Please visit my website http://www.irishnation.com/ but DON'T copy anything from MY site or I will have to take YOU to court. At Irish Nation, 17 Granville Park, Blackrock, County Dublin, Ireland Michael Green, At Irish Nation.com michaelgreen@irishnation.com --------------------------------- Get a bigger mailbox -- choose a size that fits your needs.

Please visit my website http://www.irishnation.com/ but DON'T copy anything from MY site or I will have to take YOU to court. At Irish Nation, 17 Granville Park, Blackrock, County Dublin, Ireland Michael Green, At Irish Nation.com michaelgreen@irishnation.com --------------------------------- Get a bigger mailbox -- choose a size that fits your needs.

Please visit my website http://www.irishnation.com/ but DON'T copy anything from MY site or I will have to take YOU to court. At Irish Nation, 17 Granville Park, Blackrock, County Dublin, Ireland Michael Green, At Irish Nation.com michaelgreen@irishnation.com --------------------------------- Get a bigger mailbox -- choose a size that fits your needs.

Please visit my website http://www.irishnation.com/ but DON'T copy anything from MY site or I will have to take YOU to court. At Irish Nation, 17 Granville Park, Blackrock, County Dublin, Ireland Michael Green, At Irish Nation.com michaelgreen@irishnation.com --------------------------------- Get a bigger mailbox -- choose a size that fits your needs.

Please visit my website http://www.irishnation.com/ but DON'T copy anything from MY site or I will have to take YOU to court. At Irish Nation, 17 Granville Park, Blackrock, County Dublin, Ireland Michael Green, At Irish Nation.com michaelgreen@irishnation.com --------------------------------- Get a bigger mailbox -- choose a size that fits your needs.

CHINESE WINTER >From these bare trees The sticks of last year's nests Print sad characters against the moon; While wind-blown moonlight, Stripping fields to silver, Scrawls December on each frozen pool. Light washed on every tree Roots it in black shadow, As last year's love now roots me in black night; And where love danced Footprints of fiery moments Flash out memorials in silent ice. -- F. R. Higgins (1896-1941)

A PICTURE BY RENOIR Two stocky young girls in the foreground stoop For a ball -- red dress, white pinafore. Toned with the sunburnt grass, two more Follow in beige. That wayward troupe Is the butterfly soul of summer. Beyond them a stripe of azure-blue Distance fades to the kind of sky That calls for larks. In the blend of high Colour and hazy line is a clue To the heart of childhood summer. So lively they are, I can all but see Those halcyon girls elude the frame And fly off the picture, intent on their game Wherever the ball may go, set free Into eternal summer. It does what pictures are meant to do -- Grasp a moment and throw it clear Beyond the reach of time. Those four Maidens will romp for ever, true To all our youthful summers. -- Cecil Day-Lewis, late Anglo-Irish Poet Laureate of England born in Co. Laois.

THE BANSHEE Green, in the wizard arms Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, An isle of old enchantment, A melancholy isle, Enchanted and dreaming lies; And there, by Shannon's flowing, In the moonlight, spectre-thin, The spectre Erin sits. An aged desolation, She sits by old Shannon's flowing, A mother of many children, Of children exiled and dead, In her home, with bent head, homeless, Clasping her knees she sits, Keening, keening! And at her knee the fairy-grass Trembles on dun and barrow; Around the foot of her ancient crosses The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings; In haunted glens the meadow-sweet Flings to the night wind Her mystic mournful perfume; The sad spearmint by holy wells Breathes melancholy balm. Sometimes she lifts her head, With blue eyes tearless, And gazes athwart the reek of night Upon things long past, Upon things to come. And sometimes, when the moon Brings tempest upon the deep, And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west, The wolfhound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay, And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side, Strung from the heart of poets; And she flies on the wings of tempest With grey hair streaming: A meteor of evil omen, The spectre of hope forlorn, Keening, keening! She keens, and the strings of her wild harp shiver On the gusts of night: O'er the four waters she keens -- over Moyle she keens, O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow, And the Ocean of Columbus. And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes; And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail, Chanting her song of destiny, The rune of the weaving Fates. And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night, Sad unto dawning, dirges, Solem dirges, And snatches of bardic song; Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night, And they dream of the weird of kings, And tyrannies moulting, sick In the dreadful wind of change. Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more, Banshee of the world -- no more! Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world's. -- John Todhunter (1839-1916)

THE LITERARY REVIVAL: In the midst of movements to revive the Irish language and promote a return to Irish sports, Irish literature and theater experienced an extraordinary period of creativity and innovation. Interestingly, most of the leading figures -- William Butler YEATS, John M. SYNGE, Lady GREGORY and George RUSSELL were Anglo-Irish Protestants. Yet they discarded the class, religious, and political values of the Ascendancy in favor of a cultural nationalism that denounced British colonialism for hindering the development of native Irish traditions. YEATS and other literary revivalists were fascinated by ancient Ireland's past, especially the Celtic, pre-Christian era, and incorporated many of its themes and imagery into their works of drama and poetry. They also celebrated and romanticized the Irish peasant of the Gaeltacht as the possessors and nurturers of Ireland's non-British cultural traditions. YEATS summarized the connection between Irish nationalism an! d the Irish literary revival: "No fine nationality without fine literature...no fine literature without nationality." In 1899, the leading figures of Ireland's literary revival established the National Literary Society. Its goal was to support amateur actors and playwrights in producing a self-consciously national drama. In 1904, the organization opened the Abbey Theatre. It soon achieved a wide reputation for staging the works of the leading figures in Ireland's literary revival - William Butler YEATS, Lady GREGORY, and John M. SYNGE. There existed a significant divide within the Abbey Theatre between those dedicated to serious dramatic realism and those more motivated by explicitly patriotic and nationalist ideals. The best example of this divide was the reaction to John Millington SYNGE's "The Playboy of the Western World." Born in Co. Dublin in 1871, SYNGE first studied music before settling upon the career in writing. In the 1890s, while living in Paris, he met YEATS who convinced him to move to the Aran Islands and write about the people in that isolated, largely un-Anglicized region. SYNGE spent three years there, writing the book "The Aran Islands" (1907) and collecting stories which he incorporated into plays for the Irish National Theater. His first two plays (1903-04) provoked a hostile response from critics, who bristled at his celebration of earthy and sometimes crude peasant culture. The debut of his great comedy, "The Playboy of the Western World," today considered a classic, sparked a riot outside the Abbey Theatre by protestors who considered its depiction of Irish characters derogatory and offensive. The outraged response to SYNGE's play was more the exception that the rule in Ireland. While Gaelic Revivalists continued to draw criticism from conservatives, they produced ex! cellent and unique works that found a receptive audience. Excerpts, "1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History," Edward T. O'Donnell (2002).

I AM OF IRELAND Icham of Irlaunde Ant of the holy londe of irlande Gode sir pray ich ye for of saynte charite, come ant daunce wyt me, in irlaunde. -- Anonymous (1300-1350), although of doubtful origin, it has been ascribed to an Anglo-Irish minstrel of the 14th century. THE CHURCH BELL AT NIGHT Sweet little bell, struck on a windy night, I would liefer keep tryst with thee Than be With a woman foolish and light. -- Anonymous, likely 12th c. -- trans. Howard Mumford Jones (Corrected from my prior submission)

I AM OF IRELAND Icham of Irlaunde Ant of the holy londe of irlande Gode sir pray ich ye for of saynte charite, come ant daunce wyt me, in irlaunde. -- Anonymous (1300-1350), although of doubtful origin, it has been ascribed to an Anglo-Irish minstrel of the 14th century. THE CHURCH BELL AT NIGHT Sweet little bell, struck on a windy night, I would liefer keep tryst with three Than be With a woman foolish and light. -- Anonymous, likely 12th c. -- trans. Howard Mumford Jones

This lament from Donegal is from the "Penal Times" when laws were passed to ensure that Catholics could not advance in life. Many of the priests were banished and threatened with execution for high treason if they returned. Those who were left were often driven underground and some became converts to the Protestant Church. It is said that this lament was composed by the mother of one Father O Donnell in 1739 when her son left the Catholic Church to become a Protestant clergyman. FILL FILL A RUN O (Return, return my dear) Return, return, my dear. Return my dear, and don't leave me Return to me, my darling and my dear And you will see the glory if you return I walked near and far I was born in Mota Ghrainn Oige And I have seen no wonder yet to compare with Father O'Donnell becoming a minister Return, return, my dear, Return my dear, and don't leave me Return to me, my darling and my dear And you will see the glory if you return You renounced Peter and Paul For the sake of gold and silver; You renounced the Queen of Glory And you began wearing the coat of the minister Return, return, my dear, Return my dear, and don't leave me If you return today or ever Return in the order that you were trained in -- Translation by Eamonn O Donaill

HAREBELLS OVER MANNIN BAY Half moon of moon-pale sand. Sea stirs in midnight blue. Looking across to the Twelve Pins The singular harebells stand. The sky's all azure. Eye To eye with them upon Cropped grass, I note the harebells give Faint echoes of the sky. For such a Lilliput host To pit their colours against Peacock of sea and mountain seems Impertinence at least. These summer commonplaces, Seen close enough, confound A league of brilliant waves, and dance On the grave mountain faces. Harebells, keep your arresting Pose by the strand. I like These gestures of the ephemeral Against the everlasting. -- C. Day-Lewis, late Poet Laureate of England, born in Co. Laois

Hello List, I am new subscriber to the list, and I was wondering if someone could help me, or have any suggestions. I have just found out, that my gg-grandfather was born in Ireland. Right now, this is all the information I have on him, his name was George Crowe, and he was born 1854, in Ireland. His parents were William Crowe, born 1819, and Alice Crow, born 1823. George's siblings were Arabella Crowe, Francis Crowe, Joseph Crowe, and Margaret Crowe. Any suggestions, at where I could start my research, would be greatly appreciated. Thanks, Amy Robison ON, Canada

THE KISS Oh, keep your kisses, young provoking girl! I find no taste in any maiden's kiss. Altho' your teeth be whiter than the pearl, I will not drink at fountains such as this. I know a man whose wife did kiss my mouth With kiss more honeyed than the honeycomb. And never another's kiss can slake my drought After that kiss, till judgment hour shall come. Till I do gaze on her for whom I long, If ever God afford such grace to men, I would not love a woman old or young, Till she do kiss me as she kissed me then. -- Anonymous (16th century), translated by the Earl of Longford.

John LANNAN born Southern Ireland abt 1870 migrated to Scotland possibly Glasgow. Married Mary ROBERTSON born Shetland Isles. Would be grateful for any help. Jan

HYMN Hush! oh ye billows, Hush! oh thou wind, Watch o'er us, angels, Mary, be kind! Fishermen followed The steps of the Lord; Oft in their fishing boats Preached He the Word. Pray for us, Pietro, Pray for us, John, Pray for us, Giacomo, Zebedee's son. If it be stormy, Fear not the sea; Jesus upon it Is walking by thee. Billows, be gentle, Soft blow the wind, Watch o'er us, angels, Mary, be kind! Soft be the billows, Gentle the wind, Angels watch over thee, Mary, be kind! -- Joseph Sheridan LeFanu (1814-1873)

THE GENERATIONS Now, in the evenings, when the light Goes suddenly, and the houses are Hushed in a dusk of uneasy birds, We within doors draw close to the breathing fire, Circle of lamplight, voices, outside the night Of darkened air threatening a storm, A night of possible loss. Warmed by words We sometimes forget the life we end Here by the water, near the windy quays, Life stretched from minute to staring minute, Dragging its heels along the cobbled streets, Watching, waiting, listening to the seas Rising, but for the moment only comforted For dawn brings the birds of stone, The stifled cry lost when the shutter bangs And the black wind ruffles the Northern cock, Dawn brings the empty bay, the stranded boats, And white as ghost-light the lighthouse on the rock Derelict, where our women go each morning, Where Time is the water washing each day ashore, The faded message in a drifting bottle. And we rise with the light to our partial death, To a day of habit, to a sky That answers no-one. And sometimes We pray. But always Time brings in the sea To eat our fields, beat down the makeshift walls, And take from us again our living sons. -- George M. Brady (born 1916)

DO YOU REMEMBER THAT NIGHT? Do you remember that night When you were at the window, With neither hat nor gloves Nor coat to shelter you? I reached out my hand to you, And you ardently grasped it, I remained to converse with you Until the lark began to sing. Do you remember that night That you and I were At the foot of the rowan-tree, And the night drifting snow? Your head on my breast, And your pipe sweetly playing? Little thought I that night That our love ties would loosen! Beloved of my inmost heart, Come some night, and soon, When my people are at rest, That we may talk together. My arms shall encircle you While I relate my sad tale, That your soft, pleasant converse Hath deprived me of heaven. The fire is unraked, The light is unextinguished, The key under the door, Do you softly draw it. My mother is asleep, But I am wide awake; My fortune in my hand, I am ready to go with you. -- (Anonymous 17th c., translated by Eugene O'Curry)

THE ROUGH RIDERS: Even before the U. S. declared war on Spain in 1898, Theodore ROOSEVELT (a descendent of Irish immigrants from Meath and Antrim) established the first U. S. Volunteer Cavalry Regiment. Known popularly as the "Rough Riders," it was comprised of approximately a thousand men recruited from the ranks of businessmen, college athletes, cowboys, etc. The "Rough Riders" left for Cuba and fought in the decisive battle known as San Juan Hill (which actually took place on nearby Kettle Hill). Their gallant charge up the hill earned the regiment, and its most famous member, popular adulation. One of those who did not come home to cheers was Colonel William "Bucky" O'NEILL. Born to Irish immigrant parents in St. Louis, MO, O'Neill played a key role in forming the famous "Rough Riders" and accompanied them to Cuba in the spring of 1898. At the battle of San Juan (Kettle) Hill, O'Neill was killed by a sharpshooter. His family buried him in Arlington National Cemetery, and a number of years later a statue was dedicated to him in the plaza of City Hall in Prescott, AZ.