolgan castle, the old ruined abbey at Drumacoo, the gate lodge, and finally the deer park, where deer were plentiful until the end of the 19th century. Beyond the big house was the great yard, the gardens, the turf yard, and the quay along the Kilcolgan River. Tyrone's front faces south, and its northern side is protected by a thick, dense wood. The gardens were enlivened by the soft warmth of the subtropical Gulf Stream. Within the garden's 12-foot limestone walls, groves of peaches and pears grew in abundance beside apple and cherry trees. Hothouses were in use as early as 1838, and here black Hamburg grape and white grapes were grown up to the 20th century. Roses were a signature flower of the house. The story of Tyrone House is the tale of a wondrous classical Irish dwelling of note. Its art, craftsmanship, and sophisticated design demonstrate an Irish mastery of high architectural development. Later Tyrone House became a center of foxhunting in season. The ST. GEORGEs were a family of flamboyant huntsmen and grandson Christopher ST. GEORGE (1810-1877) was involved in the economic and sporting affairs of local life. He went on to create one of the finest hunting packs in Ireland. In 1839, he helped to establish the raucous hunt known as the Galway Blazers, which to this day remains Ireland's premier hunt. His passion for horse racing was so keen that he developed a famous stud farm at the Curragh in Co. Kildare, the ancient home of Irish horse racing. Closer to home, he helped to establish the Galway Races. So devoted to their horses were the ST. GEORGEs that one master of Tyrone had his horse, Barebones, placed in a solid bronze casket when it died. The horse, it seemed, had once saved his life. (Unfortunately, a later owner of Kilcolgan castle, Martin NILAND, threw it into the Kilcolgan River). An intense interest in marine farming moved Christopher ST. GEORGE to establish large oyster beds along the Galway coast near Tyrone that today are among Europe's choicest. As long as the ST. GEORGEs were in residence at Tyrone and Kilcolgan, the people treated the family with the old respect. But the forces of history and the subsequent wearing away of an old way of life took their toll on Tyrone, as on many other Irish country homes. The ST. GEORGEs left Tyrone following the death of Honoria Kane ST. GEORGE, the widow of the second Christopher ST. GEORGE,in 1905. By then, the fortunes of the ST. GEORGE family lay elsewhere - in Dublin for some and in the U.S. for others. The treasure of the house, its paintings, silver, furniture, and the accumulation of centuries of living there, were divided and dispersed among the family. Over the years the house has suffered burning, looting, vandalism. At one time there was a grand total of well over 3,000 great houses in Ireland; today, there are only about 30 major houses still surviving. Disintegrating slowly, the ghostly specter of Tyrone House remains an architectural wonder - radiant still in the half-light that dances off the water of Galway Bay, but also a sad reminder of the vanquished treasures of Ireland's glorious though vanishing 18th-century past. Note is made that LORD St. George USHER(who later became BARON ST. GEORGE, was father of the 2nd DUCHESS OF LEINSTER. -- Excerpts,"The World Of Hibernia" magazine Spring 2000. Article contains many old photos of Kilcolgan Castle (includ. 1904, with Walter DYAS and daughter Maureen (ggdaughter of Christopher ST. GEORGE), and lovely Honoria Kane ST. GEORGE.

Thankyou Jean. At some of the Baptisms William Phair, / Fair, was said to be a Weaver. In 1863 1864, William Phair was the Occupier of a total of 16 acres. I dont know what he would have grown, whether it was Flax or for Dairy cattle. Did some work part time in the linen factory ? So that he had 2 occupations. I will try to obtain that Book, it should give me more of a Picture.Thankyou again, Mary ----- Original Message ----- From: "Jean R." <[email protected]> > Hi Mary -- Did your family have any connection to the linen trade? If so, > you might want to find a copy of "Linen, Family and Community in > Tullylish, > County Down, 1690-1914," by Marilyn Cohen, Dublin, Four Courts 1997, for > background to your research. Jean . > > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "Mary Legarth" <[email protected]> >>> Looking for any info' about William Phair, who married as FAIR, Margaret >> HAMILTON, 1839, in Tullylish , County Down. >> He may have previously married Rebecca ELLICE.

SNIPPET: Though Ireland has long been famous for the quality of her fine linen, it was really Sybil CONNOLLY, who first put it on the map of 20th century fashion when Jackie KENNEDY posed for White House portrait wearing one of CONNOLLY's famous pleated linen skirts. Years later, Paul COSTELLOE was to take household linen teacloths (complete with stripes down the side) and common Irish handkerchief material, and turn them into alluring dresses that women across the world wanted to buy. He became known for his delicate dresses, tailored jackets, beautifully cut blouses, a very sophisticated homespun look. Princess Diana was one of his regular customers. Working closely with Irish weavers, COSTELLOE's pioneering and skilful use of linen has set him alongside some of the world leaders of the fashion industry. Some background -- Wallace CLARK is the author of "Linen on the Green, an Irish Mill Village, 1738-1982," published in 1983. It is the history of his CLARK family's linen business, Upperlands, near Maghera, Co. Londonderry. CLARK is also the author of books on sailing, the Ulster Special Constabulary, etc. In the July-Aug 1989 issue of Dubln's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine, CLARK wrote, "Linen is the oldest and most beautiful of all fabrics. Traces of it have been found in 8,000 year-old Swiss lake dwellings, and 5,000 years ago the mummies of Egyptian rulers were wrapped in linen as sheer as any cloth produced today. The samples that survive are like gossamer - an astounding 200 threads per inch - you can see your hand through it. The early inhabitants of Ireland were growing flax long before the birth of Christ. And while their cousins across the water itched and scratched at work in coarse woollen shirts, Irishmen were quietly enjoying the luxury of linen next to the skin. For the next millennium or two, the Irish had the good sense to keep linen to themselves, and in the meantime, learn a bit about producing wool. It was not until 1700, when the export of wool to England was banned, that the Irish set about selling their secret overseas. They invented beetling engines to flatten linen and produce its prized sheen. By harnessing the dashing Irish streams to drive them, they gained a 600% lead in productivity. And they used the soft Irish atmosphere to put a finish on linen that has never yet been matched." Pictured in the article are beautiful swatches in a variety of colours and textures, samples form the Belfast company, Spence BRYSON, which had been producing linen for over a century at the time of the article. Shown also is one of a series of fine engravings by William HINCKS, entitled 'Spinning, Reeling with the Cotton Reel and Boiling the yarn,' in Co. Down in 1783. Per Mr. CLARK -- "As the know-how about linen-weaving flowed out from Ireland, the Irish were shrewd enough to learn the techniques from others. Before long, they had learned about weaving damask patterns from French Huguenots - the original idea came from Damascus. At the same time, big-handed Irish weavers sailed to Holland 'to train,' and pinch from the Dutch the secrets of bleaching, but not of power processing. The Low Countries were so flat that their rivers had scarcely enough fall to drive water-wheels. Quality control was draconian. Death was the penalty for anyone caught bleaching linen by using lime - it might weaken the cloth and spoil the good name of the trade. Exports soared from 500,000 yards in 1705 to 40 million by 1810 - all of it spun and woven by hand. Already, there were 150,000 handloom weavers in Ireland - it took four spinners (spinsters if you like ) to keep a weaver supplied. So if you count those those who 'wrought' at digging the turf that was needed to boil all that cloth before bleaching, as well as the beetlers, carters and general labourers, linen kept well over a million souls employed. After 1820, times grew leaner, as cotton came in to replace linen in some markets. And then, mechanical spinning and weaving of linen slowly and cruelly made it impossible for cottage workers to compete. Those who tried to, worked longer and longer hours, for less and less reward. Many simply died in the attempt. Looking back it was inevitable." Per the author, writing in 1989 -- "In 1865, when the Americans became too busy fighting each other in the Civil War to make any cotton, Ireland exported her heart out -- 250 million yards of apparel linen, a figure never since matched. There has never been enough flax grown in Ireland to supply the trade. But nor, if it comes to that, have you ever seen cotton growing in Lancashire. Even the Scots now weave much of their tartan from cotton grown on the bonny, bonny banks of the Nile. So now we let the French and Belgians do the dirty work, pulling the plant up by the roots (the best fibre is near the bottom) and steeping it in water for a fortnight to rot the outer husk (oh, how it stinks), allowing them to get at the fibre inside the thin green stems. They then ship it to us to be spun, woven, bleached and dyed in the unpolluted Irish air. 1914 was high noon for Irish linen in size and influence. Of 100,000 linen craftsmen in the UK, 70,000 were in Ireland driving a million spindles and 37,000 looms. Belfast handled a third of the world's flax - the mood of its buyers could make or break world prices. Between the wars, though, and particularly after 1945, artificial fibres arrived to capture huge chunks of the market." Of the 250 Irish linen houses that were trading in 1920, scarcely 20 were in business in 1989. "Happily, some of the oldest have survived - CLARKS of Upperlands, bleaching since 1736, and ANDREWS of Comber, spinning for over 200 years, each of them in the hands of one family throughout ... On quality, linen is unmatched, it looks lovely, it is strong, resistant to mildew, moths and abrasion, and it won't stretch. The tiny nodes on every fibre give it a distinctive appearance and a capacity to absorb water ... without 'feeling wet' and allows it to evaporate quickly, hence its superiority for tea towels and equally for garments. Its smooth fibres caress.the skin .... " Curiously, it is also a good cold weather fabric, per Clark, weight for weight it is a highly effective insular. "Crush? Sure it crushes - it wouldn't take such a good crease if it didn't. Some people like it crumpled. It shows the world they are chic enough to wear linen ... If you mut have easy-care fabric, go for blends or laminates. The Italians, Belgians and now even the Chinese may be producing more cloth than we do (in 1989). But the Irish linen trade, like Ireland itself, remains first in quality if not in size." Please read about developments in the last few years.

THE LINEN INDUSTRY Pulling up flax after the blue flowers have fallen And laying our handfuls in the peaty water To rot those grasses to the bone, or building stooks That recall the skirts of an invisible dancer, We become a part of the linen industry And follow its processes to the grubby town Where fields are compacted into window-boxes And there is little room among the big machines. But even in our attic under the skylight We make love on a bleach green, the whole meadow Draped with material turning white in the sun As though snow reluctant to melt were our attire. What's passion but a battering of stubborn stalks, Then a gentle combing out of fibres like hair And a weaving of these into christening robes, Into garments for a marriage or funeral? Since it's like a bereavement once the labour's done To find ourselves last workers in a dying trade, Let flax be our matchmaker, our undertaker, The provider of sheets for whatever the bed -- And be shy of your breasts in the presence of death, Say that you look more beautiful in linen Wearing white petticoats, the bow on your bodice A butterfly attending the embroidered flowers. -- Michael Longley

Looking for any info' about William Phair, who married as FAIR, Margaret HAMILTON, 1839, in Tullylish , County Down. He may have previously married Rebecca ELLICE. Mary

ALBERTINE Albertine The scent of my Albertine roses reminds me of ... Oh ... ancient linen cupboards owned by great- grandmothers dark shiny wood, the aroma of ancient polish old-fashioned eiderdowns lavender talcum powder ironed, lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchiefs ottomans full of long-forgotten children's clothes mementoes between the layers folded tablecloths and matching napkins afternoons drinking tea with aunts ham sandwiches with the crusts cut off flowery teacups, saucers, silver teaspoons Sunday afternoons windows with lace net curtains windowsills bright with red geraniums a wireless on a special shelf high on the wall the way my grandmother said "No thank you I've had quite sufficient." Her papery skin, her Irish eyes. -- Julia FAIRLIE

Hi Mary -- Did your family have any connection to the linen trade? If so, you might want to find a copy of "Linen, Family and Community in Tullylish, County Down, 1690-1914," by Marilyn Cohen, Dublin, Four Courts 1997, for background to your research. Jean . ----- Original Message ----- From: "Mary Legarth" <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]> Sent: Monday, February 05, 2007 7:46 PM Subject: [IGW] William PHAIR / FAIR/ PHAYRE & HAMILTON > Looking for any info' about William Phair, who married as FAIR, Margaret > HAMILTON, 1839, in Tullylish , County Down. > He may have previously married Rebecca ELLICE. > > Mary

THE FAMINE VICTIM They found her dead by the hawthorn hedge, Her wasted form still fair; In silent sorrow her life went out, She died of hunger there. No roof to shelter her dear young head, No ear to list her sighs; No lip, to whisper a parting prayer, For death had closed her eyes. Alone, through the dreary, dismal night, In anguish, pain and fear, No hand to soothe her feverish brow; No solace, help or cheer. Where was her father, her mother, where, She was her parents' pride! Ah, why did she live to see them starve! They too of hunger died. But the God of justice saw her woe, And heard her plaintive cry, And took with paternal care her soul, With him to rest on high. And his hand shall smite, His wrath shall fall His vengeance stern and sure, On the cruel wrong, oppression fell, That rob and slay the poor. They dug her grave near the willow tree, 'Twas soft and peaty soil -- Oh, blighting Famine's withering clutch, Was on the hand of Toil! No coffin had she, or "blessed clay," Only a peasant's prayer. But that lonely spot is holy ground, A martyr sleepeth there. -- Patrick T. McGOVERN "The subject of this poem was found on the farm of my maternal grandfather (now in the possession of my Uncle Edward TAYLOR) of Currycramp in the parish of Mohill, County Leitrim," recalls Edward FLYNN in the 1995 issue of the yearly 'Leitrim Guardian' magazine. "The spot where her body was found is on the western slope of the hill near the blackthorn hedge. She is buried in the brink of the bog not far from where she was found. Such deaths were of almost daily occurrence in 1846-7, and the people were so weakened by hunger and the ravages of the famine that there were not enough left to bear the dead to the graveyards, or to provide coffins. Hence numbers were buried in ditches while the government looked on and did nothing to relieve the situation or the condition which its own inhuman laws had created, and the sovereign Victoria extended her sympathy, but sympathy brought no bread. And so the 'bold peasantry, their country's pride' were destroyed. Patrick McGOVERN was born in Gortnaguillon, in the parish of Kiltubrid about three miles from the village of Keshcarrigan, Co. Leitrim, 24th October 1861, the son of Thomas McGOVERN and his wife, a TAYLOR from Currycramp parish of Eslin Bridge. Patrick emigrated to the USA in the 1880s. While in Ireland he was a member of the Kiltubrid Land League and believed to have contributed some poetry to the 'Irish Emerald' or some other radical papers edited by Arthur GRIFFITH. In America Patrick went first to his sister in Chicago and worked there for some time. While there he married Kathleen McNAMARA a native of Lisdoonvarna, Co. Clare. He eventually settled in St. Louis, MO, where he had a dry goods store. He had five children, all now deceased. He was a member of Gaelic societies and contributed poems to Irish American papers. He never returned to Ireland. Only a few broken walls of the home he loved so much are now standing. The old holly tree, of which he wrote one of his nicest poems is now gone. The poem 'Building the Land League Hut' related to the Proughlish evictions which took place about 1881, and where huts were built in one day for the evicted tenants. He has two nieces living in the USA, and I received those particulars and the poems from his niece, Mary McCARTHY, Lorain, OH. I am a nephew of the poet, and he has several cousins, McGOVERNs and TAYLORs still in Ireland."

I WAS A LABOURER I was a labourer in the smoky valley, within the high walls, the tall dark walls of the mills, where the hills go up to the wild moor. I am a dog of the dales, broad is my speech, and my ways are not the smooth ways of the south, but hard, and used to keener weather. All week I worked among the looms while the cloth slacked out and the shuttles clacked swiftly, as the woof was shot through the warp and through my brain dim with the webs of years. All week I was the servant of the loom, chained to the steel for the promise of meagre coin, six days a week, but Sunday comes soon, and I am my master for the waking day that found me with my whippet on the moor. O my faithful lass! Soft was her fell; her eyes were like deep pools stained with peat, shafted with light; and intelligent. She was long in the body, but strong of limb and rib, and her muscles moved under the skin like currents in a bay of the river. She was swift as the wind or as the summer swallow, and I would pit her with the local dogs, backing her swiftness with my sweaty coin and many a shilling have I won with her to spend on some wet evening in a pub or buy the tickets at the picture palace when I took out the girl I meant to marry -- but that is all forgotten with the flesh. I was a labourer in the smoky valley: I am a brittle bone projecting from the sand. -- Sean Jennett (born 1910)

SNIPPET: The "Londonderry Journal" was published by George DOUGLAS and various partners beginning with issue #1, June 3, 1772, published semi-weekly through May 1, 1781, and weekly thereafter. Perhaps you can locate a copy of Donald M. SCHLEGEL's book, "Irish Genealogical Abstracts from the Londonderry Journal 1772-1784," published a few years ago. With an every-name index, this book is fascinating reading. Contains newspaper announcements of births, marriages deaths, crimes, illnesses, bankruptcies, business advertisements, details on ship sailings to America from busy port of Londonderry, conversions of individuals from Catholicism, etc. Some "letters of thanks" to ship captains with names of emigrants. News from all over Ireland, actually. Many announcements give names of extended family members. (One strange item I recall from memory was a story about a lady who was alleged to have given birth to triplets over a three-day period, one each day!) Hardbound and paperback.

THE CHOICE The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work, And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark. When all that story's finished, what's the news? In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse. -- William Butler Yeats (1933)

SNIPPET: Michael HARDING, living on the Co. Leitrim/Roscommon border (1990s), a writer and contributor to the yearly "Leitrim Guardian" magazine, lived in Glangevlin, Co. Cavan for only three years back in the 1970s, but it made a profound impression on him. He recalls driving his Austin A40 through the Glan Gap in 1974, and was deeply absorbed by the grace and beauty of the those mountains that skirt the counties of Fermanagh, Cavan and Leitrim, including Sliabh Russell, Cuilce and Sliabh an Iarann. Coming from a middle class town where the community was already in disarray in the 1960s-70s, Glan was something of a shock to him, as Michael found the fabric of community was intact and people welcomed him into their homes. He found himself having friendships with girls in their teens and old women in their seventies. He found himself with friends of all ages. He was teaching in Loughlin House at the time, spending time drinking bottles of stout, gallivanting with the girls and annoying the unfortunate curate. As the years went by, he often found himself in far off places but wishing he was in Glan. Not born there, yet he had a sense of being absorbed by it, it had seemed like "leaving home." As the years moved on, he realized that the feeling was not sentimental but was deep-rooted. Some awakening of the spirit occurred in him during those years, some opening of the heart. Michael had sometimes kick the rocks on the hills of Glan and said to himself, "Athniom thu" - I know you. The shapes of the mountains and the curves and creases of the roads went into his heart deeper than human feeling, burned into his consciousness in a way that made him feel completely serene. He writes that the names of families he knew and Cavan's townlands have become litanies, mantras to him; the very recitation of them is holy. Michael wrote that one winter's night in Glan he was lying in a damp bed in a house by himself, very ill, when he got into his car and drove to the Parochial house, confident that the gracious curate that was incumbent there would welcome him with an open door and an open heart. He remembers the old man who would play his fiddle outside the houses in the village, an old "angel woman" who would sit by her fire clutching her tin box containing some apple tarts for her favorite cow, "Rabbit." He remembers arguing with old men about the Vietnam war, discussing theology with sheep farmers and listening to Michael Dominic tell wonderful stories about Glan in the years gone by. He saw tears in the eyes of children when a lamb died, tears in the eyes of women when driving their sons and daughters to the airport for their plane rides back to New York, tears in the eyes of the kindly priest, who was known to lavish much attention on the elderly he knew, when he stood over the graves of the dead. Finally, Michael Harding writes with sadness that the old ones are all dead and gone, and as the song says, "the young ones turning grey," but the three years in Glan gave him many precious memories and enough stories to "keep Shakespeare going."