"Fire Upon the Hearth" I am the pillar of the house: The keystone of the arch am I. Take me away, and roof and wall would fall to ruin utterly. I am the fire upon the hearth. I am the light of the good sun. I am the heat that warms the earth. Which else were colder than a stone. At me the children warm their hands:I am their light of love alive Without me cold the hearthstone stands. Nor could the precious children thrive. I am the twist that holds together The children in its sacred ring. Their knot of love, from whose close tether No lost child goes a-wandering. I am their wall against all danger. Their door against the wind and snow. Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger. Take me not till the children grow! -- Katharine Tynan (1861-1931)

SNIPPET: Researchers interested in Irish emigration might look to D. H. AKENSON's book "The Irish Diaspora: A Primer" (1993) and David FITZPATRICK's "Irish Emigration, 1801-1921," (1984), in addition to many others. Per Mr. AKENSON: Emigration as a concept in Irish historical writing and social criticism has a set of connotations and contextual limitations different from those which generally apply to European writing. In the world literature, migration, which means out-migration, is joined to in-migration (or immigration) to cover the general phenomenon of human movement, usually permanent, from one region or nation to another. The conceptual apparatus is not, for the most part, emotionally loaded and, therefore, dispassionate 'laws' (or, at least, tendencies) for worldwide migration have been articulated by historians and social observers. 'Emigration' from Ireland, however, departs from this world-based conceptual structure in several ways. First, emigration is rarely seen as being part of a general migration process in which in-migration is recognized as being as important as out-migration. Secondly, emigration is usually treated as a singularly Irish phenomenon and not as part of larger processes which, in fact, affected all of Western Europe during the same period. Third, emigration in much (though not all) of the literature is treated as something tragic, or as something for which the nation should be ashamed. A synthetic layer of 'exile' is cast over the entire phenomenon, even though it is clear that the majority of those who emigrated from Ireland did so as part of a set of conscious decisions which, in most cases, improved their life-chances. Historians of emigration in Ireland have yet to resolve two central issues of debate. the first is the extent to which emigrants from Ireland were selected. That is, did the best leave, or the dregs, and what does the answer mean for understanding the Irish society which the emigrants left behind? The second question is whether or not the large-scale migration hurt Ireland economically. On the one hand, economic historians point out the surplus labourers were siphoned off, thus reducing the number of economically dependent individuals. A counter-argument suggests that the individuals who left were those most likely to have been the recipients of social investment (especially primary education) and that their emigration effectively exported to other nations the Irish social capital invested in them. Although emigration from Ireland began in the pre-Christian era, it became a large-scale phenomenon only in the age of the first English empire, with considerable (but untallied) numbers leaving Ireland during the 17th and 18th centuries, sometimes for the Continent (the European mainland), more often for the British colonies in the western hemisphere. Mass emigration, however, began only at the close of the revolutionary and Napoleonic wars. Although sizeable emigration continues to the present day, the era of mass emigration from Ireland was from 1815 to the beginning of the First World War. A reasonable estimate is that between 1801 and 1921 at least 8 million Irish men, women, and children permanently left the country. Thus, the claim made by President Mary ROBINSON, in December 1990, that there are over all the world 70 million persons who claim as part of their cultural heritage at least partial Irish descent, is not excessive. As for destinations, a simple formulation is that, prior to the Great Famine (1845-9) Canada was the most common destination for Irish emigrants; between the Famine and the First World War, it was the United States of America; thereafter, it was Great Britain. Among the most notable characteristics of Irish emigration from 1815 to the present day is that (uniquely among European nations) Irish women were as large a part of the emigrant stream as were Irish men. This had implications both for Ireland (unlike most European countries, a surplus of single females did not develop) and for the new homelands: the numbers of women were sufficiently balanced to make it possible for Irish-born persons to marry within their own ethnic group. Per S. J. CONNOLLY - Australia received only about 5 per cent of the emigrants who left Ireland during the 19th century. These, however, made up nearly a quarter of all immigrants during that period. A proportion of Irish arrivals came by transportation, many of them being joined subsequently by wives and children. Of the remainder, a majority received some form of government assistance towards the cost of a long and expensive journey. The largest groups of emigrants came from a group of south-midland counties (Kilkenny, Tipperary, Limerick, Clare) and from south and central Ulster (Cavan, Fermanagh, Tyrone). Irish immigration peaked during the gold rush of the 1850s and fell off sharply after the 1880s. Reliance on assisted passage meant that settlement in Australia was determined less by pressures in Ireland than by the needs of the colony: there was, in particular, no great surge of migrants during the Great Famine. Closer official regulation may also help to explain why Irish settlers in Australia were more evenly distributed, both geographically and in terms of occupation and social status, than was initially the case in the United States and elsewhere. In addition their status as the second largest ethnic group (after the English) made them less vulnerable to discrimination. The legend of bushranger Ned KELLY (1854-80), along with overemphasis on transportation as a route to Australia, has encouraged a stereotype of outcast rebelliousness. Mid-19th-century statistics reveal that Irishmen were indeed over-represented among convicted criminals, but also within the police force. Most of the Irish born who achieved prominence in the early decades of Australian history were from the Protestant middle and upper classes, like Sir Richard BOURKE, governor of New South Wales 1831-8. However, Michael DWYER, Gavan DUFFY, and Daniel MANNIX, in their different ways, provided examples of what was to become an increasingly well-established pattern of pragmatic assimilation. In politics, the Irish of Australia strongly supported home rule for Ireland, but showed less enthusiasm for the separatist republicanism that later displaced it.

SNIPPET: The port of Dublin is where the Liffey joins the Irish Sea. Dubliners consider it "their" river, and relate to it as Londoners relate to the Thames and Parisians to the Seine. But in fact, the river belongs much more to Co. Wicklow - where it rises high on the heathery slopes of the Wicklow mountains, a little trickle emerging from a peaty black pool just 10 miles from the sea, and turns its back to the sea, faces inland and sets out on a wandering 80-mile journey through three counties before becoming the calm and stately river of Dublin - and to Co. Kildare, where it spends most of its life before finally joining the sea in Dublin Bay. James JOYCE, a Dubliner, made the river the idea and subject and heroine of his surrealistic masterpiece, "Finnegan's Wake." Well over a thousand years ago a handful of Viking sea-rovers came to plunder and, as they say, stayed to trade. They built themselves a settlement on the hill where Christ Church Cathedral now stands, above the wide and muddy river banks where their longships would nuzzle their anchor-chains or lie beached at low tide. That settlement owes its very existence to the Liffey. Fairly near to Dublin, several great houses along the course of the Liffey were built by the Anglo-Norman and Anglo-Irish landed gentry in the 18th century on the fertile limestone plain of Kildare. Tim M. HEALY (1855-1931), first Governor General of the Irish Free State, and a natural cynic, stated - "No city neglects its river as Dublin does. There is not a pleasure-boat on the Liffey from Butt Bridge to Lucan. If the river and town were in England there would be water-gardens and boat-houses and people delighting themselves in the lovely amenities of the water. And drowning themselves." First speaker, Oliver St. John GOGARTY, who wrote his autobiography, "As I Was Going Down Sackville Street," had reason to value the Liffey. On a bitter winter's night in 1923, GOGARTY was kidnapped by the I.R.A. and taken to a house near Islandbridge where he was to be held as a hostage. He escaped in the middle of the night by jumping into the Liffey in the darkness, and made his way half-frozen to the police barracks in Phoenix Park. As a mark of gratitude for his escape he resolved to present two swans to the Liffey, and this was done with due ceremony on March 24, 1924, after a champagne lunch in the Shelbourne. There is a famous photograph of GOGARTY on the banks of the river with the empty box in his hands, accompanied by a group which included the President of the Irish Free State, Mr. W. T. COSGRAVE, Mrs. GOGARTY, poet William Butler YEATS, and Colonel J. O'REILLY, Mr. COSGRAVE's aide-de-camp. Apparently the swans didn't come willingly out of their container, and when they were finally persuaded to do so with a good kick to the box, they took off at top speed up river. The tranquil swans in the background of the photo are pretty obviously introduced by an artist's hand. Folklore has it that there were no swans on the Liffey up to then. There are plenty now and Dubliners have learned to appreciate and enjoy their river since then. Sails and row-boats bob around the mouth of the Liffey, cleverly managing to avoid the shipping lanes. -- "Excerpt, Dublin's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine Sept-Oct 1988 (contains article and above photo).

SNIPPET: John HARRIS, RN (1754-1839) was born in Co. Derry. He entered the Royal Navy and in 1790 reached Sydney as Surgeon of the NSW Corps. He was appointed Magistrate in 1800 and Head of Police in 1802. In 1817 he helped to found the Bank of NSW. HARRIS accompanied OXLEY on his discovery of Liverpool Plains and became one of the largest landowners in the Colony. His papers were discovered in an attic above a pig farm in Co. Tyrone, IR. -- Cork's "Irish Roots" periodical

SNIPPET: Irish immigration to America and Canada had been growing since 1835, but the potato failure ten years later broke all records; more than 100,000 had crossed the Atlantic by year's end. Where ships had always sailed in the spring and summer months, dangerous year-round sailings became necessary so that the number of ships available could cope with the numbers. In reasonable weather groups of passengers would be allowed on deck to breath fresh air for a change, wash their clothing and to clean themselves and cook whatever rations were still fit to eat. In bad weather they would be forced to remain below, in complete darkness if the seas were really rough, most of the time spent on their bunks amongst seasick, possibly very ill passengers. Women's skirts would often get caught between the gaps in the planks as they closed up with the movement of the ship and they would be trapped in one position until the ship shifted enough to release the clothing. Ireland's capital city, Dublin, was by far the biggest and busiest of all the ports around the Irish coast, and the passengers for one of the first voyages of the Famine period directly to New York boarded here on St. Patrick's Day in 1846. The sweet smell from the hatches of the "Perseverance" still hung in the air, for Demerara, the old Dutch colony in the West Indies, was her last port of call and sugar, rum and molasses had recently been loaded. The ship was commanded by a man who knew his craft so well that some years earlier the owners had entrusted him with overseeing the building of new vessels for their fleet. Martin and Sons were long-established Dublin merchants, and when the Atlantic trade replaced the nearer but less profitable markets of Europe, the place to build and buy ships was on the eastern seaboard of British North America, as Canada was then known. The Canadian forests provide a cheap and plentiful source of wood. Martin and Sons despatched their senior captain, William Scott to Saint John in New Brunswick to build, buy and commission new ships to sail under their flag, to be registered in the port of Dublin. A native of the Shetland Isles in the north of Scotland, Captain William Scott was a veteran of Atlantic crossings. At an age when most men would have thought about retiring, he gave up his desk job and his home in Saint John and returned to his adopted city. When he took the "Perseverance" out of Dublin that day, he was an astonishing 74 years old! For the first time, Captain Scott's baroque of 597 tons was carrying passengers. The crew had cleared the holds, and the ship's carpenter James Gray had fitted out bunks four tiers high and six feet square. The fare for steerage was 3 pounds. In the cramped conditions for 210 passengers, pots and pans to cook their meager rations were a priority, as were a tradesman's tools to earn a living in America. The mate Shadrack Stone checked the passengers and their belongings as they stepped on board. There were probably some fiddles, a squeezebox or a set of Irish pipes brought along. Catherine Halligan was a seamstress, Michael McSollough, Patrick Byrne and Tom Hanbury were blacksmiths, but it is doubtful there would have been room for a spinning wheel or their anvils. John Butler was a watchmaker and his tools would fit easily into a pocket. George and Patrick Dermody was listed as being cabinet makers. A partial list of the passengers included Christe Archbold, male, 20, laborer; Pat Cashen, male, 22, laborer; Ann Marrinan, 24, servant; Mrs. U. Graham, servant; John Archbold, 22, laborer; James Morgan, 19, laborer; Charles McNulty, 24 laborer; Sarah Mitchelton, 40, wife; Maria Dowling, 20, servant; John McParlin, 20 laborer; Rose McParlin, 16, servant; Ann Fitzpatrick, 22, servant; U. Hay, 22, lady's maid; Jane Hay, 20, lady's maid; U. Spencer, 25, clerk; Laurence Monks, 22, butcher; Jos. Galoghlin, 22, tailor; Christopher Baker, 18, tailor; Richd. Cumming, 20, clerk; Ann Lynn, 20 wife; Eliza Flood, 22, dressmaker; James Morrison, 25, weaver; Rose Carrolin, 30, weaver; Julia Leonard, 20, laborer; John Lawless, 30, laborer; his wife, U. Lawless, 25, and children Peter, 2, and Catharine, 1; Wm. Riddle, 25, carpenter; Mary Flynn, 20, servant; Ann Doyle, 22, servant; Michael Costello, 25, servant; Bridge Cullen, female, 20, servant; Patrick Maguire, 30, laborer; Peter Byrne, 25, laborer. The passenger list does not give information as to which county each passenger called home; it is not possible to assume they were all from Co. Dublin. The voyage was not an easy one, it lasted two months, although the "Perseverance" was considered a fast ship. Captain William Scott was determined and experienced, but it was said that he was likely a hard task-master and not popular with the crew. The "Perseverance" arrived on May 18, 1846, and 216 went ashore, all the passengers plus the mate Shadrack Stone and the bosum Michael Kelly, both from Dublin, two seamen, Thomas Branagan from Rush and Patrick Maguire from Drogheda, and two young apprentices. According to the original ship's papers for this voyage the entire crew deserted in New York. More than four years would pass before Captain Scott's ship would make another such journey, carrying emigrant passengers to America, a 3,000 mile undertaking. Five thousand ships sailed across the Atlantic with Irish emigrants in the six years of the Famine Emigration. They were varied in their size, safety, comfort, (or lack of it), age, experience and quality of their crew, their speed, provisions on board and the fares they charged.

The Song of the Old Mother W B Yeats I Rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow; And then I must scrub and bake and sweep Till stars are beginning to blink and peep; And the young lie long and dream in their bed Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head, And their day goes over in idleness, And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress; While I must work because I am old, And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.

SNIPPET: Frank FORAN, a native of Sheskinacurry, Drumshanbo, Leitrim, wrote this moving account of the wake and funeral of his maternal Grandfather. His Grandfather, a school teacher, died in 1911, and Frank, now also deceased wrote the account in 1912. In it, he describes the scenes at the wake and funeral with the reverence and respect with which the dead were treated. The account, even though seen through the eyes of a child, is detailed and beautifully written. Frank wrote, "It was the feast of our National Apostle, One Thousand Nine Hundred and Eleven. As my twin brother and I walked down the narrow mountain road from our home, on our way to early Mass in the village church a mile or so distance, we were filled with that joy known only to boys. There were a few reasons for our elation: we were turned out in our Sunday best, to which were added green ties and sprays of shamrock in our caps. It was friday - an extra day free from school, but the big events to which we looked forward were our marching in the festival procession in the village, led by the bands playing national airs, after which we would go on a visit to the home of our maternal grandparents where we had spent our childhood. Having arrived at the church we took our places in one of the front seats and in a few moments the priest, led by his two servers, arrived from the sacristy to celebrate Mass. He was a tall, fine looking man, in his early sixties, very stern, and more feared than loved by school boys, but known to all to be a very eloquent preacher. Having reached the point when he would make his parish announcements and give his sermon, he turned to the congregation and in his beautiful modulated voice said, 'Your prayers are requested for the repose of the soul of Denis...who died at his residence this morning. May he rest in peace.' Immediately my brother and I burst into tears and wept bitterly during the remainder of the service and failed to listen to our good priest's sermon on St. Patrick. On our way home kindly neighbours consoled us, so by the time we reached our house we had somewhat recovered from our sorrow. Immediately we entered the living room my brother, in a somewhat loud but quivering voice said: 'Grandfather is dead.' My father, who had just entered from upstairs, turned and reprimanded him for his indiscretion, which after all was due to a boy's lack of tact. Immediately I turned to look at mother who had dropped into a chair and full of silent weeping while her tears dropped quietly on her hands which lay folded on her lap. In a short while she recovered and proceeded to prepare breakfast for everybody, prior to accompanying father to mid-day Mass. After dinner my brother and I rambled up to the top of the hill from which we could hear the bands playing in the village in the valley below, but the music had now lost its appeal. We talked of Grandfather - when would he be buried, and would we be permitted to accompany his remains to the grave. We talked about Mother: why she did not cry as we did on hearing of her father's death: why her stoic acceptance of the sad news? We did not know. On Saturday evening we went with our parents to the 'corpse house.' On entering the little parlour we found Grandmother sitting on a chair facing the door wiping her tear dimmed eyes, and on either side sat my uncle and aunt who had arrived from the city some hours previously. When my brother and I went to her she placed her old hands on our heads and said, 'Go in and see Grandfather.' We went to the bedroom to see death for the first time in our young lives. There he lay clothed in his brown habit. His old hands, clasped as in prayer, rested on his body, and his old rosary beads were entwined in his thin fingers. His eyes were closed as in sleep, his face was pale, but his long white beard had not changed; but when we touched his ice cold face and hands we were filled with a strange fear. We returned to the parlour which had not changed since our childhood days. By the fire side stood the old rocking chair in which grandfather sat and sang old Irish songs - 'The Rising of the Moon' and the "Shean Bhean Bhocht' being his favourites. The circular table still stood on the centre of the floor around which he had us march to the tune of the Boers' March, played on the old piano by one of our musical cousins who would be on a visit. And by the wall stood his library, indicating his literary tastes and scholarship. On the wall over the fireplace stood the old school clock, which he took with him on his retirement and which he never failed to wind each night after he had stood up from the Rosary. On our way down to the kitchen we passed the coat of arms of his family which had passed on to him and which he had fixed in the wall facing the front door, the history of which he related to all visitors who entered his home. Arriving in the kitchen we found his old neighbours, sitting around the big turf fire, smoking new clay pipes filled with fresh tobacco which was handed to each as he came in, and talking in hushed tones about the past. They remembered when Grandfather, with his young wife, came from another parish among them to open their school in an old barn lent by a kindly farmer, and later to move to a new building provided by the educational authorities and from which he would retire 40 years later. They remembered that it was to the 'Master' they came to have their letters written - some perhaps to America in connection with legacies left to them by relatives, others to the Land Commission in connection with settlements under the Purchase Acts, and others came to seek advice on their disputes. And again they remembered that it was in the little school their many children got all they had in secular and moral education which helped them later in life's struggle, when all but the few found themselves swallowed up in the big cities in England or America, and where 'one of the ten' remembered the 'Master and Mistress' by a letter now and then. Next day the funeral took place. Some hours before it was to leave large numbers of relatives and friends arrived, among whom were priests, in tall hats. The parlour and kitchen were filled with people and around Grandfather's bed stood his immediate relatives to look on his face for the last time before his body would be gently laid in the waiting coffin. Outside, large numbers had gathered from the two parishes and here again the clay pipes and tobacco were handed around and the recipient reverently raised his hat and murmured: 'The Lord have mercy on him.' And then a strange thing happened. A strange man standing among the crowd facing the front door commenced to sing, as from a ballad which he held in his hand. He had not got very far with his song when Grandmother appeared from inside and ordered him away; and reluctantly but quietly he disappeared in the crowd. Who he was and why he had come, I never knew. And now the funeral was about to leave. The coffin was reverently raised on to the shoulders of four men bearing the surname of Grandfather, who carried it down the lane which led from the house to the main road, and placed it in the waiting hearse. The driver was dressed in a long black coat, on front of which were two rows of shining brass buttons, and from beneath appeared his shining black leggings and boots. On one of his shoulders hung a large white sash, and around his tall black hat was a wide white ribbon which hung down his back. Looking back from the rear, we saw a long, long line of side cars on which people were taking their seats. The driver stepped up on the box and the cortege started on its five mile journey to the little cemetery on the lake side. It was a cold, dry day with an east wind gale force and overhead a dark leaden sky. We had no shelter from the piercing cold wind except that afforded by the trees and hedges along the road side. When the procession reached the parish border it stopped and a table, on which was a white cloth, was taken from a house and put standing on the road side. The immediate relatives then dismounted from their seats and formed a semi-circle around the table on which people placed their 'offerings.' When the last person had passed and resumed his seat, the cortege continued on its journey. We now came in view of the wide expanse of the lake to the east. Beyond lay the grey bleak hills, while across the intervening angry dark waters came rushing herds of white horses to dash against the boundary wall of the little cemetery below. Having reached the point on the road on which we must stop, the coffin was gently lifted from the hearse and carried on shoulders down the narrow path which led to the burial ground, to be reverently laid in the open grave awaiting it. The priests and relatives gathered around and Father Mick, Grandfather's nephew, gave the service, while someone held an umbrella over his shoulder to offer him the little shelter he could from the gale. Only during a momentary lull could we hear his voice mingling with the gentle sobbing of the women folk. But there were other sounds the storm failed to drown - the thud of the chunks of damp earth as it was being rolled over the coffin. The grave was closed, the final prayers were said, and we returned on the road we had come. I look back and think of the darkness which would in a few hours envelop the cemetery. I think of the winds howling around the ivied walls of the little old church and the angry waters dashing against the cemetery wall. I think of Grandfather lying in his cold grave, never to return to the rocking chair by the cosy fireside, or hear the old school clock ticking on the wall." -- "Leitrim Guardian," 1995.

SNIPPET: In her column, 'Australian Notebook, News about the Irish in Australia' in "Irish Roots" genealogy magazine published in Cork, Jennifer HARRISON of Toowong, BC Queensland, Australia critiqued popular Australian author Thomas KENEALLY's 1998 book, "The Great Shame," published by Random Harvest. Per Ms. HARRISON, "This book is a large, long one, touching on several aspects of immigration to Australia and the U. S., their causes and effects. The experiences of convict protester Hugh LARKIN influenced the author because 'Ribbonman' LARKIN was his children's gggrandfather. Recounting this story provided an opening for investigating the political activity which coincided with the great calamity, particularly that centered around other involuntary migrants to Australia and the United States, the 'Young Irelanders'. Many consider that the material could have been spread over 2-3 books. KENEALLY himself refers to the self-imposed mammoth undertaking as 'being locked in a closet with a Tyrannosaurus Rex of a project, and knowing that only one of us was getting out alive.' Understandably, several Australian readers have admitted being much more interested in the LARKIN story and skipping through the U. S. sections; no doubt some Americans have reversed this procedure ... KENEALLY deliberately chose a nonfiction approach but does that mean the only other avenue available is to have it assessed as 'serious' history? He makes no such claims. But he did immerse himself in investigations in several countries, at conferences, in discussions and with researchers. To some of his audience, the product falls short of being a great history. What were their expectations? Few have criticised the historical content of the current film 'Elizabeth,' with its blatant rewriting of the Tudor period but at the very least this intriguing topic has been introduced to milliions and is entertaining them. I commend Tom KENEALLY for 'having a go' by producing a significant contribution to an extraordinarily contentious, multi-layered and emotional subject. In the end, the book-buying public will determine its value. For those he inspires to read further on the famine and political agitation, Irish-Australian and Irish-United States history must be the ultimate winners." Perhaps you can locate a copy if the subject interests you. One could also read more on the Internet regarding what role the "Young Irelanders" and "Ribbonism" played in Ireland and emigration from Ireland in general.

SNIPPET: Derry's Phil COULTER has achieve international fame as a singer and songwriter. When he was growing up in Derry, per "Irish America" magazine, if you came over the bridge from the waterside to the cityside, turned left up Abercorn road there was a big building at the end of the bridge called the Henderson Shirt Factory. Although his own mum did not work there, most guys' mums would have worked at the shirt factory, or their sisters or their aunts. Most of his classmates at St. Columb's College had someone who worked there. (Famous graduates included the likes of John HUME, Brian FRIEL, Seamus HEANEY and Seamus DEANE during a ten-year period). A horn at the factory went off at ten to eight to let the girls working there know they should be getting in, and another horn would sound at eight o'clock when they were supposed to start work. This is the "shirt factory" he refers to in his haunting "The Town I Loved So Well," that he wrote a handful of years ago. Phil said that Derry people have a great sense of Derryness, a great sense of pride in their town, and that the good people of Northern Ireland as a whole are very special, having a great resilience that has allowed them to live through some very dark hours. His own parents taught him tolerance and he knew and played with the children of decent, ordinary God-fearing people of all faiths. His song came out of comparing the Derry that he grew up in and the Derry he saw emerging at that time, and writing it helped him come to terms with the trauma all around him that was only one part of the story of Northern Ireland: "In my memory, I will always see The town that I have loved so well. Where our school played ball by the gas-yard wall, And we laughed through the smoke and the smell. Going home in the rain, running up the dark lane, past the Jail and down behind the fountain. Those were happy days, in so many, many ways. In the town I loved so well. In the early morning the shirt factory horn Called women from the Creggan, the Moor and the Bog While the men on the dole played a mother's role Fed the children, and then walked the dog. And when times got tough, there was just about enough And they saw it through without complaining; For deep inside was a burning pride In the town I loved so well. There was music there in the Derry air Like a language that we all could understand; I remember the day that I earned my first pay When I played in a small pick-up band. There I spent my youth, and to tell you the truth I was sad to leave it all behind me; for I'd learned about life, and I'd found a wife In the town I loved so well. But when I've returned, how my eyes have burned To see how a town could be brought to its knees; By the armoured cars and the bombed-out bars And the gas that hangs onto every breeze. Now the army's installed by that old gas yard wall And the damned barbed wire gets higher and higher With their tanks and guns, oh my God, what have they done To the town I loved so well. Now the music's gone but they carry on For their spirit's been bruised, never broken. They will not forget, but their hearts are set On tomorrow and PEACE one again For what's done is done, and what's won is won; And what's lost is lost and gone forever. I can only pray for a bright, new day In the town I loved so well."

SNIPPET: Shirt making became an important occupation in west Ulster during the 1840s. It emerged initially as a cottage industry. When elements of the industry became mechanized, part of the work was carried out in supervised workshops. In 1853 TILLIE and HENDERSON established the Foyle Factory, Derry, which became the largest Irish shirt making establishment, employing 1,500 hands by the 1890s. The number of factories rose from five in the 1850s to 38 by the turn of the century. At this stage total employment in the industry in Cos. Londonderry, Donegal, and Tyrone had risen to 80,000 people (including outworkers). The various parts of the shirts were generally made in factories located in the town of Derry, and to a lesser extent in Strabane, Co. Tyrone; these parts were then made up by rural outworkers. The low cost of labour was an important factor in explaining the rapid growth of shirt making in west Ulster during the second half of the 19th century. However, employment in the industry contracted significantly towards the end of the 19th century, due to foreign competition and changing fashions.

SNIPPET: English Victorian traveller, Richard LOVETT, kept notes of his travels throughout Ireland that were published in 1888 by the Religious Tract Society. This was the great age of railway travel, before the coming of the motorcar and aeroplane, and Mr. LOVETT's itinerary was undertaken at a leisurely pace, while he travelled by steamer, train, carriage and on foot. Here were some of his observations in Ulster, I believe, in the vicinity of the Donegal highlands. "After a fine ride from the Lackagh River, Mulroy Bay, in some respects the most interesting of all these fjords, is reached. Unlike Sheephaven or Lough Swilly, it is broken up by a multitude of islands, affording ever-varying and ever-fresh views. Skilful boatmen are to be had, and very enjoyable sails can be obtained on the bay. As the Atlantic is neared the shores get lower and more rocky and bare. At the extremity of the eastern headland is the little fishing village of Ballyhoorisky, inhabited by a sturdy race of fisherman, capital boatmen, ready when occasion serves to sail on the bay, to visit Tory Island, and for any other trip. One drawback is that they chatter away in Irish to one another, as that language sounds singularly inharmonious to a Saxon ear, the inability to understand what is said is unrelieved by sounds that in themselves are pleasing. On one occasion the writer found himself in this out-of-the-world nook. He had come hoping for a fine day, and a long sail to Tory Island. but alas! Nature was in an unkindly mood, donning grey skies, and letting fall a drizzling rain. Beyond the village broad spurs of rock covered with heaps of sand jut out into the ocean, which was breaking upon them with considerable force. Just as we left the village a procession came down the lane. At the head walked a man in his best apparel, bearing aloft a huge wooden cross, then followed a plain coffin borne by four men; and close after this, walking two by two, all in their best dress, came what must have been nearly the whole population of the village. The funeral was plain and very touching from its absolute simplicity. It was one of those sudden unexpected incidents that give at once the charm and the value to travel, striking those deeper chords that vibrate in all hearts. Here too Death claimed his victims, here too love and sympathy and kindliness flourished. No doubt even in Ballyhoorisky the bonds of custom are strong, and some followed, possibly, on this account only; but the signs of neighbourly fellowship and interest were predominant. As the little procession wended its way over the waste, the humble cottages, the varied and subdued dresses of the mourners, the yellow sand-heaps, the bare rocks, upon which the Atlantic surges were hurling themselves in a heavy fringe of snow-white surf, stood out in sharp contrast against the clear background of the steel-grey waters stretched out to the distant horizon. Over all hung the dull sky, harmonizing well with the scene of mourning, the combination uniting to form a picture that will live long in the memory by reason of its blending together the uncommon and beautiful in Nature with the too common manifestation of human frailty and sorrow."

SNIPPET: Elderly Maire ni GRIANNA, from Rannafast, Donegal, recorded with poignant clarity these memories from the 1847 Famine: "The years of the Famine, of the bad life and of the hunger, arrived and broke the spirit and strength of the community. People simply wanted to survive. Their spirit of comradeship was lost. It didn't matter what ties or relations you had; you considered that person to be your friend who gave you food to put in your mouth. Recreation and leisure ceased. Poetry, music and dancing died. These things were lost and completely forgotten. When life improved in other ways, these pursuits never returned as they had been The Famine killed everything. Not many people died from hunger here. There were good years for oats here, and during the Famine anyone who saved the oats made meal from it. Those people were alright. But those who were dependent on the potatoes were lost. Their families died. The poor creatures, they thought they would be able to live on seafood, but they weren't. They needed a little of the produce of the soil to stay alive. They used to stay inside their cabins, not able to walk, so weak were they from hunger. They would go out in the fields on all fours and eat their fill of grass and weeds and then they'd be able to walk home. Mothers lay in their beds with the children beside them and they were so weak they were not able to get up. They used to lie there until one after another they died of hunger. The hunger killed the old and the children for the most part. Stronger people were able to survive the hardship. When the people began to die of hunger, a big cauldron was set up in Rannafast to make broth or gruel to keep people alive. No one knew where it came from or who had sent it. Bones were boiled to make the broth and there's no record of where those bones came from. Anyone who had anything at all to eat or any way of getting it would get no broth at all. But there weren't many here who could do that. Every one got one serving of broth per day. Crowds would be milling around as they gave out the broth and they'd be pushing and shoving, nearly killing one another to get up to the cauldron. Everyone was trying to get in before others, so great was the hunger. No one had mercy for anyone else. At any rate, between broth and whatever the soil produced and seafood or weeds, they were kept alive, but barely so. That cauldron was in Rannafast until a few years ago.... Far more died of fever than of hunger. The people were so wasted and weak with hunger and starvation that, when the fever came, they could not withstand the disease and therefore hundreds of them died. There were no hospital or doctor in this area either..." -- Excerpts, "The Irish, A Treasury of Art and Literature," ed. Leslie Caron Carola (1993).

Destiny Margaret Nohilly I walked into the shop and there you were, a pyramid of yellow pears clutched to your chest, and a smile that cancelled years. We magnetised each other as we do when so we meet, trade trifles from our separate lives with words that hide and seek. It might have been otherwise the candour in your eyes reminds me. We stand in a synergy I know I can trust, and scintillate that it be so though life has led us different roads of growth and tears. Our choices yield both loss and gain, I do not know for whom you buy your pears.

SNIPPET: Daniel O'CONNELL, born in Cahersiveen, Co. Kerry in 1775, was elected in Ennis, Co. Clare, as the first Catholic member of the British Parliament. (See Derrynane House, below). Educated in France at the time when the anti-Catholic penal laws limited schooling for Irish Catholics in Ireland, O'CONNELL witnessed the carnage of the French Revolution. Upon his return to Ireland, he saw more bloodshed during the futile Rebellion of 1798. He chose law as his profession, and reluctantly killed a man who challenged him to a duel. Abhorring violence, he dedicated himself to peacefully gaining equal rights for Catholics in an Ireland dominated by a wealthy Protestant minority. He formed the Catholic Association, with a one-penny-per-month membership fee, and quickly gained a huge following, especially among the poor, with his persuasive speaking skills. Although Catholics were not allowed to hold office, he ran for election to Parliament, anyway, and won a seat in 1828. Unwilling to take the anti-Catholic Oath of Supremacy initially kept him out of Westminster, but the moral force of his victory caused the government to give in and concede Catholic emancipation the following year. Known as "the Liberator," O'CONNELL was making progress toward his next goal of repealing the Act of Union with Britain when the Potato Famine hit in 1845. He died two years later in Genoa on his way to Rome, but his ideals lived on. Derrynane House is the home of O'CONNELL, Ireland's most influential preindependence politician, whose tireless nonviolent agitation gained equality for Catholics 175 years ago. The coastal lands of the O'CONNELL estate that surround Derrynane House are now a national historic park. A visit here is a window onto a man who not only liberated Ireland from the last oppressive anti-Catholic penal laws, but who also developed the idea of a grassroots movement, organizing on a massive scale to achieve political ends without bloodshed. O'CONNELL's turbulent life makes the contents of the house most interesting. In the exhibition room downstairs is a glass case containing the pistols that were used in the famous duel. Beside them are his black gloves, one of which he always wore on his right pistol hand when he went to Mass, out of remorse for the part it played in taking a man's life. The drawing room upstairs is lined with family portraits and his ornately carved chair. On the wall in the upstairs bedroom is a copy of his most famous speech imploring the Irish not to riot when he was arrested. Out back, beside the tearoom, is an enormous grand chariot that carried O'CONNELL through throngs of joyous Dubliners after his release from prison in 1844. He added the small chapel wing to the house in gratitude to God for his prison release. The grounds of the estate are pleasant enough for a 20-minute stroll to the beach and back.

Contemporary poet, R. T. SMITH was born in Washington DC, raised in GA & NC, a teacher and author of books of poetry. A resident of Rockbridge Co. VA, Smith has been a resident at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig in Ireland. THE GIRLS OF O'CONNELL STREET The brash klaxon of a Guinness lorry shivers the air where the cashiers and salesgirls of Dublin steer swift as a regetta past the Liberators lofty effigy and the mossgreen bronze statue of Joyce. Sloop-elegant and subdued by formula fashion, except when the sun catches an earring blazing like a Viking blade, they glide and tack in twilled wool and linen, amazing for their deft navigation through frenzy, all trim rigging, the grace of necessity and obligatory smiles Ready to clock in, sort change and set the kettle, they lend the morning a symmetry almost puritan, routine wed to duty, all dreams tightly leashed. until one imp from County Kerry with gold in her nose and magenta dreadlocks appears from absolutely nowhere, narrow keel to the wind and rainbow shawls flying, her laughter swiftly unstitching any edict of taste or Election ever decreed by Calvin Klein or John Calvin.

SNIPPET: Check out the Merseyside Maritime Museum website for details (images of) maritime books, documents and artificacts spanning three centuries, and of particular interest to Irish researchers in that Liverpool was most often their ancestors' first (or last) destination. Google the title Merseyside Maritime Museum or http://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/maritime/ History of the Albert Dock Only known surviving first class ticket for the White Star liner, Titanic, built in Belfast. Pamphlet - "Practical Hints for Emigrants To Our Australian Colonies," Liverpool 1858 Passenger's Contract Ticket for passage to New York, 1857, issued by Henry BOYD, 82 Dublin Street, & 27, Waterloo Road Plans for new Floating Palaces gallery exploring sinking of "Empress of Ireland" (on which two of my FORD great-uncles were passengers from Liverpool to America shortly before the sinking!), the Titanic and Lusitania Instructions to Surgeons Superintendents of Government Emigrant Ships (Dietary Scale) March 1866) listing food allotments for men, women and children: "Full rations, according to the following scale, are to be issued during the voyage, and until disembarkation, to each male and female passenger of twelve years of age and upwards, and half rations to children of four years and under twelve years of age. Children between one and four years old will receive half rations, with the substitutions mentions below. The water and all articles of food are to be of the best quality, and in a sweet and good condition when issued for the use of the passengers." Builder's Model of SS Oceanic, Gift of the White Star Line, 1934. "Oceanic' was the pioneer and 'name ship' of TH Ismay's Oceanic Steam Navigation Company Limited of Liverpool, better known as the White Star Line. She was built by Harland and Wolff shipbuilders of Belfast. From this partnership some sixty ships resulted, many of them outstanding for their advanced design, passenger facilities, speed and size." Top Ten Books Top Ten Archive Treasures Jean

HISTORY/DOCUMENTARY -- Produced by Unicorn Films, "Dublin Medieval Charm, Georgian Splendour," an award-winning documentary video is presented and narrated by Cathal O'SHANNON,one of Ireland's best-known documentary presenters. The film (per review) has a captivating music score by Ken TUOHY and it is an ideal reference for both visitors and students. The making of this documentary was a labour of love, for Dubliner Aiden DOYLE. His previous production "Malahide Castle to the Velvet Strand" was awarded Best Documentary award at the Cork International Film Festival in 1998. Shot on location throughout Dublin, the history of the city is traced back to the Vikings, who arrived north of Dublin on Lambay Island in 795 A. D. Half a century later Viking boats sailed up the River Liffey. The Vikings named their new settlement Dyfflin. In 1171 Dublin was taken over by the Normans led by Richard de Clare, Earl of Pembroke (Strongbow). Cathal O'Shannon's superb narration, together with realistic illustrations, captures the atmosphere of these periods in Dublin's turbulent history. The history of Christ Church and St. Patrick's Cathedral is covered in great detail. Cathal visits Trinity College, home of the Book of Kells and covers the history of James Gandon's famous buildings, The Custom House, The Four Courts and Parliament Buildings. Cathal takes a horse and carriage trip around Fitzwilliam and Merrion Squares and outlines the history of these beautiful Georgian squares. The rise and fall of Charles Stewart Parnell is also covered, along with the Phoenix Park murder of 1882, the workers' strike of 1913, and the Howth Gun Running episode, which culminated in the events of East Week 1916. There is a superb collection of photographs courtesy of the various national archives used throughout this production. In Kilmainham Gaol, Cathal tells the tragic story of Joseph Mary Plunkett who married Grace Gifford only hours before his execution. The War of Independence, the leadership of Michael Collins, and the Irish Civil War in Dublin are documented. Finally Cathal visits some of Dublin's famous pubs associated with great Irish writers and relaxes with a pint at Ireland's oldest pub, The Brazen Head Inn and tells of the famous visitors who frequented it over the centuries. Website: www.unicornfilms.net

Life LIFE, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower will make the roses bloom, O why lament its fall ? Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily, Enjoy them as they fly ! What though Death at times steps in And calls our Best away ? What though sorrow seems to win, O'er hope, a heavy sway ? Yet hope again elastic springs, Unconquered, though she fell; Still buoyant are her golden wings, Still strong to bear us well. Manfully, fearlessly, The day of trial bear, For gloriously, victoriously, Can courage quell despair ! Charlotte Bronte SNIPPET: BRONTE is the family name of three sisters who became famous novelists - Charlotte, Emily and Anne. Their lives and works are associated with the lonely moors of Yorkshire, England, where they were born Their brother Branwell painted a lovely portrait of his sisters. Their father, born Patrick BRUNTY in Emdale, parish of Drumgallyroney, County Down on St. Patrick's Day 1777, was a poor, rather eccentric Irishman who became the parish clergyman in the small, isolated town of Haworth, Yorkshire in England. Charlotte's famous novel, "Jane Eyre," (1847) was largely biographical. Through the heroine, Charlotte relived the hated boarding school and her experiences as a governness in a large house, although the hero and master of the house, Rochester, was fictional. At the time it was published, some of her contemporaries were shocked that the character, Jane, wanted to be regarded as a thinking and independent person as opposed to a weak woman. Charlotte wrote a first-hand account of her visit to the Crystal Palace at the The Great Exhibition, in 1851, at Hyde Park, London. n Sir Joseph PAXTON's Crystal Palace contained a floor area of more than 800,000 square feet and contained over eight miles of display tables. Charlotte wrote - "Yesterday, I went for the second time to the Crystal Palace. We remained in it about three hours, and I must say I was more struck with it on this occasion than at my first visit It is a wonderful place - vast, strange, new, and impossible to describe. Its grandeur does not consist in one thing, but in the unique assemblage of all things. Whatever human industry has created you will find there, from the great compartments filled with railway engines and boilers, with mill machinery in full work, with splendid carriages of all kinds, with harness of every description, to the glass-covered and velvet-spread stands loaded with the most gorgeous work of the goldsmith and silversmith, and the carefully guarded caskets full of real diamonds and pearls worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. It may be called a bazaar or a fair, but it is such a bazaar or fair as Eastern genii might have created. It seems as if only magic could have gathered this mass of wealth from all the ends of the earth -- as if none but supernatural hands could have arranged it thus, with such a blaze and contrast of colours and marvellous power of effect. The multitude filling the great aisles seems ruled and subdued by some invisible influence. Amongst the thirty thousand souls that peopled it the day I was there not one loud noise was to be heard, not one irregular movement seen; the living tide rolls on quietly, with a deep hum like the sea heard from the distance."

A Cliff Craving - Red the feet and red the bill A body ink-black so very dark Standing on a moss covered sill On top of the cliff so high. To east and west sharp screeches Answer the voices of the ocean Listens to the echo of the cliff Raging at the thundering seas. Flying low above the briny, A man alone on lands end Walks the mist of late afternoon To spy on the red footed chough. SNIPPET: These magnificent, almost mythical birds have inspired poets such as the 19th century Cornish author John HARRIS and Domhnall MAC SITHIGH (Danny SHEEHY) of Ballyferriter, Co. Kerry. With their distinctive red legs and bill, choughs (pronounced chuff) are settling in the Dingle Peninsula where spectacular stretches of beach and mountains attract many visitors. Kerry provides the perfect territory for choughs - clefts in inaccessible cliffs, a good lookout post at Minard Castle or nearby, the valley of Annascaul Lake. Soaring over the deserted and windswept strands of Kerry, through air laced thickly with spray from the sea, one hears their raucous cry of 'Chee-aaw Chee-aaw." A several-page photo-article by Bob MOSS on the background of these members of the crow family (which are said to have a sinister side, an affinity with death) can be found in the May-June 2005 issue of Dublin's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine. There you will find the HARRIS poem in English, and the MAC SITHIGH (SHEEHY) poem in the lyrical Irish language. The translated version of the latter is above. Author of several books and award-winning articles, Bob MOSS has a particular interest in shoreline angling and the conservation of Bass, when not actually out fishing. He has lived on the Dingle peninsula for over 30 years - Smerwick Harbour in his home. His book "Through a Line Tightly - piscatorial illustrations of a lifetime misspent," (ISBN 0 9540466 2 5) is available from the author - [email protected] The BirdWatch Ireland Chough Survey Team have been researching the species' year-round distribution and habitat use in Cork, Kerry and Donegal since 2002. More details from website www.birdwatchireland.ie or by post - BirdWatch Ireland, Rockingham House, Newcastle, Co. Wicklow. BirdWatch Ireland would be very pleased to hear from anyone who would like to report chough sightings, especially flocks of 20 or more: Contact the survey team at [email protected] (Nick GRAY).

THE ISLAND The one saddle and bit on the island We set aside for every second Sunday When the priest rides slowly up from the pier. Afterwards his boat creaks into the mist. Or he arrives here nine times out of ten With the doctor. They will soon be friends. Visitors are few. A Belgian for instance Who has told us all about the oven, Linguists occasionally, and sociologists. A lapsed Capuchin monk who came to stay Was first and last to fish the lake for eels. His carved crucifixes are still on sale. Our ship continues to rust on the rocks. We stripped it completely of wash-hand basins, Toilet fitments, its cargo of linoleum We can estimate time by a shadow Of a doorpost inching across the floor. In the thatch blackbirds rummaging for worms And our dead submerged beneath the dunes. We count ourselves historians of sorts And chronicle all such comings and goings. We can walk in a day around the island. We shall reach the horizon and disappear. -- Michael Longley