Richard Lovett, a visitor to Ireland, traveled across the length and breadth of Ireland, keeping a careful journal that was first published in 1888 by the Religious Tract Society. His notes reveal his captivation with the breathtaking Irish countryside, its people and their way of life, the architecture, beautifully-illuminated books and marvelous artifacts. Of the Donegal peasantry, he said, "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 are 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. There was nothing of the wild pursuit of tourists by child-beggars, and grown-up beggars, and nothing of the fierce scowl at all supposed well-to-do people, which I have been told we should find in this land ripe for revolution. And though 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."

BELOVED, IT IS MORN Beloved, it is morn! A redder berry on the thorn, A deep yellow on the corn, For this good day new-born. Pray, Sweet, for me That I may be Faithful to God and thee. Beloved, it is day! And lovers work, as children play, With heart and brain untired alway: Dear love, look up and pray. Pray, Sweet, for me That I may be Faithful to God and thee. Beloved, it is night! Thy heart and mine are full of light, Thy spirit shineth clear and white, God keep thee in His sight! Pray, Sweet, for me That I may be Faithful to God and thee. -- Emily Henrietta Hickey (1845-1924)

My best friend just had her second grandchild on Sunday. His name is Ryan Declan. She asked me if I knew what the name Declan meant and so far I have been unable to find it on any web site. I did find that Ryan means "little king" in Gaelic. I thought someone on the list might be able to direct me so a site that would have it. Thanks so much in advance and Happy Thanksgibing! Ceal

Hi, Hope someone else will answer you re Declan. I hunted for and found an article in an old issue of "Hibernia" magazine (I believe that magazine is no longer being published) on baby names but it didn't include Declan. However, it mentions "Celtic Baby Names," by Judy Sierra (1997), which contains more than 1,200 Celtic names with definitions and background. In additoin to Irish names the book includes chapters on Scotland, Wales, Brittany, Cornwall, and the Isle of Man. At that time the book could be ordered directly from the publisher for $18 which included shipping and handling. "Celtic Baby Names" was published in 1997 by Folkprint, POB 450, Eugene, OR 97440 - that is where I was born, Eugene. If you didn't want to purchase the book, or she did not have any other copies, perhaps she might answer a query if you send her a SASE with a five dollars enclosed for her trouble. You might be able to find a used copy via an Internet search. I have seen that Declan given name in Ireland quite often. Jean, Spokane, WA ----- Original Message ----- From: <TheShamrockLady@aol.com> To: <IrelandGenWeb-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Tuesday, November 26, 2002 1:25 PM Subject: [IGW] Meaning of the name Declan? > > > My best friend just had her second grandchild on Sunday. His name is > Ryan Declan. She asked me if I knew what the name Declan meant and so far I > have been unable to find it on any web site. I did find that Ryan means > "little king" in Gaelic. I thought someone on the list might be able to > direct me so a site that would have it. Thanks so much in advance and Happy > Thanksgibing! > > Ceal > > > > ==== IrelandGenWeb Mailing List ==== > This list is sponsored by the IrelandGenWeb Project - http://www.irelandgenweb.com > >

See query below -- Hi, Michael Brennan - hmm, I think you are correct about Hoban being from Kilkenny, not Carlow, but I did find that reference in an Irish magazine. I am always glad when some error is pointed out and especially when someone else on the list takes up a thread and contributes additional information!!! Hi to Kent, as well, as I have some Irish/English Ford cousins over there in Tunbridge Wells area. Per author Edward T. O'Donnell, James HOBAN (1762-1831) was a native of Co. Kilkenny, as you have pointed out. (Whether he had a connection to Carlow), he doesn't say. Per that author, Hoban worked as an architect in Dublin before coming to America in 1785. Though Hoban designed several other governmental buildings in Charleston, SC, and Washington D.C., he is best known for designing the "President's Palace," or White House. He earned the prestigious commission after winning a national design competition in 1792. When British troops torched the building in 1814, Hoban also supervised the reconstruction. Hoban's design for the White House was certainly influenced by that of Leinster House in Dublin, where Ireland's Parliament currently meets. Thank's again, Michael Brennan. ----- Original Message ----- From: "Michael Brennan" <michael@janbren.freeserve.co.uk> > Hi Jean. What an interesting collection of Snippets you have put together. > I just have one problem. On this site > http://www.whitehousehistory.org/04_history/subs_timeline/d_architecture/fra > me_d_1800.html It claims that John Hoban was born in Kilkenny?? about 1758. > Just wondered!!! Your comments greatly received. > > Regards > Michael Brennan in Kent, England. > If you require further info on Research in Ireland why not visit one of the > web sites listed below. > > Brennan Home Page: http://www.brennanfamilyhistory.com > Award Winning CARLOW IGP: http://www.rootsweb.com/~irlcar2/ > New Home Page: http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.com/~mjbrennan >

Because of the high death rates on the transatlantic voyages, many of the vessels that carried Irish Famine refugees to the Americas were simply known as "coffin ships." During the Famine's worst year - Black 1847 - approximately 20,000 out of 100,000 emigrants perished at sea. Most were carried away by the diseases that ran freely in the reeking holds of the ship. Dr. J. CUSTIS, a physician who traveled aboard six Famine ships, wrote that although he had witnessed the devastation of the Famine in the workhouses of Ireland, "it was not half so shocking as what I subsequently witnessed on board the very first emigrant ship I ever sailed on." As one priest observed, "it would be better to spend one's entire life in a hospital than to spend just a few hours in the hold of one of these vessels." One notable exception to this saga of terrible suffering, is the story of the "Jeanie Johnston." Incredibly, it never lost a passenger or crew member, either to disease or accident at sea, during its many voyages between 1848 and 1858 from Tralee, Co. Kerry (an area that eventually lost half its population during the Famine) to ports in America and Canada. Most likely this was due to its humane captain and the owner's decision (rare among Famine-era ships) to have a doctor on board. A full-size replica of the "Jeanie Johnston" completed in 2001 in Blennerville near Tralee, Co. Kerry, now serves as a working sailing vessel and floating museum, per Edward T. O'Donnell, "1001 Things Everyone Should Know about Irish American History," 2002. Even if Irish Famine refugees managed to survive the perilous 25 to 50 day voyage to North America, thousands perished in port hospitals and quarantine stations. The mot notorious of the latter was Grosse Ille, a quarantine station and makeshift hospital on an island in the St. Lawrence River near Quebec. Beginning in the spring of 1847, thousands of sick and weakened Famine immigrants began to arrive, and by the end of the year more than 17,000 of them lay buried in mass graves despite care given by people of different faiths who put their own lives in peril to tend to the ill. Per O'Donnell, disease was not the only threat to life aboard the coffin ships. Many Irish emigrants died in the more than 60 shipwrecks which occurred during the Famine year. The "Vermouth," for example, foundered in 1847 just off the coast of Scotland, taking with it all but three of its 251 passengers. A few months later, the "St. John" fared only slightly better, losing at least 99 passengers when it smashed on the rocks near Cohasset, MA. Hundreds came to see the wreck, including Henry David THOREAU. "I sought many marble feet and matted heads a the cloths were raised," he wrote, "and one livid, swollen and mangled body of a drowned girl, who probably had intended to go out to (domestic) service in some American family." On top of disease and disaster, immigrants faced still a third threat - abuse and mistreatment by callous crewmen. This took many forms, from overcrowding to violence, and occurred mainly on the shorter trips from Ireland to England. The worst incident occurred aboard the steamer "Londonderry" in the winter of 1848. Loaded with cargo and 174 immigrant passengers, the shop encountered a storm just off the coast of Donegal. Though most of the passengers were expected to make the journey on deck, the captain ordered them herded into one of the ship's three cabins. The next morning brought to light a horrifying scene -- 31 women, 23 men and 18 children had been crushed or suffocated to death. The jury that found the captain and crew guilty of manslaughter noted that the cattle aboard the ship had received far more humane treatment than the people.

CO: KERRY SNIPPETS: When Queen Victoria of England visited the misty lakes and grandiose mountains of Kerry she was instantly smitten. Although familiar with the loveliness of the Scottish Highlands, she pronounced the Kerry panoramas the finest in her Empire. The Macguillicuddy's Reeks is a mountain range in SW Ireland, Co . Kerry, Province of Munster, Republic of Ireland. It extends west of the Lakes of Killarney, reaching 3414 ft. at Carrantuohill, Ireland's highest peak. Kerry (Irish Chiarraighe), borders on the Atlantic Ocean, chiefly mountainous with a deeply-indented coastline; it rises in the South to the Macgillicuddy Reeks and contains the famous Lakes of Killarney, noted for their exceptional beauty. Kerry is known for the romance of its island, the Blaskets and the Skellig Rocks. The Blaskets, hard berths for man or beast, are thrown into the Atlantic, off Dingle, the last land in Europe. Until the 1930s they were home to a mere 30 souls including on Tomas O Crohan, whose book, "The Islandman," is a testament to the faith and stoicism of a simple man and his island neighbors. When measles and whooping cough came to the island, he wrote,"Three months I spent sitting up with those of my children who took them worst, and I got nothing for the time I spent, only the two best of them were carried off. That was another discouragement for us, God help us. I fancy the sorrow of it never left the mother, and from that time she began to fail, for she was not to live long, and never lasted to be old." But, if there was tragedy on the island, there was also great joy and humor. He speaks of selling lobsters to a passing vessel in a rare time of plenty. "It was a good life ! in those days. Shillings came on shillings heels..." He tells of the bonanza of cut timber swept off the deck of a ship, his childhood, his first visit to the mainland. He writes of match-making and wedding feasts; of gathering seaweed; of seal hunting. He brings to life the love and faith of these unique foks. "We are poor, simple people, living from hand to mouth. We were apt and willing to live, without repining, the life the Blessed Master made for us, often ploughing the seas with only our hope in God to bring us through. We had characters of our own, each different from the other, and all different from the landsmen. I have done my best to set down the character of the people about me so that some record of us might live after us, for the likes of us will never be again." The last 22 inhabitants of the Great Blasket, the largest of the Blasket Islands, were finally evacuated to the mainland in 1953. With no longer a school nor a doctor on the island, the dwi! ndling population - mostly bachelors - had become increasingly isolated. The Kerry Blue Terrier was bred to help herd sheep and cows, and to kill rats and otters. The Kerry blue stands about 18 inches high and weighs 30 to 40 pounds. Its coat is soft and wavy. On its head it has a thick tuft, or forelock, which is usually combed down between its eyes. The dog's beard makes its muzzle appear large and long. Kerry blue puppies are born black, but become blue-gray as they grow older. Kerry and Cork have fuchsia hedges, rhododendron forests, and plants found nowhere else north of Spain. Kerry has a very large colony of natterjack toads which live in dunes backing the five-mile (8 km) long strand at Inch. Munster province has a richer variety of warm-blooded wild creatures than any other province including the pine marten, bank vole and red squirrel. In summertime, the landscape of the Iveragh Peninsula is splashed with color There is scarcely a square foot of grass that is not speckled with wild flowers; each small field a jewel in "the Ring. Heather purples the road side, fuchsia reddens the paths, montbretia edges the verges, loosestrife brightens the bogs. The rock faces are painted with contrasting grey and yellow lichens. Above, the clouds, moving across the sun, pattern the hills. In Munster, the softest Irish and the most melodious English is spoken. When Cork men or Kerry women speak, you might think they were singing to you. The Kerry fiddle style, like so many other strains of traditional Irish music, enjoys worldwide popularity. It is said that the people of Kerry often "answer a question with another question," i.e., asked if there is any chance of catching a few fish in a local wide stretch of the Atlantic Ocean, the dyed-in-the-bog Kerry person will eye one cutely and respond, "Is it the way you're fond of fish?" Daniel O'Connell, "the Liberator" was born in Kerry. Skellig Michael, on of the two Skellig Rocks which rise, gaunt and romantic, out of the Atlantic off the coast of Kerry. Beehive huts still cling to the clifftop 700 feet above the sea, built in the 6th century by members of a religious order whose successors remained on the island, cut off from the world by eight miles of often raging ocean, for the next 600 years. The island of Little Skellig provides nesting sites for 22,000 pairs of gannets, making it the second largest gannetry in Europe.

THE CANOE My masters twain made me a bed Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar; Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder Of dreams of rest; and me they spread With furry skins, and, laughing, said -- "Now she shall lay her polished sides As queens do rest, or dainty brides, Our slender lady of the tides!" My masters twain their camp-soul lit, Streamed incense from the hissing cones; Large crimson flashes grew and whirled, Thin golden nerves of sly light curled, Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones Half-way about each grim bole knit, Like a shy child that would bedeck With its soft clasp a Brave's red neck, Yet sees the rough shield on his breast, The awful plumes shake on his crest, And fearful drops his timid face Nor dares complete the sweet embrace. Into the hollow hearts of brakes Yet warm from sides of does and stags, Passed to the crisp dark river flags, Sinous, red as copper, snakes -- Sharp-headed serpents, made of light, Glided and hid themselves in night. My masters twain the slaughtered deer Hung on forked boughs, with thongs of leather. Bound were his stiff, slim feet together, His eyes like dead stars cold and drear; The wandering firelight drew near And laid its wide palm, red and anxious, On the sharp spendor of his branches; On the white foam grown hard and sere On flank and shoulder, Death, hard as breast of granite boulder, And under his lashes, Peered through his eyes at his life's gray ashes. My masters twain sang songs that wove (As they burnished hunting blade and rifle) A golden thread with a cobweb trifle, Loud of the chase, and low of love. "O Love! art thou a silver fish, Shy of the line and shy of gaffing, Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing, Casting at thee the light-winged wish? And at the last shall we bring thee up >From the crystal darkness under the cup Of lily folden, On broad leaves golden?" "O Love! art thou a silver deer? Swift thy starred feet as wing of swallow, While we with rushing arrows follow: And at the last shall we draw near, And over they velvet neck cast thongs, Woven in roses, of stars, of songs, New chains all moulden Of rare gems olden?" They hung the slaughtered fish like swords, On saplings slender; like scimitars Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars, Blazed in the light of the scaly hordes. They piled up boughts beneath the trees, Of cedar-web and green fir tassel; Low did the pointed pine tops rustle, The camp fire blushed to the tender breeze. The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground, With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty, Dreamed of the dead stag stout and lusty; A bat by the red flames wove its round. The darkness built its wigwam walls Close round the camp, and at its curtain Pressed shapes, thin woven and uncertain, As white locks of tall waterfalls. -- Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)

John Locke wrote, in "The Exile's Return" - O Ireland, isn't it grand you look -- Like a bride in her rich adornin'? And with all the pent-up love of my heart I bid you the top o' the mornin'! The first steamship to round the Cape of Good Hope was the "Zenobia" built in Waterford. W. B. Yeats wrote, in "The Land of Heart's Desire" The land of faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. The only Irishman that was ever a Papal candidate was Luke Wadding of Waterford. Ireland is only about the size of West Virginia or Maine or South Carolina, or Lake Superior. Wherever you stop for a pint, you'll never be farther than 70 miles from the sea. The modern method of bacon curing was developed in Waterford. Ireland's six highest mountains are all in Kerry. Five of the six are the MacGillycuddy's Reeks, with Carrauntoohill being the highest at 3,414 ft. The other peak in the top six is Mt. Brandon which is 3,127 ft. Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, wrote -- "Ah, Ireland...that damnable, delightful country, where everything that is right is the opposite of what it ought to be." The largest surviving native Irish mammal, the Irish Red Deer, can be found only in Killarney where it has been for over 10,000 years, since the end of the Ice Age. Some 850 deer live in Killarney, principally in the valley between Torc and Mangerton mountains. George F. Handel, German composer and musician, played his "Messiah" for the first time on an organ at Neal's Music Hall in Fishamble Street, Dublin. The remains of St. Valentine are enshrined at the Carmelite Church on Whitefriar Street in Dublin. Patrick Pearse, Irish novelist, wrote: "The Gael is not like other men; the spade, and the lom, and the sword are not for him. But a destiny more glorious than that of Rome, more glorious than that of Britain, awaits him; to become the savior of idealism in modern intellectual and social life." The word "donnybrook" takes its origin from the raucous 19th century Donnybrook Fair, held in a Dublin suburb of the same name. The Brazen Head Pub in Dublin is said to the be oldest tavern in Ireland, dating back to 1198. In 1917, Henry Ford & Son constructed their first factory in Europe in Cork City. Co. Cork, Ireland's largest county is nine times the size of the smallest county, Louth. The Shannon River covers an area approximately 18.5% of the total area of Ireland. James Joyce wrote," O Ireland my first and only love, Where Christ and Caesare are hand in glove." County Antrim is only 13 miles from Scotland. The River Poddle flows under Dublin's St. Patrick's Cathedral less than eight feet below the floor. (I believe it was built in 1192). John Synge wrote, "There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting." Co. Meath's Newgrange dates back to 3,000 B.C., making it 500 years older than the pyramids of Egypt and 1,500 years older than Britain's Stonehenge. The U. S. Navy was founded by Commodore John Barry from Wexford. The White House, designed by Carlow-born James Hoban, was modeled after Leinster House in Dublin, now the Irish Parliament Building. Diarmuid Russell wrote, "Everywhere in Irish prose there twinkles and peers the merry eye and laugh of a people who had little to laugh about in real life." The Chester Beatty Library in Dublin houses one of the world's greatest collections of Oriental manuscripts and miniatures. Tralee's golf course at Ardfert was Arnold Palmer's first design in Europe. Poulnabrone Dolmen, an ancient burial chamber four miles south of Aillwee Caves in Co. Clare is said to be Ireland's most photographed tomb. Killary Harbour in Connemara is known for its Norwegian-like fjords. As many as one-third to one-half of the American troops during the Revolutionary War were of Irish descent. Among them, 1,500 were officers and 26 were generals. Eight of the men who signed the Declaration of Independence were of Irish descent. The document itself was handwritten by Irish-born Charles Thomson and printed by another Irishman, John Dunlap. 500 to 800 AD was the Golden Age of Ireland, a period of great artistic and literary creativity that made Irish scholars the most revered in Europe. The Burren, Irish for "gray rocky place," is 50 square miles of great irregular slabs of limestone with deep cracks. Located in Co. Clare, this humid, eerie moonscape is a natural rock garden, where plants native to the Arctic thrive next to subtropical flora. Beneath the scarred surface are spectacular caves and streams. Irish Coffee was invented at Shannon Airport. Winston Churchill is quoted as saying, "We have always found the Irish a bit odd. They refuse to be English."

Per new announcement by the Public Records Office, the National Archives with records for England, Wales, and the United Kingdom, the 1901 Census is now available on line 24 hours a day x 7 days. They would also like to receive any of your comments in order to provide the best service. http://www.pro.gov.uk/default.htm

THE FAIR IN DROMORE My father was anxious to make me a farmer, He gave me some money to go to the Fair, To learn to buy and to make a good bargain, And be a good judge of the stock that was there. I rose up next morning - the day was just dawning, I made a quick sandwich with butter and jam. The brown egg I took from the shelf on the dresser, To hurry the breakfast I fried on the pan. No time to be lost I just cleared up the table, I looked at the clock as I made for the door, The cash in my pocket I left good and early To try out my luck at the Fair of Dromore. My footsteps were swift as the hare on the mountain, As onward I sped through the cool morning air. The long winding roadway I soon left behind me, And landed in time for the start of the Fair. The buyers were there from the northern counties. The farmers were there with their stock on the Green, And the publicans' tents for the beer and refreshments High up on the hillside were easily seen. The calves in their crates were well covered for shelter, The sheep and the lambs were all gathered around, And the bloodstock came in from the plains of Tireragh With long sweeping tails that were trailing the ground. The traders and dealers took up their positions. The bellman was there his announcements to make. The priest to attend those who fell by the wayside And Vincent de Paul his collection to take. The tinker was there with his cans on his shoulders. The fisherman's wife was content at her stall. The man with the ice-cream was selling his spices And tickets were sold for a dance in the hall. The man with the delph sold his cups and his saucers. The man with the ballads was selling his straw. While the man with the dice and the big wheel of fortune Was making his money in spite of the Law. The man with the rifle and bell was surrounded With sharpshooters waiting and watching the score. Three shots for a penny and well worth the money. If you think you can shoot, you should go to Dromore. As bargains were made and the drinking continued The loud noise of commerce increasingly grew And the stalwart policemen alert and officious Looked out for offenders but found very few. The smell of the roast in the coffee house cooking Attracted a crowd through the wide open door, But the butterfly caps of the white-coated angels That served at the table attracted far more. Dromore is well known for the Fair and the ladies With sweet smiling faces that ever pass by And many a man who might still be a loner Was swept off his feet by the wink of an eye. But one man's good luck is another's misfortune, The facts as we find them we cannot ignore. And the lady I met as I walked through the Fairgreen Left me to regret that I went to Dromore. She stepped from the crowd, laid her hand on my shoulder, As soft as a butterfly floating on air. Her voice was so gently, her manner so simple, Politely she asked what I thought of the fair. And that's how we started a long conversation. She told me her life story, and I told her mine And to walk through the Fair with a dashing young lady Was something I wanted a very long time. She told me her father was Lord of a Manor With lands stretching out over Salsbury Plane And now in retirement, he came back to Ireland For peace and contentment to paint was his game. Her mother was mostly away on location But what destination she wouldn't disclose. A family would thrive in the car she was driving She wore costly jewels and elegant clothes. She told me that she was their one only daughter. She never considered the wealth she might own But would marry the man that she found to her liking On a small bit of land where lived all alone. The fun of the Fair she enjoyed to perfection, But now it was late and she must get back home. She asked me to come with her just for protection, She was so much afraid walking back on her own. Of course I agreed and I walked on beside her. She knew the direction and soon we were there And I laughed as I thought how I'd tell to my father That wonderful bargain I got at the Fair. We were standing in front of an old fashioned cottage And I knew that we could not be far from the sea. I was tired and cold and I silently wondered Would she now take me in for a hot cup of tea. She pulled on a chain and a light came on inside, A fine looking man quickly opened the door And the speed that I made as I hit for the mountains Was never recorded on two feet or four. I got such a fright that the objects around me Seemed out of proportion and ghostly and bare and even the man in the moon walked on crutches His feet must be sore he might be at a Fair. How I managed back home I can never remember. My father was seated just in from the door And I thought of the man on the Almanack's Cover In every respect he was just like old Moore. But I was the one that was making predictions. The stick in his hand I seen swiftly to fall On the back of my head and of course I then fainted. But no, he sat there and just smiled through it all. For many days later, I tried to unravel The mystery surrounding the man in the chair. And then I remembered, he knew all about it. He was young once again and he went to the Fair. -- Patrick James Rochford, from "Close To The Foothills, a journey of Prose and Poetry through the Ox Mountains," (1991). Note, the range of mountains extending from Ballisodare, Co. Sligo to Foxford in Co. Mayo is referred to as the Ox Mountain Range. Mr. Rochford is very familiar with this area and his fine book includes much history about the region.

THE FALLING OF THE LEAVES Autumn is over the long leaves that love us, And over the mice in the barley sheaves; Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us, And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves. The hour of the waning of love has beset us, And weary and worn are our sad souls now; Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us, With a kiss and a tear on they drooping brow. -- William Butler Yeats (1889) from "Crossways"

Seamus HEANEY was born in 1939 in Mossbawn, Co. Derry to Margaret & Patrick Heaney, the eldest of nine children. Here are two poignant verses that he wrote in memory of his mother (M.K.H. 1911-1984). When all the others were away at Mass I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one Like solder weeping off the soldering iron: Cold comforts set between us, things to share Gleaming in a bucket of clean water. And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes >From each other's work would bring us to our senses. So while the parish priest at her bedside Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying And some were responding and some crying I remembered her head bent towards my head, Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives -- Never closer the whole rest of our lives. ---- The cool that came off the sheets just off the line Made me think the damp must still be in them But when I took my corners of the linen And pulled against her, first straight down the hem And then diagonally, then flapped and shook The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind, They made a dried-out undulating thwack. So we'd stretch and fold and end up hand to hand For a split second as if nothing had happened For nothing had that had not always happened Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go, Coming close again by holding back In moves where I was X and she was 0 Inscribed in sheets she'd sewn from ripped-out flour sacks. -- Seamus Heaney, from "Clearances"

IN CARROWDORE CHURCHYARD (at the grave of poet Louis MacNeice) Your ashes will not stir, even on this high ground, However the wind tugs, the headstones shake. This plot is consecrated, for your sake, To what lies in the future tense. You lie Past tension now, and spring is coming round Igniting flowers on the peninsula. Your ashes will not fly, however the rough winds burst Through the wild brambles and the reticent trees. All we may ask of you we have; the rest Is not for publication, will not be heard. Maguire, I believe, suggested a blackbird And over your grave a phrase from Euripides. Which suits you down to the ground, like this churchyard With its play of shadow, its humane perspective. Locked in the winter's fist, these hills are hard As nails, yet soft and feminine in their turn When fingers open and the hedges burn. This, you implied, is how we ought to live -- The ironical, loving crush of roses against snow, Each fragile, solving ambiguity. So >From the pneumonia of the ditch, from the ague Of the blind poet and the bombed-out town you bring The all-clear to the empty holes of spring, Rinsing the choked mud, keeping the colours new. -- Derek Mahon, born Belfast 1941. Louis MacNeice was born in Belfast in 1907.

A CONSTABLE CALLS His bicycle stood at the window-sill, The rubber cowl of a mud-splasher Skirting the front mudguard, Its fat black handlegrips Heating in sunlight, the "spud" Of the dynamo gleaming and cocked back, The pedal treads hanging relieved Of the boot of the law. His cap was upside down On the floor, next his chair. The line of its pressure ran like a bevel In his slightly sweating hair. He had unstrapped The heavy ledger, and my father Was making tillage returns In acres, roods, and perches. Arithmetic and fear. I sat staring at the polished holster With its buttoned flap, the braid cord Looped into the revolver butt. "Any other root crops? Mangolds? Marrowstems? Anything like that?" "No." But was there not a line Of turnips where the seed ran out In the potato field? I assumed Small guilts and sat Imagining the black hole in the barracks. He stood up, shifted the baton-case Further round on his belt, Closed the domesday book, Fitted his cap back with two hands, And looked at me as he said goodbye. A shadow bobbed in the window. He was snapping the carrier spring Over the ledger. His boot pushed off And the bicycle ticked, ticked, ticked. -- Seamus Heaney, born Mossbawn, Co. Derry

CALLED I went to find the grave of my grandmother who died before my time. And hers. I searched among marsh grass and granite and single headstones and smashed lettering and archangel wings and found none. For once, I said, I will face this landscape and look at it as she was looked upon: Unloved because unknown. Unknown because unnamed: Glass Pistol Castle disappeared. Baltray and then Clogher Head. To the west the estuary of the Boyne -- stripped of its battles and history -- became only willow trees and distances. I drove back in the half-light of late summer on anonymous roads on my journey home as the constellations rose overhead, some of them twisted into women: pinioned and winged and single-handedly holding high the dome and curve and horizon of today and tomorrow. All the ships looking up to them. All the compasses made true by them. All the night skies named for their sorrow. -- Ms. Eavan Boland (born Dublin 1944)

BIO: The McCormick reaper, perhaps more than any other invention in the 19th century played a key role in the transformation of America from a rural nation into the world's premier industrial powerhouse. It caused a boom in agricultural production while freeing up millions of potential industrial laborers who would otherwise have stayed tied to the land. Cyrus Hall McCORMICK was born on a farm Walnut Grove, VA, in 1809, the son of Robert McCormick, who owned businesses to include a sawmill, a distillery, and two grain mills. The senior McCormick was an inventor who had patented several devices and had tinkered with different versions of a reaper. McCormick's reaper was first demonstrated in 1831 through public exhibitions at county fairs and an improved model was patented three years later. At the age of 38, with sixty dollars in his pocket, Cyrus McCormick went to Chicago and set up his own factory to manufacturer reapers. With a determination to succeed, McCormick established the superiority of his machines. He made his company a leader through years of court actions and purchasing others' patent rights and through skillful marketing and innovative policies such as allowing farmers to buy on credit and offering a money-back guarantee. The McCormick's reaper became the most popular type in the country. Sales increased from 75 machines in 1846 to 1,500 in 1849, to more than 4,100 in 1859. In 1902, the McCormick holdings were merged into the International Harvester Company. McCormick's reaping machines have stood as a symbol of the mechanical revolution in agriculture. While not particularly a brilliant or original device (other men had developed all the main features) McCormick's reaper came at a time when the rich prairie wheatlands of the U. S. were ready for development, if means could be found, to harvest huge crops. There had also been a shortage of farmhands to do the harvesting, so a substitute for manpower had to be found. The great stretches of flat, stoneless prairie presented an ideal terrain for a mechanical reaper . Cyrus Hall McCormick saw the need for this machine and made the most of it. His drive and ability made him a millionaire before the age of 40.

I had forgotten this one, but this is the last, others have been written relating to my coalmining life but with no Irish context, and this one was tucked away in the "Coal Place". SOULS OF COPPER In a timely distance now hardly known I recall a time then hardly grown When proud I walked the climbing road, In the shadow of a greater man's load. Maybe thousands before had made this haul But none had walked it half as tall. I intended in life to play my part And that very day would bring the start. The cold and rain weren't there that day Excitement of mind had banished away. Leaving but one thought and that alone Of a life to be hewn from the cold dark stone. This mountain track then caused no tears, Not quite the same climb of future years. The engine house came rushing into view Clutched to the mountain supported by Yew. These first strides made through gorse in golds Those final steps where a darker umber unfolds, The mouth of the mountain that once gave a greeting Later exposed in its friendship so fleeting. With living lantern I entered the dying light A black hidden world slowly adjusted my sight. My father forward with a well-learned stoop Followed in fear a newly recruited troop. One thousand paces on a downward slope Seemed as fifty miles to my father's stope. Shadows that danced in the flickering light. My father subduing most thoughts of fright. Little I did but watch this miner in awe In near disbelief at the strained effort I saw. I knew that these toilings were destined to be An inheritance of years handed over to me Forty years passed over, my father as well. What once was a comfort is now close to hell. The workings as deep as ever they'll get Two weeks ago the murderous water she met. She welcomed the water and a marriage was made My role in the game was finally played. The challenge of effort our pump engine defeated With tears, through ancient gorse I sadly retreated. Daz Beattie 19th October 2002

BIO: Hope somewhat can confirm that this lady had Irish roots. I suspect that she has but not positive, but since Catholicism is usually featured on the Irish List I thought that I would take a chance that this Protestant woman had Irish ancestors. Her name sounds Irish to me. Frances Jane CROSBY was born in Putnam Co. NY in 1820 and died in Bridgeport, CT in 1915. What makes her story so special is that she was probably the most prolific hymnist in history, composing the lyrics to more than 8,000 songs and using 200 different pen names! When Frances was six weeks old she developed an eye infection and was mistreated by a doctor with resultant blindness. Shortly thereafter, her father died. This talented lady wrote many poems and songs beginning as a child. She felt that her blindness had been a "gift from God" to eliminate unnecessary distractions. She attended the Institute for the Blind in New York City. Her admirers included great political, religious leaders of her time -- including several US presidents -- and those in the music field. She was happily married but her only child died at a young age. Frances wrote her autobiography (1906) entitled "Memories of Eighty Years." On April 30, 1868, a Dr. W. H. DOANE came to her house and asked her if she would write words to a melody before his train left in 40 minutes. In half that time she had written the beautiful words to "Safe In The Arms Of Jesus." Safe in the arms of Jesus, safe on His gentle breast, There by His love o'ershaded, sweetly my soul shall rest. Hark! 'tis the voice of angels, borne in a song to me. Over the fields of glory, over the jasper sea. Safe in the arms of Jesus, safe on his gentle breast There by His love o'ershaded, sweetly my sound shall rest. In 1873, her friend, Mrs. Joseph F. KNAPP, composed a melody and played it for Frances two or three times on the piano. She then asked what it said. Ms. Crosby replied, "Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!" This hymn was sung in the 1985 Academy Award winning movie, "Trip to Bountiful." Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine! Heir of salvation, purchase of God, Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood. This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior, all the day long; This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior, all the day long. Perfect submission, perfect delight, Visions of rapture now burst on my sight; Angels descending bring from above Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

For some this may make sense, the people that are aware of the Ballykissangel Television series based on and filmed in Avoca, the tiny ex Copper mining village hidden within the Eastern flanks of the Wicklow mountains, within the Sweet Vale Of Avoca; THE VEIL OF AVOCA Oh wake up Avoca and shake off the shroud Of Ballykissangel, and stand up there proud No need of the pageant that surrounds you now Offered to the world like some surrogate cow Your history is fixed in the annals of mind No greater beauty could ever they find The people that come to gloat and to stare To the heartache of mining are they half aware? The hardship that was within this village so real The visitors miss and don't really feel History remaining as if for all to see In a valley once chained but now is free Of copper shackles did it once provide Now long extinct lets one decide What does this vale really need? A recognition of life or virtual greed? Amongst the hills these stories in stone Bear the engine houses in solace alone Standing proud and majestic in free state An entrance, an invite to review their fate To calculate the demise of this metal trade Where fortunes and failures were daily made But the ones that paid were from a lowlier level Put far from God and nearer the devil Miners once bore Avoca's suffering and trouble Working lives amidst the cruel rubble Their memories remaining and little more But their heritage left for all to explore In wide-open exposure now these secrets lay Stones still tell the story, but in a gentler way A valley enhanced by its coppered history Is it better left in it's own shrouded mystery? Daz Beattie 22nd October 2002