Here are some other books for 2002 in which you might find of interest: 1. "Fair Melodies - Turlough CAROLAN: An Irish Harper, by Art Edelstein, Noble Stone Press, 711 Bayne Road, East Calais, VT 05650, USA. A large-format p.b. (with CD). The late Chieftain harper, Derek BELL, said, "The thing is that some of O'Carolan's pieces are so difficult for the harp it's hard to imagine that anyone would have conceived such music for the instrument had he not been a jolly good player himself." This book receive national attention in America when it featured on the NPR (National Public Radio) music program "The Thistle & Shamrock" last spring. The biography of the great blind Irish composer and harpist is accompanied by 21 examples of his music on CD, out of the 214 melodies that in all, are attributed to him. (The author has traced more that 100 recordings of Shi Beag, Shi More; it must surely be one of the most frequently recorded pieces of music). Art Edelstein paints a detailed picture of Ireland during the 1600s and 1700s and the harsh polit! ical and social circumstances that shaped Carolan's life and art. 2. "The Whiskeys of Ireland," by Peter Mulryan, The O'Brien Press. h/b. A Dublin bloke, one Richard STANIHURST, alchemist, no less to his Majesty Philip II of Spain sang its praises as follows: "Aqua vitae sloeth age. It strengtheneth youth, it helped digestion, it cutteth flegme. It abandoned melancholy, it relisheth The heart, it lighteneth the mind, It quickeneth the spirites. Truly It is a soveraigne liquor, If it be orderly taken." Peter Mulryan deals authoritatively with no less than 55 of our most popular brands of firewater. Lavishly illustrated with the author's photographs and a wide variety of well-chosen old illustrations and drawings. 3. "The Millennium Legacy," large-format p/b ed by Tom Rowley & Laurie Cearr, The National Millennium Committee, Dept. of the Taoiseach, Gov. Bldgs, Upper Merrion St., Dublin 2: This grand, large multicolored book tells the world how Ireland has welcomed a new era with a confident feeling of happy exhilaration laced with a little appropriate Hibernian foreboding. (All the proceeds of this book are being given to the charitable Society of Saint Vincent de Paul). It tells the story that in addition to thousands of private events from repainting a barn to visiting a grave in Cockatoo Island, 2,500 National Projects were carried out with the assistance of the National Committee. "We lit a candle in every household and planted a tree for every family. We built a boardwalk by the Liffey and we bought the site of the Battle of the Boyne for the nation. Seamus HEANEY was inspired to write, "A Dream of Newgrange" and the Cinemobile was put on the road with its capacity to br! ing a comfortable 100-seater cinema to small towns and country crossroads as required. We restored the facade of the Gaiety Theatre and built a plaza in front of it. We reintroduced the Golden Eagle to Donegal and built the Mullingar Millennium Gym and financed a youth group to build a two-seater airplane and learn to fly it, etc." This is the sort of happy piece of reading that would brighten up anyone's world, per review in "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine. 4. "The Politics and Relationships of Kathleen Lynn," by Marie Mulholland, The Woodfield Press, Inchicore, Dublin. p/b. Kathleen LYNN, a daughter of a Unionist family played an extremely active part in the emerging political life of the infant Irish state. She then set about establishing an independent voluntary hospital for sick children and in this she was eventually successful. She apparently had a life-long personal partnership with a nurse and political activist in social affairs, Madeleine FFRENCH-MULLEN. 5. "CODE," by Eavan BOLAND, Carcanet Press, Conovan Court, 12-16 Blackfriars St., Manchester M3 5BQ, England. p/b. "August. High summer in an Irish town. Tied sheaves and a sea haze near the ocean. A statue of the Virgin: a passerby at her shrine Who sees her move, who sees her step down: let the blaze begin." From "Hide This Place From Angels," a selection of short poems and one longer work from Ms. Eavan Boland, one of the many fine poets working in Ireland at the present time. This poem reflects on an extraordinary series of visions of moving statues which were reported in Ireland in the past decade The poet watches forest fires in the Wicklow mountains from her suburban home while all of this is passing through her mind. Per review, this is an elegant, disquieting little book.

TEACHER'S DESK Made of teak or some other wood; Natural and without veneer - Except a patina of passing time Soft and Dark, laid down in layers for character. Squat; low set, and slung wide for comfort. Square cut and symmetrical, With all the appearance of an alter grown over. The corners have been rounded and you belong here amid the chalk, Where once you stood out with scrubbed austerity. You have no carved ornaments, but countless passing people have cut their names on you, in dinner break or after school. -- Nigel McLoughlin, contempory, "Leitrim Guardian"

CASTING AND GATHERING Years and years ago, these sounds took sides: On the left bank, a green silk tapered cast Went whispering through the air, saying "hush." And "lush," entirely free, no matter whether It swished above the hayfield or the river. On the right bank, like a speeded-up corncrake, A sharp ratcheting went on and on Cutting across the stillness as another Fisherman gathered line-lengths off his reel. I am still standing there, awake and dreamy, I have grown older and can see them both Moving their arms and rods, working away, Each one absorbed, proofed by the sounds he's making. One sound is saying, "You are not worth tuppence, But neither is anybody. Watch it! Be severe." The other says, "Go with it! Give and swerve, You are everything you feel beside the river." I loved hushed air. I trust contrariness. Years and years go past and I do not move For I see that when one man casts, the other gathers And then vice versa without changing sides. -- Seamus Heaney, born Co. Derry 1939

HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. -- William Butler Yeats - From "The Wind Among the Reeds" (1899)

A REFUSAL TO MOURN He lived in a small farm-house At the edge of a new estate. The trim gardens crept To his door, and car engines Woke him before dawn On dark winter mornings. All day there was silence In the bright house. The clock Ticked on the kitchen shelf, Cinders moved in the grate, And a warm briar gurgled When the old man talked to himself; But the door-bell seldom rang After the milkman went, And if a shirt-hanger Knocked in an open wardrobe That was a strange event To be pondered on for hours. While the wind thrashed about In the back garden, raking The roof of the hen-house, And swept clouds and gulls Eastwards over the lough With its flap of tiny sails. Once a week he would visit An old shipyard crony, Inching down to the road And the blue country bus To sit and watch sun-dappled Branches whacking the windows While the long evening shed Weak light in his empty house, On the photographs of his dead Wife and their six children And the Missions to Seamen angel In flight above the bed. "I'm not long for this world," Said he on our last evening, "I'll not last the winter," And grinned, straining to hear Whatever reply I made; And died the following year. In time the astringent rain Of those parts will clean The words from his gravestone In the crowded cemetery That overlooks the sea And his name be mud once again And his boilers lie like tombs In the mud of the sea bed Till the next ice age comes And the earth he inherited Is gone like Neanderthal Man And no records remain. But the secret bred in the bone On the dawn strand survives In other times and lives, Persisting for the unborn Like a claw-print in concrete After the bird has flown. -- Derek Mahon, b. Belfast 1941

BLESSED BE THE HOLY WILL OF GOD The will of God be done by us. The law of God be kept by us, Our evil will controlled by us, Our tongue in check be held by us, Repentance timely made by us, Christ's passion understood by us, Each sinful crime be shunned by us, Much on the End be mused by us, And Death be blessed found by us, With Angels' music heard by us, And God's high praise sung to us, For ever and for aye. -- Translated by Douglas Hyde. A morning prayer which they have in Connemara; it has been heard in many places in Galway. Dr. Hyde heard it in Roscommon.

SCRABBLE in memoriam Tom Delaney, archaeologist Bare flags. Pump water. Winter-evening cold. Our backs might never warm up but our faces Burned from the hearth-blaze and the hot whiskeys. It felt remembered even then, an old Rightness half-imagined or foretold. As green sticks hissed and spat into the ashes And whatever rampaged out there couldn't reach us, Firelit, shuttered, slated and stone-walled. Year after year, our game of Scrabble: love Taken for granted like any other word That was chanced on and allowed within the rules. So "scrabble" let it be. Intransitive. Meaning to scratch or rake at something hard. Which is what he hears. Our scraping, clinking tools. -- Seamus Heaney, from "Glanmore Revisited."

CASTLE GARDEN -- When America thinks of immigration, two images immediately spring to mind: the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. This is hardly surprising, given the fact that close to 16 million immigrants passed the Statue as they entered New York Harbor on their way to the inspection station at Ellis Island. One was surely a symbol of hope, the other a place of dread. Yet for the great majority of the millions of Irish who came to America, neither Lady Liberty nor Ellis Island played a role in their experience. Most Irish immigrants arrived before the Statue (1886) and Ellis (1892) were built. The great symbol of Irish migration to America stands only a half mile away from these landmarks at the tip of Manhattan Island: Castle Garden. Originally constructed in 1811 as a fort named Castle Clinton (named in honor of Major De Witt CLINTON, a descendent of Irish immigrants from Co. Longford), it was converted in the 1820s into a public venue for celebrations, exhib! itions, and entertainment. Thousands of New Yorkers routinely thronged to the Castle for gala welcoming ceremonies for arriving dignitaries - from President Andrew JACKSON in the 1830s to Irish patriot Thomas Francis MEAGHER in the 1850s. (Jenny LIND sang there). By the mid-1840s the popularity of the site had grown such that a 6,000-seat opera house named Castle Garden was constructed over the fort. In 1855, Castle Garden abruptly commenced its third unique historical phase, that of immigrant receiving center. Over the next 35 years more than eight million foreign arrivals were processed there (1.8 million were Irish), a total second only to its successor, Ellis Island. Two things distinguished Castle Garden (and its counterparts in Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore and elsewhere) from Ellis Island. First, there was no rigorous inspection regimen (though immigrants were given quick health checks during periodic epidemic scares). Second, there were no measures taken to protect newly arrived immigrants from the wily con men who prowled Lower Manhattan in search of easy prey. Sadly, these men used their ethnic credentials - a good Irish accent, or better still, the ability to speak Irish -- to ensnare their fellow Hibernians. As one Irish priest observed in the 1850s: "The moment he landed, his luggage was pounced upon by two "runners," one seizing the box of tools, the other confiscating the clothes. The future American citizen assured his obliging friends that he was quite capable of carrying his own luggage; but no, they should relieve him -- the stranger, and guest of the Republic -- of that trouble. Each was in the interest of a different boarding-house, and each insisted that the young Irishman with the red head should go with him... Not being able to oblige both gentlemen, he could oblige only one; and as the tools were more valuable than the clothes, he followed in the path of the gentleman who had secured that portion of the "plunder" ---the two gentlemen wore very pronounced green neck-ties, and spoke with a richness of accent that denoted special if not conscientious cultivation; and on his (the Irishman's) arrival at the boarding-house, he was cheered with the announcement that its proprietor was from "the ould counthry," a! nd loved every sod of it, God bless it!" -- Excerpts, "1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History," Edward T. O'Donnell (2002)

THE ASH PLANT He'll never rise again but he is ready. Entered like a mirror by the morning, He stares out the big window, wondering, Not caring if the day is bright or cloudy. An upstairs outlook on the whole country. First milk-lorries, first smoke, cattle, trees In damp opulence above damp hedges -- He has it to himself, he is like a sentry Forgotten and unable to remember The whys and wherefores of his lofty station, Wakening relieved yet in position, Disencumbered as a breaking comber. As his head goes light with light, his wasting hand Gropes desperately and finds the phantom limb Of an ash plant in his grasp, which steadies him. Now he has found his touch he can stand his ground Or wield the stick like a silver bough and come Walking again among us; the quoted judge. "I could have cut a better man out of the hedge!" God might have said the same, remembering Adam. -- Dangerous pavements. But I face the ice this year With my father's stick. -- Seamus Heaney, born Mossbawn, Co. Derry, 1939

When you sat, far-eyed and cold, in the basalt throne Of the "wishing chair" at Giant's Causeway, The small of your back made very solid sense. Like a papoose at sap-time strapped to a maple tree, You gathered force out of the world-tree's hardness. If you stretched your hand forth, things might turn to stone. But you were only goose-fleshed skin and bone, The rocks and wonder of the world were only Lava crystallized, salts of the earth The wishing chair gave a savour to, its kelp And ozone freshening your outlook Beyond the range you thought you'd settled for. -- Seamus Heaney, born 1941, Co. Derry -- from "Squarings"

THE SMALL TOWNS OF IRELAND O my small town of Ireland, the raindrops caress you, The sun sparkles bright on your field and your Square As here on your bridge I salute you and bless you, Your murmuring waters and turf-scented air. -- John Betjeman (pronounced BET jeh man) was born in London in 1906 and one of England's best-selling poets. His poetry is neither light nor completely serious. His best-known poems poke gentle fun at English pecularities, as in "In Westminster Abbey" - "Think of what our Nation stands for, 'Books from Boots' and country lanes, Free speech, free passes, class distinction, Democracy and proper drains." Occasionally, when dealing with religion or the prospect of death, Betjeman shows himself more serious and compassionate. His collected poems were published in 1958. "Summoned By Bells" (1960) is his verse autobiography. An expert on architecture, Betjeman also wrote widely on that subject.

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

from "THE MIDNIGHT COURT" by Brian Merriman, (circa 1780), trans. Frank O'Connor (1945). Not to detain you here all day I married the girl without more delay, And took my share in the fun that followed. There was plenty for all and nothing borrowed. Be fair to me now! There was no one slighted; The beggarmen took the road delighted; The clerk and mummers were elated; The priest went home with his pocket weighted. The lamps were lit, the guests arrived; The supper was ready, the drink was plied; The fiddles were flayed, and, the night advancing, The neighbours joined in the sport and dancing. A pity to God I didn't smother When first I took the milk from my mother, Or any day I ever broke bread Before I brought that woman to bed! For though everyone talked of her carouses As a scratching post of the publichouses That as sure as ever the glasses would jingle Flattened herself to married and single, Admitting no modesty to mention, I never believed but 'twas all invention. They added, in view of the life she led, I might take to the roads and beg my bread, But I took it for talk and hardly minded -- Sure, a man like me could never be blinded! -- And I smiled and nodded and off I tripped Till my wedding night when I saw her stripped, And knew too late that this was no libel Spread in the pub by some jealous rival -- By God, "twas a fact, and well-supported: I was a father before I started! So there I was in the cold daylight, A family man after one short night! The women around me, scolding, preaching, The wife in bed and the baby screeching. I stirred the milk as the kettle boiled Making a bottle to give the child; All the old hags at the hob were cooing As if they believed it was all my doing -- Flattery worse than ever you heard: "Glory and praise to our blessed Lord, Though he came in a hurry, the poor little creature, He's the spit of his da in every feature."

CORK: "And yet it is a lovely, lovely place. Its slums, that have a hot verminous smell, indescribable and unique -- walk down Millard Street of a hot summer day and you get the pure bouquet of it -- come back to the memory before everything else with a geyser-gush of nostalgia. Cork's poor are its kings. In these ambition has not sharpened the claw, and passion lives at blood-heat. The shawled women and girls (are they passing away into what they used to call, derisively, "hatty wans"?) are magnificent. Observe the coal-quay kids - often dressed in a costume, especially a Sunday costume, that I have seen nowhere else - purple stockings, fawny boots, halfway-up the calf, sometimes a bright velvet cap, golden tasselled, reflecting the half-barbaric love of colour that one used to see in the brilliance of the petticoats and shawls, and in the many half-inch-thick finger-rings and dangling earrings of the mothers roaring over the fish-crates. Note the men, in my youth, straightened by bouts in the North Cork Militia or the Munster Fusiliers, swaggering like sergeant-majors. In all of these there is the principle of life at its full." -- Excerpt, Sean O'Faolain, "An Irish Journey" (1940)

Voices from islanders: Peig Sayers, "An Old Woman's Reflections" -- "The sun is shining brightly on sea and on land. There is a freshness and brightness in everything God created. The sea is polished, and the boys are swimming down at the shore. The little fishes themselves are splashing on top of the water... Poor humans are overcome after the winter because we have a hard life of it on the island...hemmed in like a flock of sheep in a pen, buffeted by storm and gale, without shade or shelter but like a big ship in the middle of a great sea. .. But God does the ordering... He abates the storm and when the summer comes He takes from us the memory and the gloom of winter." (Inishmore) Tomas O'Crohan, "The Islandman" -- "This a crag in the midst of the great sea, and again and again and again the blown surf drives right over it before the violence of the wind, so that you daren't put your head out any more than a rabbit that crouches in his burrow in Inishvickillaun when the rain and the salt spume are flying. Often would we put to sea at the dawn of day when the weather was decent enough, and by the day's end our people on land would be keening us, so much had the weather changed for the worse. It was our business to be out in the night and misery of that sort of fishing is beyond telling." Liam O'Flaherty: Of his native island if Inishmore: I was born on a stormswept rock and hate the soft growth of sun baked lands where there is no frost in men's bones. Swift thought and the swift flight of ravenous birds, and the squeal of terror of hunted animals are to me reality." And in a gentler mood, in his beautiful story, "Spring Sowing" author O'Flaherty wrote: "Life, life, life and the labour of strong hands in Inverara in Spring. From dawn to dark the people hurried, excitedly opening the earth to sow. At dawn they came from their cabins, their noses shining with frost, slapping their lean hands under their armpits, their blue eyes hungry with energy. They ran through the smoking dew for their horses. From dawn to dark their horses trotted, neighing, their steel shoes ringing on the smooth stones...cows gave birth to calves and the crooning of women milking in the evening mingled dreamily with the joyous carolling of the birds..." Maurice O'Sullivan (Blasket Islands) true account - "Twenty Years A-Growing," - "As we walked up towards the house of the dead, whenever I got a chance I dropped behind to take a look at my grandfather, and indeed you would have thought he was a great peer from the city of London with his striped trousers and tailcoat, the white shirt with its hard front and a high collar under his chin. He went in among the old men and I among my comrades...Four men brought out the coffin and rested it on two chairs. The old women gathered round it began to to moan, sweet and soft: "Olagon, olagon!" It was for Kate Joseph's voice I listened, for she was reputed to be like a banshee for keening.. When they had finished their keening I saw them laughing merrily with one another...the four men raised the coffin to their shoulders. All followed them. "Isn't it a strange world if you look into it, Tomas? To think the day will come yet when you and I will be stretched in a coffin ourselves! without thought or feeling." We were at the quay now, the two of us sitting at the top watching the men busy with the curragh and the oars till they had the coffin on board. They moved out through the pool, the sun shining over their heads, a white path of foam in their wake. My grandfather came down the path with many others who were unable to go down. He stopped at the top of the slip looking out at the curraghs. We could still hear the grating of the oars. "It is a wonder you did not go, daddo," said I. "My sharp sorrow, there was a time when I would have gone, but, alas, not today. Ah musha, Kate (Laim)," he cried, looking out over the sea, "Dear God bless your soul, you were a good companion in a market town." The tears were falling down his cheeks. "Look at your grandfather," whispered Tomas. "He is crying. That is the one who is sorrowful and not those fickle women." "Yes, said I, "he mourns her." We got up. "I have to go for a load of turf today," sai! d Tomas. "We have not a sod in the house." "Good day to you," said I, turning home.

By request -- Some new books of interest: 1. "A Place Too Small For Secrets," by Paddy KENNELLY, Marino, p.b. Paddy Kennelly decided to tell the tale of his Kerry village, Knockore, as a series of poems, spoken by the rather extravagant collection of characters who flourish there or remember that they did, once long ago. (The photo of the tiny old lady in her kitchen on the cover is worth the price of the book!). "But how, amid the din, can I find rest? Let me pretend, let me pretend I'm listening to the sound that I love best: The Shannon washing on the shore At Bunaclogga where the curlews keep A lonely vigil, their plaintive cries Reaching on a calm night The village of Knockore I fall asleep." 2. "Agnes Mary CLERKE & The Rise of Astrophysics," (2002) by Mary BRUCK, Cambridge University Press. Scholarly and affectionate account by Dr. Mary Bruck (formerly senior lecturer in astronomy at Edinburgh University) on the life of Agnes Mary CLERKE who left Skibbereen, Co. Cork at age 19 in 1861. The unassuming but intelligent Agnes Mary Clerke wrote "A Popular History of Astronomy in the Nineteenth Century" in 1886 - a foundation document in the history of the subject - and a precious copy of her book and four other rare books were recently given to Mr. Bernie DALY, the present mayor of the scholarly town of Skibbereen by a representative of the DEASY family. Agnes Mary was the eldest of the two daughters of John Clerke, the town's admired bank manager, who left Skibbereen in 1851 to make a new career in Dublin and, eventually, London. His wife was a member of the DEASY family. 3. "The Travellers Guide to Sacred Ireland, A Guide to the Sacred Places of Ireland, her Legends, Folklore and People," by Gary MEEHAN for Gothic Image Publications, POB 2568, Glastonbury, Somerset BA6 8XR, England. P/b & h/b. Compact detailed guide to 800 sites with 500 small photos and 37 user-friendly local maps - simple shrines, wells, monuments, Christian cathedrals, simple stone churches, round towers and high crosses. Contains an invaluable list of words and terms with their concise meanings. 3. "The First Toll-Roads, Ireland's Turnpike Roads 1729-1858," by David BRODERICK, Collins Press. "Turnpikes" (turnstiles) controlled access to Ireland's 19th century toll roads, which stood close by. Dublin, Cork and Belfast were the hubs, particularly Dublin, out of which about a dozen toll-roads ran, delivering passengers, mail, linen, butter, wool and corn up to Coleraine and won to Killarney. There were about 1,500 Irish miles in the control of separate groups of trustees. The regular charge for a horseman was a halfpenny and for a coach and six horses a shilling. The service failed when canals and railways began to offer competition. Mr. Broderick says that a famous family of bonesetters lived close to his home in north Kilkenny "half a mile beyond the turnpike." h/b 2. "Exile, Emigration and Irish Writing," by Patrick Ward, Irish Academic Press." Highly recommended book by "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine book editor that reflects the attitude to those Irish who earned their living abroad. Said to be astonishing and somewhat uncomfortable reading, the reviewer considered if of importance in equal rank to JOYCE's "A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man." Ward ends his book by quoting from Eavan BOLAND's "The Emigrant Irish" -- "Like oil lamps we put them out the back of our houses, of our minds. We had lights better than, newer than and then a time came, this time and now we need them." h/b. 3. "James McKENNA, a Celebration,"ed. Desmond EGAN, The Goldsmith Press, Newbridge, Co. Kildare, p/b. James McKENNA was a sculptor, playwright, poet, musician and artist. Of over 20 plays his best known is probably "The Scatterin'" - Ireland's first rock musical. Some of his work in wood and stone is to be seen in public places. Many of his best works are treasured in private hands. A delightful collections of essays and comments from people in all walks of life who knew and admired Mr. McKenna, who recently died. 4. "On Dublin's Doorstep, exploring the Province of Leister," by Christopher Moriarty, Wolfhound Press, p/b. Dr. Moriarty's is by profession an expert on the lifestyle and habits of fish, botany and geology, very capable of interesting comments on history, architectural treasures, wildflowers, and his book includes 52 day trips in Dublin and further afield with map references and meticulous detail on everything from archaeology to wheelchair access. You are probably already familiar with his wonderful "Byways Rather Than Highways" contributions to "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine. 5. "People Power? The Role of the Voluntary and Community Sector in the Northern Ireland Conflict," by COCHRANE & DUNNE, Cork University Press, h/b. Ordinary people can have just a much effect on the resolution of conflict as political leaders, government and senior civil servants - if groups can dome together and find a way to articulate their views, to educate and inform themselves and to fund their activities. Peace/Conflict Resolution Organisations are not as much fun to read about as poetry, but we need to understand and use these new ways of behaving to secure for ourselves and others the opportunity of reading poetry and analyzing the twists of old wars to our hearts' content." h/b 6. "Wilde's Lough Corrib," by Sir William WILDE (1867), reprinted DUFFY & SMYTH, Irish Books and Media. First published in 1867 under the title "Lough Corrib, Its Shores & Islands with Notices On Lough Mask," this book written by Oscar Wilde's father at his family home in Mayo and had become an expensive collectors item by antiquarians. In this new volume there are quaint original woodcuts, flamboyant prose, and the volume will introduce a greater audience of people to the delights, through Wilde's enthusiasm and knowledge, around the shores of Corrib and Mask. h/b. 7. "The Lusitania, Unravelling the Mysteries," by Patrick O' SULLIVAN, The Collins press -p/b. Stalked and sunk by a German submarine toward the end of her 101st eastbound crossing from NY to Liverpool, the pride of the Cunard Line sank May 7, 1915 in 20 minutes delivering 1,198 innocents to their doom in the cold Atlantic waters off Ireland's south coast. It was a very beautiful clear, calm day. Many Irish were alive up to ten years ago who actually saw her go down in plain sight from their fields on the inland hills that rise above the shoreline. Note -- Another engrossing new book on this subject is "Lusitania, An Epic Tragedy," by Diana PRESTON, Walker & Co.

unsubscribe ----- Original Message ----- From: "Jean Rice" <jeanrice@cet.com> To: <IrelandGenWeb-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Saturday, November 02, 2002 1:36 PM Subject: [IGW] John Boyle O'REILLY (b. 1844 Drogheda) --"A White Rose" > > A WHITE ROSE > > The red rose whispers of passion, > And the white rose breathes of love; > Oh, the red rose is a falcon, > And the white rose is a dove. > > But I send you a cream-white rosebud, > With a flush on its petal tips; > For the love that is purest and sweetest > Has a kiss of desire on the lips. > > -- John Boyle O'Reilly (1844-1890) was born in Drogheda (Louth) Ireland. After apprenticing at various newspapers, he became a member of the Fenian Society, a group dedicated to Irish nationalism. Soon after joining, O'Reilly was arrested and banished to a penal colony in Australia. In 1869 he escaped to America and joined the staff of the "Boston Pilot," the diocesan paper. He soon became editor and went on to publish many volumes of poetry, ranging from patriotic odes to lyrical ballads. In testament to the wide acclaim he enjoyed for his poetry, O'Reilly was picked to deliver a commemorative poem at the dedication of Plymouth Rock in 1889 - a major honor for any writer at the time, especially for an Irishman. He died only a year later at age 46 from an overdose of sleeping pills, though it is not known whether it was a suicide or an accident. > > > ==== IrelandGenWeb Mailing List ==== > Please make sure to visit RootsWeb, our hostmaster, at http://www.rootsweb.com > > --- Outgoing mail is certified Virus Free. Checked by AVG anti-virus system (http://www.grisoft.com). Version: 6.0.408 / Virus Database: 230 - Release Date: 10/24/02

A WHITE ROSE The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud, With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips. -- John Boyle O'Reilly (1844-1890) was born in Drogheda (Louth) Ireland. After apprenticing at various newspapers, he became a member of the Fenian Society, a group dedicated to Irish nationalism. Soon after joining, O'Reilly was arrested and banished to a penal colony in Australia. In 1869 he escaped to America and joined the staff of the "Boston Pilot," the diocesan paper. He soon became editor and went on to publish many volumes of poetry, ranging from patriotic odes to lyrical ballads. In testament to the wide acclaim he enjoyed for his poetry, O'Reilly was picked to deliver a commemorative poem at the dedication of Plymouth Rock in 1889 - a major honor for any writer at the time, especially for an Irishman. He died only a year later at age 46 from an overdose of sleeping pills, though it is not known whether it was a suicide or an accident.

AFTER THE TITANIC They said I got away in a boat And humbled me at the inquiry. I tell you I sank as far that night as any Hero. As I sat shivering on the dark water I turned to ice to hear my costly Life go thundering down in a pandemonium of Prams, pianos, sideboards, winches, Boilers bursting and shredded ragtime. Now I hide In a lonely house behind the sea Where the tide leaves broken toys and hat-boxes Silently at my door. The showers of April, flowers of May mean nothing to me, nor the Late light of June, when my gardener Describes to strangers how the old man stays in bed On seaward mornings after nights of Wind, takes his cocaine and will see no-one. Then it is I drown again with all those dim Lost faces I never understood. My poor soul Screams out in the starlight, heart Breaks loose and rolls down like a stone. Include me in your lamentations. -- Derek Mahon (b. Belfast 1941)

A PILLOWED HEAD Matutinal. Mother-of-pearl Summer come early. Slashed carmines And washed milky blues. To be first on the road, Up with the ground-mists and pheasants. To be older and grateful That this time you too were half-grateful The pangs had begun -- prepared And clear-headed, foreknowing The trauma, entering on it With full consent of the will. (The first time, dismayed and arrayed In your cut-off white cotton gown, You were more bride than earth-mother Up on the stirrup-rigged bed, Who were self-possessed now To the point of a walk on the pier Before you checked in.) And then later on I half-fainted When the little slapped palpable girl Was handed to me; but as usual Came to in wide-open eyes That had been dawned into farther Than ever, and had outseen the last Of all those mornings of waiting When your domed brow was one long held silence And the dawn chorus anything but. -- Seamus Heaney (b. Co. Derry 1939)