My new e-mail address is jengan@comcast.net ----- Original Message ----- From: <IrelandGenWeb-D-request@rootsweb.com> To: <IrelandGenWeb-D@rootsweb.com> Sent: Wednesday, November 20, 2002 4:00 AM Subject: IrelandGenWeb-D Digest V02 #278

BIO: Suave and handsome dancer, actor and choreographer, Gene Kelly, was an American icon who changed dance history. He transformed Hollywood musicals, and brought a new grace and athleticism to the arts, Kelly died on Friday, February 2, 1996. He was 83 years old. Eugene Curran Kelly, Irish on both sides, was born in Pittsburg, PA, on August 23, 1913, one of five Kelly children (two girls and three boys) all of whom took music and dance instruction at a school run by his mother who was from Co. Clare. His father, James Patrick Joseph Kelly, encouraged his children in the arts, but the great Depression was to play a major role in Gene Kelly's life, first when he was forced to postpone his education at the University of Pennsylvania, where he studied dance and played football and hockey, and then when he graduated from the University of Pittsburgh in 1933, and found to his chagrin that there were no jobs for economics majors in Depression-era America! Kelly worked alongside his father at Mrs. Kelly's dance school, and in a few years it was renamed The Gene Kelly Studio of Dance, with a successful branch opening shortly thereafter. In 1938, Kelly went to NY where he got his first job as a chorus boy in "Leave It to Me," dancing alongside Mary Martin. A year later he appeared in "The Time of Your Life," and his career took a giant step forward when he was cast as the main character in "Pal Joey," where his ability to weave together character dancing and singing won rave reviews from the toughest critics in the dance world. His 1942 film, "For Me and My Gal" made him one of Hollywood's hottest performers. His ability to blend elements of jazz, ballet and tap into an accessible form made him popular with both men and women. Kelly elevated cinema-dancing from a background diversion to the forefront of musicals where it advanced the plot and developed the characters. In 1945, Kelly starred in "Anchors Aweigh," the first film to employ live dance with animation. He was memorable in a scene with Fred Astaire in "Babbitt, he costarred in "The Pirate" with Judy Garland, and was unforgettable in "Slaughter on 10th Avenue." The year 1949 saw him star with Frank Sinatra in the first musical ever to be shot on location, "On The Town," and in 1951 Kelly received solo star billing for Gershwin's "An American in Paris," which won eight Academy Awards, including Best Picture and an Oscar for his choreography. In this film he danced with Leslie Caron. It was in 1952 when Kelly starred in the classic "Singin' in the Rain" with Donald O'Connor. "I love to create the dance even more than I love to dance it," Kelly remarked in 1990. Who can forget Kelly in "Brigadoon." Kelly married actress Betsy Blair in 1941. They were divorced in 1957. He then married his assistant choreographer and former dance student, Jeanne Coyne, who died after 23 years of marriage. His third marriage was to writer Patricia Ward. Kelly named his oldest daughter Kerry, after Co. Kerry and the Ring of Kerry. Gene Kelly maintained his duel citizenship and was given several awards during this lifetime including those from President Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton. Kelly commented, "The Irish really dominated the popular dance in 20th-century America. I think it came from the fact that the dancing in Ireland for centuries has been clog dancing and reels and these dances certainly influenced the American people so that it actually became part of American tap-dancing. They blended the tap-dancing of the Irish, as I would call it, with the syncopation of the music of the blacks and created a whole new form of tap-dancing." Kellly was a life-long liberal democrat. His style of dancing was athletic and reflected the common man.

On a winter's night in 1993-94 young Seamus O'Rourke left Peter Dononhue's public house in Carrigallen, Co. Leitrim. He'd take a few pints and by the time he got home his spirits were low. Sitting outside in the darkness he thought about Druminchin, his part of Leitrim, and composed a haunting poem. A carpenter by trade, O'Rourke wouldn't have dreamt of writing anything down, but for days and weeks afterward he would recall and later recite the lines which had flowed that night. His friends Philip and Sean Mcintyre from the townsland of Curraghhoy knew Druminchin well and sensed that they were hearing a man's heartfelt thoughts about his home area. A silence descended before Seamus began to recite - not the silence before a song, but the silence before something more serious. DRUMINCHIN HILLS Lie down flat you Druminchin Hills For there's damn-all for you to see And there's no one looks at your rushy sides Or your mossy bottom down at Kelly's Drain And what sod you have can go to sleep For hungry sheep would rather wait to die And young men pass by and walk on to prouder and flatter land. In parts of Cavan and up near Mullingar Aye, and I'll sit beside you now And sing songs of times gone by When young men made hay with the fork, And drank tae from a bottle and hid their joy in your drauchy camouflage. What right have you to stand so proud Among the whin and the whitethorn bush What crop did you ever yield That wasn't washed away in the autumn flood What good could your God have meant When backs were bent lifting watery spuds And cattle walked knee-deep in your daub and mud In your unsheltered fields You're as auld as the hills, Druminchin And you'll be there for ever more Crushed between Kilerrin and the walls of Newtowngore No foreigner shall ever plant his trees in your channelly ground Not a rood of your unsheltered fields shall be sold for a Government pound You're as auld as the hills. Druminchin You're my Druminchin hills. -- Seamus O'Rourke (contemp.)

IRISH MOMENTS Men and Sheep and cattle stood in clumps along the one street. The men, in suits, white shirts and ties, circulated, inspecting and discussing each animal. There was wise counsel all round. One man fancied a little black cow, and the ritual began. The seller started high, the buyer started low. One praising the strength of shoulder, the other remarking the shortness of leg. "She gives the milk of two." "With ribs on her like a roof of a shed." Finally, the price agreed, the buyer spat on his palm, slapped the seller's hand and struck the bargain. Jill Freedman is one of the most renowned and respected documentary photographers of our time. Over the last 20 years her photographs have been included in the permanent collection fo the Museum of Modern Art, the International Centre of Photography, Eastman House, Smithsonian Institute and the Bibliotheque Nationale. She has published several books. One of her books of photographs, "A Time That Was," is a love poem to tiny Irish villages whose names appear on few maps; to a countryside of "wild and passionate beauty;" to a people of "gentleness, humour and conviviality, sharp wit and black moods." Her book captures Ireland of the old ways and traditions - it is a labor of love. (I recall some photos were taken around Drumkeerin and Dowra, Co. Leitrim). Perhaps your library has a copy of this circa 1996 book. Jill says, "As soon as I set foot on the land, I feel that I am home. The people often ask me if I'm Irish. Many tell me that I lived there in another life. I tell them I know."

THE MAN OF THE NORTH COUNTRIE He came from the North, and his words were few, But his voice was kind and his heart was true; And I knew by his eyes no guile had he, So I married the man of the North Countrie. Oh! Garryowen may be more gay, Than this quiet street of Ballibay; And I know the sun shines softly down On the river that passes my native town. But there's not -- I say it with joy and pride -- Better man than mine in Munster wide; And Limerick town has no happier hearth Than mine has been with my man of the North. I wish that in Munster they only knew The kind, kind neighbours I came unto; Small hate or scorn would ever be Between the South and the North Countrie. -- Thomas D'Arcy McGee (1825-1868)

Co. Roscommon: A three hundred strong father and son labor force was employed in the north Roscommon coalfields of Arigna. A generation mostly gone, joined again to the mineral heart of the valley. Men with the white eyeballs and the black faces of cotton plantation slaves. A coal lorry was used to carry the pitmen to and from work. There was talk that Arigna coal was too heavily subsidized. The local power-station was being taken off the grid. At a packed meeting in a smoke-filled hall the matter of the miners' redundancy payments was finally settled. The mines closed. Memories of the native industry with its factory buildings, old mills, and mineshafts have joined the ranks of Newgrange, and The Ceide Fields in Ireland's legacy of ancient wonders and attractions. On a Bank holiday weekend circa 1996 a poster with a pitman at the coalface says, "Arigna Mining Display, a three-day exhibition of coal mining artefacts, photographs and videos." The old hall has had a face-lift, and there are snapshots donated by the community of pitmen and their trade, family and school photographs: heartbreaking reminders of how it was, and all who have passed away. Those who arrived to look at the artefacts on display were lulled into a chapel hush. The pick-axes, the carbide lamps and short-handled shovels, the implements of manual labour and bits of coal-cutting machines seemed consecrated with a special power, a power close to holy relics. The torn caps and pit helmets were laid out like vestments, with old account books and colliery receipts for sacred manuscripts. And the black and white photos of the pitmen at their work had a sanctified presence. Images that froze and distanced their subjects from their own lives Icons. And a litany of names -- Cullen, Daly, Lavin, McManus, Early, McDermott, McLouglin, Lynch, Conway, Gilrane, McPartland, Dooley, Rynn, Gaffney...generation upon generation. -- Excerpt, "The Leitrim Guardian"

KNOW YE NOT THAT LOVELY RIVER Know ye not that lovely river? Know ye not that smiling river? Whose gentle flood, By cliff and wood, With wildering sound goes winding ever. Oh! often yet with feeling strong, On that dear stream my memory ponders, And still I prize its murmuring song, For by my childhood's home it wanders. Know ye not that lovely river? There's music in each wind that flows Within our native woodland breathing; There's beauty in each flower that blows Around our native woodland wreathing. The memory of the brightest joys In childhood's happy morn that found us, Is dearer than the richest toys The present vainly sheds around us. Know ye not that lovely river? Oh, sister! when 'mid doubts and fears, That haunt life's onward journey ever, I turn to those departed years, And that beloved and lonely river; With sinking mind and bosom riven, And heart with lonely anguish aching; It needs my long-taught hope in heaven To keep this weary heart from breaking! Know ye not that lovely river? -- Gerald Griffin (1803-1840)

THE BEWITCHED BUTTER: Once on a time there lived in the parish of Fenagh a family whose supply of milk invariably turned sour, and no butter was to be obtained. It chanced that there came to them one day an old traveller who asked for a drink. "Well," said the woman of the house, "I cannot give you milk, for all we have is bad." "How is that?" said the traveller. So he was told all they knew about the matter. "If you give me a lodging this night, " said he, "I will get your butter back for you," and thinking things could not be much worse, they let him remain. After sunset the traveller barred every door and window in the place, and made a great fire of turf, and in the fire he placed nine irons. Now, as the irons got hot, a loud roaring was heard without and an old woman who dwelt near was seen beating at the door and windows and shouting to be let in. "Take the irons from the fire, they have me burnt!" she said. But the traveller answered that until she brought b! ack the butter she had taken the irons would remain in the fire to burn her. Then she tore around the house in a fury, and got upon the roof to try and get in that way to take the irons from the fire; but finding it was useless, she went home, roaring all the time for the pain she was in, and brought the butter in a barrel to the door, upon which the irons were taken from the fire, and she was released. From that time the family had no cause to complain of their milk." This story was recorded by photographer, historian and folklorist, Leland Lewis DUNCAN (born on 24 August 1862 in Lewisham, Kent, England, the eldest child and only son of Leland Crosthwait DUNCAN and Caroline Ellen LEWIS) in the 1880s when he was visiting his cousins, the SLACKE's of Annadale, Co. Leitrim, members of the landed gentry. Leland Lewis DUNCAN's wonderful collection of stories and more than 100 photographs of Co. Leitrim (the gentry, town, impoverished peasants) were published in the book, "The Face Of Time Photographs of Co. Leitrim," by Leland Lewis Duncan (text by Liam Kelly/forward by John McGahern) pub. 1995, Lilliput Press). Note, iron was felt to have "protective" properties, and apparently iron implements were placed over cradles to keep the fairies from "stealing" children and leaving "changelings" in their stead.

Hi everyone The following records have been added to the Lurgan Ancestry website. www.lurganancestry.net 1. Lurgan people who died during WW2. 1939 to 1945 (approx. 100 names) 2. Lurgan People who died during WW1, 1914 to 1918 (approx 300 names) 3. Rental list for Brownlow's Derry 1763-66 (approx 100 names) 4. Rental list for Lurgan town 1763-1766. (approx. 400 names). Regards Martin McGoldrick. Lurgan Ancestry.

"WHY, LIQUOR OF LIFE?" Why, liquor of life! do I love you so; When in all our encounters you lay me low? More stupid and senseless I every day grow, What a hint -- if I'd mend by the warning! Tattered and torn you've left my coat, I've not a cravat -- to save my throat, Yet I pardon you all, my sparkling doat, If you'd cheer me again in the morning! -- Excerpt from blind poet/harpist (Turlough Carolan, 1670-1738) verse , translated by John D'Alton.

To the right is the pronunciation of the Irish words. Our Father in Irish & English Ár nAthair (Our Father) Ár nAthair, atá ar neamh, (are en-ah-her, ah-taw air nahve) Go naofar d'ainm, (guh nay-fer dan-im) Go dtaga do ríocht, (guh dag-uh duh ree-ocht) Go ndéantar do thoil ar an talamh, (guh nyean-tar duh haul are un tahluv) Mar a dhéantar ar neamh. (mar uh yean-tar are nahve) Ár n-arán laethúil tabhair dúinn inniu; (Are nuh-rawn lay-hoole tower doo-in in-new) Agus maith dúinn ár bhféicha, (ah-gus mah doo-in are vee-ih-cuh) Mar a mhaithimidne dár bhféichúina féin. (mar uh wah-hi-midge-ne dar vey-coo-nuh fayne) Agus ná lig sinn i gcathú, (ah-gus naw lig shin ih gah-who) Ach saor sinn ó olc. (ach sear shin oh ulc) Amen. (Ah-men) "Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever." Amen.

Bears repeating - If your families emigrated to the U.S., the COUNTY historical society in the STATE they settled and raised their families can likely help you obtain information and documents on YOUR particular family for a reasonable donation to their society. I have done this with wonderful results. In fact, I got back a treasure-trove -- excerpts from b/m/d records, cemetery records, marriage applications circa 1900 (not to be confused with standard marriage certificates) that had information on the PARENTS of the bride & groom). They also sent me land records that gave "last place lived," newspaper articles, old court cases with names and addresses. I ended up donating $60 to a "good cause," - i.e. the county historical society - at the same time advancing my genealogy greatly. Everything I got back contained some sort of data I did not already have that built on the US Federal Census information I had already obtained from microfilms via my local LDS (Mormon) Fam! ily History Center and/or genealogy library. I looked for and found cousins & aunts and uncles I hadn't heard from in the U. S. and in England for over 50 years. I contacted them and exchanging information by snail mail and e-mail, participated in the planning of family reunions my limited funds would allow me to get to. We all brought old photo albums and copy shop photocopies of old photos to exchange. Many of these contacts started out with my finding their address, sending them a Christmas card and telling them about my family history projects. I also searched the Internet, left messages at schools where I thought relatives might have attended. One all-boys school in England answered me back here in the USA with information! Not only did the retired teacher call me via a transatlantic call, he knew my Irish/English cousins very well and even takes one of them shopping for groceries every week! He also is the town's historian, has written a book, and had photographed one of my English cousin's wedding and sent me a copy of that picture and a copy of his book -- how is that for serendipity! How is that for genealogical kindness. Back to the U. S. county historical societies -- I also found information of MY particular families in issues of their interesting periodicals.. For a $15/year subscription I could look forward to learning about the county and the early families that lived there - something fun to get in the mail! I was able to post queries that would be seen by Internet and non-Internet researchers alike. The year-end issues all have an every-name index. If you subscribe to their periodicals first, the U. S. historical society is likely to "go all out" to assist you. Another resource -- To my astonishment, two of my humble families were even written up in an old Delaware Co. IN history book because of their affiliation with agricultural societies, fraternal societies, were school teachers and/or held an office, owned land, volunteered for the Civil War - and mostly, just because they were early settlers. I also sent for microfilmed (US) newspapers via free interlibrary loan with the help of my reference librarian, looking (and finding) death notices. (Request copies of the newspaper for the two days following a death). If you don't have a definite death date, check with your genealogy library and/or your local LDS FHC. They have microfilmed state death indices divided into approximate 10-year time periods. The names are alphabetical and soundexed and give name of deceased, date of death, place of death, age at death, spouse's name and, best of all, the exact number of the death certificate! Bottom Line -- When you think about it, who would be the most informed about (and interested in) that U. S. county than the members of the historical society? By collecting information from the KNOWN places they lived you will obtain clues that you need to find them in Ireland.

BEAUTIFUL DREAMER SERENADE Beautiful dreamer wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee; Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd a way! Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie; Over the streamlet vapors are borne, Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn. -- Stephen Collins Foster (1826-1864) was born to a Pennsylvania family that had roots in Derry. He wrote the music and lyrics to most of his songs.

A PRAYER Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart, Naught is all else to me, save that Thou art. Thou my best thought by day and by night, Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light. Be Thou my wisdom. Thou my true word; I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord, Thou my great father. I Thy dear son; Thou in me dwelling, I with Thee one. Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight, Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight. Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower; Raise Thou me heavenward, power of my power. Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise, Thou mine inheritance now and always. Thou, and Thou only, first in my heart, High king of heaven, my treasure Thou art. King of the seven heavens, grant me for dole, Thy love in my heart, Thy light in my soul. Thy light from my soul, Thy love from my heart, King of the seven heavens, may they never depart. With the high king of heaven, after victory won, May I reach heaven's joys, O bright heaven's sun! Heart of my own heart, whatever befall, Still be my vision, O Ruler of all. -- Anon. (8th c.?) - Translated by Eleanor Hull

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it's then's the time a feller is a feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shrock. They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here -- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock -- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries -- kindo' lonesome-like but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed, The hosses in theyr stalls below -- the clover over-head! O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmen-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! -- I don't know how to tell it -- but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me -- I'd want to 'commodate 'em -- and the whole-indurin' flock -- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. -- James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916) won fame as the "Hoosier Poet." Riley, the son of a lawyer, was born 7 Oct. 1849, in Greenfield, IN. He left home after receiving a grammer-school education, and worked for a time a a sign painter. He next joined a medicine show a an actor. In his spare time he composed song and revised plays for the company. Riley came to know very well the dialect and the peculiarities of the country folk of Indiana, and he began to write poems about them. Returning to Greenfield, Riley worked on the local paper, then on the "Anderson" (IN) Democrat." In 1877, he joined the "Indianapolis Journal." He began to contribute poems to several papers under the name "Benj. F. Johnson of Boone." These verses soon made him famous. He traveled about the country with "Bill" NYE, lecturing and reading his poems.

SNIPPET: Perhaps you can find this book in your library, if the subject interests you - "Irish American Landmarks: A Traveler's Guide," by John A. BARNES, Visible Ink Press (1995). The author takes you on a 46-state, two provinces (Quebec and Ontario) journey through decades of Irish-American tragedy and triumph. Bagpipes enthusiast editorial writer for the "Detroit News," Barnes recalls listening fondly to stories told by his grandfather, John McAULLIFEE, a native of Co. Cork. To research material for his book, Barnes hopped into his car and visited places he had heard about near and far and managed to rediscover some long-forgotten and neglected landmarks. Among other things, he found that James CONNOLLY, the Irish labor leader and a rebel in 1916, lived in the U.S. for a decade, and that there was a monument to him in Troy, NY. Barnes found that the most Irish place in America was not where you might think it might be. It was in the hills and dales of TN (yes, Tennessee), in Houston Co., to be exact., where some 40% of the county's 7,000 residents claimed Irish ancestry in the 1990 census. Little wonder, then, that the county is home to a town called Erin. Barnes' tour takes readers to Duffy Square, Tammany Hall and Ellis Island in NY, to the home of the legendary Boston politician James Michael CURLEY (whose house had shamrock shutters), and to the courthouse in Jim Thorpe, PA, where the Molly Maguires were tried and convicted in the 1870s. The author takes you to the bust of Union Brigadier Gen. Michael LAWLER, Vicksburg, MS, to the Irish Brigade Monument, Gettysburg, PA, adorned with a Celtic cross and Irish wolfhound, to the Dick DOWLINS Memorial, Sabihepass, TX, St. Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan, John F. KENNEDY's home in Boston. You see a photo of the "Margaret" status in New Orleans, LA. The first statue of a woman erected in the U.S., it commemorates Cavan-born Margaret GAFFNEY HAUGHEY, who worked with the city's orphans in the early 19th century. You learn about the Tuskahoma, OK, Choctaw Nation Museum featuring exhibits showing the help this indigent Native American tribe sent to the starving Irish during the Great Potato Famine. You read about the young, talented granddaughter of Irish immigrants, Georgia O'KEEFFE, born in 1887 in Sun Prairie, WI, who began visiting an area near Taos, New Mexico in the 1930s. Soon, she was bringing along her paint and easel, and became a very important artist who sought beauty by isolating and intensifying such things in nature as the skulls of animals and flowers. The artist died in NM in 1986. One of the author's favorite discoveries took place in a Civil War-era fort in Hampton, VA. The fiery Irish patriot, journalist and Confederate sympathizer John MITCHEL was imprisoned in the facility, Fort Monroe, after the Civil War ended, thanks to his outspoken sympathy for the South. He thus became perhaps the only Irish exile to be held as a political prisoner in both Britain and the United States, (although John DEVOY, the legendary Fenian, might quibble with such a conclusion as Devoy served time in British prisons after the Fenian rising of 1867, and later did 60 days in NY for libeling the politically-connected banker August BELMONT). Banres visited a statue of the Irish patriot Robert EMMET in Emmetsburg, IA. There is an amusing story connected with the statue having apparently been "stolen" in the late 1950s, after a town in MN refused to return it to Emmetsburg. -- Excerpts, "Irish America" magazine (1995)

ABBEY ASAROE Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Ballyshanny town, It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down; The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed; The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead. A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride; The elder-tree and lightsome ash across the portal grow, And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe. It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Gulban mountain blue; It hears the voice of Erna's fall, -- Atlantic breakers too; High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank of oars Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores; And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done, Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun; While green with corn in Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below; But gray at every season is Abbey Asaroe. There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge; He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain-ridge; He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and view'd with misty sight The abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white; Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon his staff, Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph; For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe, This man was of the blood of them who founded Asaroe. >From Derry to Bundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs; Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy abbot's prayers; With chanting always in the house which they had builded high To God and to Saint Bernard, -- whereto they came to die. At worst, no workhouse grave for him! The runs of his race Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place. The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and slow Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Asaroe. -- William Allingham (1824-1889)* This location sppears to be in the province of Ulster, near Bundoran in Co. Donegal, as there is mention of gravestone inscriptions from Assaroe Abbey in "Donegal Annual," Vol. III, No 3 (1957), per John Grenham's book, Tracing Your Irish Ancestors." I also note a reference to a St. Mary's of Assaroe, that is one mile NW of Ballyshannon and contains the meagre ruins of Cistercian abbey founded in 1184. Just south is a grotto-like Catsby Cave, where mass was celebrated in penal times. I also note that an author H. ALLINGHAM, wrote some local history of "Ballyshannon: its history and antiquities (with some account of the surrounding neighbourhood), which contains history of Co. Donegal, pub. in Londonderry, 1879, NL Ir. 94113 a 1, and that a William J. DOHERTY authored "Inis-Owen and Tirconnell: being some acount of the antiquities....of Donegal," pub. Dublin (1895), also found in the National Library of Ireland (Dublin), NL Ir. 94113 d 1. *Circa 1981 the cottage where the noted 19th c. poet, William ALLINGHAM lived in Ballyshannon was in "a decrepit state" and in the Allied Irish Bank you could apparently see his bust and the tall desk at which he once kept accounts and the words he scratched on the windowpane. He is buried in the graveyard of St. Anne's just north of the town. There apparently was also an "Allingham Weekend" of poetry reading, competitions, exhibitions of the poet's memorabilia, usually the end of October.

The words of Irish Poet William Allingham (1824-1889) "Four ducks on a pond A grass bank beyond A blue sky of spring White birds on the wing What a little thing To remember for years To remember with tears!"

Jean at jeanrice@cet.com writes: >> by the shores of Lough Derg, in a valley called Urra <snip> Not sure if this location is Co. Tipperary or not, anyone know for sure? << Jean, Yup. The townland of Urra occupies the entire broad peninsula (nearly a square mile) which forms the north shore of Dromineer Bay. As the entire townland is either on top of, or on the slopes of, Urra Hill, the valley mentioned must be the narrow valley along the small stream which completely isolates the townland from the rest of Tipperary. Pete Schermerhorn, in the glorious Berkshire hills of western Massachusetts

See the first program in new Irish Series on genealogy at www.bananatv.com