MONAGHAN Monaghan, mother of a thousand Little moulded hills, Set about with little rivers Chained to little mills. Rich and many-pastured Monaghan, Mild thy meadows lie, Melting to the distant mountains On the mirrored sky. Lovely, lowly-lying Monaghan, On they little lakes Float and tremble lordly lilies Hoed by fairies' rakes. Silvered o'er with sunshine, or by Night with shimmering fog, Where thy sloping cornland meets Beauteous fields of bog. Humbly hid with heath and lichen Waits thy turf of old, While the hasty bees come hiding Honey thro' thy mould. Thro' and thro' thy restless rushes Runs a thousand rills, Lisping long-forgotten little Songs of Ireland's ills. For thy mingled chaplet, oak and Beechwood thou dost bind Green in summer, and in winter Musical with wind. -- Shane Leslie (born 1885)

THE LONG GARDEN It was the garden of the golden apples, A long garden between a railway and a road, In the sow's rooting where the hen scratches We dipped our fingers in the pockets of God. In the thistly hedge old boots were flying sandals By which we travelled through the childhood skies, Old buckets rusty-holed with half-hung handles Were drums to play when old men married wives. The pole that lifted the clothes-line in the middle Was the flag-pole on a prince's palace when We looked at it through fingers crossed to riddle In evening sunlight miracles for men. It was the garden of the golden apples, And when the Carrick train went by we knew That we could never die till something happened Like wishing for a fruit that never grew. Or wanting to be up on Candle-fort Above the village with its shops and mill. The racing cyclists' gasp-gapped reports Hinted of pubs where life can drink his fill. And when the sun went down into Drumcatton And the New Moon by its little finger swung >From the telegraph wires, we knew how God had happened And what the blackbird in the whitethorn sang. It was the garden of the golden apples, The half-way house where we had stopped a day Before we took the west road to Drumcatton Where the sun was always setting on the play. -- Patrick Kavanagh

THE TAILOR THAT CAME FROM MAYO The little old tailor that came from Mayo -- God be good to him! Dead he is, ages ago. But I'll never forget him - himself and his brogue. And the comical gleam in his eye, the old rogue! For 'twas he that could talk, in those days, with the best; And you'd laugh at his jokes till you'd fear for your vest. And you'd never grow tired of the wonderful flow Of the language that came from the man from Mayo. In the long winter nights by the light of the lamp, When the weather outside would be dreary and damp, Now, I tell you, 'twas grand to his place to drop in For a pull at the pipe with the rest of the men, For a pull at the pipe, and a bit of a chat, And an argument, too, about this thing or that; But the best of the argument always would go To the little old tailor that came from Mayo. For he'd listen awhile, as he basted away, And when every one else in the house had his say, And when all who were there had exhausted the store Of the knowledge they had, and were groping for more, He would bite off the end of his thread with a jerk, And he'd lift up his face for a while from his work, And he'd give his opinion, and no one said no. To the little old tailor that came from Mayo. Was it battles we talked of? He ended the talk; For he'd mark out the lines on his board with the chalk; And he'd point out, perhaps, just where Bonaparte stood When his empire, at Waterloo, ended in blood. Or he'd show the grand charge which, before that, was made Back at famed Fontenoy by the Irish Brigade, Till the heart of myself would be all in a glow At the words of the tailor that came from Mayo. The story of Ireland - he knew it by heart, And 'tis often he'd speak about Cormac MacArt, Or of Brian Boru and his battles of old, Or of Malachi wearing the collar of gold. And of Daniel O'Connell - I almost would split At the samples he gave of the Counsellor's wit. But 'twas Emmet he loved and how grave he would grow When that martyr was mentioned - the man from Mayo. Well, he's gone and God rest him, his life is long past; He went back to Mayo, and he died there at last. But I'll never forget him, cross-legged as he sat While he gave out his verdict on this thing and that. And the jokes that he made! And the scorn that he poured On the foes and false friends of the land he adored! For the faithfullest soul that I ever shall know Was the soul of the tailor that came from Mayo. -- Denis A. McCarthy (1871-1931)

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

Received this feed-back on my Annie Moore post from today: > Thank you, Jean. > > Have you heard The Irish Tenors' version of "Isle of Hope, Isle of Tears" > aboutAnnie Moore? It's beautiful! > > Kay > No Kay, but you can be sure I will watch for it! J.

BIO: Author Bram STOKER's (1847-1912) mother Charlott/e was the daughter of Thomas THORNLEY, of the 43rd Regiment. The family lived in Sligo and witnessed the Cholera epidemic of 1832. The epidemic was particularly severe in Sligo town and Charlotte's experiences are said to be his inspiration for the Dracula story. The THORNLEY burial plot is in St. John's Cathedral graveyard Sligo. Bram STOKER (1847-1912) wrote the horror story "Dracula" in 1897. He was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1847. A sickly child, he spent many days at home in bed. "Dracula's Guest," a continuation of "Dracula," was not published until 1937 - after his death. Stoker's other books include "The Mystery of the Sea (1902), "The Jewel of Seven Stars" (1904), and "Famous Imposters" (1910). Bram lived in England and was manager for actor Sir Henry IRVING, and wrote "Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving" (1906). Charlotte STOKER was the first woman to present a paper to the "Statistical and Social Inquiry Society of Ireland" founded more than 150 years ago; her subject was deafness in children.

There is a fascinating coincidence surrounding William Bulter Yeat's burial in Ireland at Drumcliff, County Sligo, beneath the incredible mountain - Benbulben. Although he died in 1939 in France he was not buried in his beloved Ireland till 1948. The great love of Yeat's life was Maude Gonne MacBride. She once said that she did the world a favor by not marrying William Butler Yeats because some of his most brilliant writings were inspired by his unrequited love for Maude Gonne. Maude Gonne married Major John McBride but they did not have a happy marriage. John MacBride was shot for his part in the Easter Uprising of 1916. Their son Sean MacBride in 1948 became Minister of External Affairs and in this position led William Bulter Yeat's funeral procession. This has always struck me as such an incredible coincidence. Sean MacBride also went onto to win the Nobel Peace Prize for being one of the founding members of Amnesty International. Slan go foill, Margaret (Mairead) > William Butler YEATS was born in 1865 at Georgeville, Sandymouth Avenue, > Dublin, and was the first child of John Butler Yeats and Susan Mary > POLLENFEX Yeats. The Yeats family produced many family members who > distinguished themselves in the arts including William's artist father, > his well-known artist brother, John Butler Jr. (Jack), and and his sisters > whose examples of fine embroidery have survived. The Yeats family was often > in Co. Sligo, where William's maternal grandparents lived. William loved to > hear the old stories and superstitions such as the dreaded fear of fairies > stealing away children if their parents were not vigilent. The Yeats family > later moved to London. In 1923, William Butler Yeats won the Nobel Prize > for literature. Although Yeats died in the south of France in 1939, his body > was reinterred at Drumcliff, Co. Sligo, as per his wishes, where he and his > siblings had spent many happy hours in the beautiful west of Ireland. > > This poem is about the Glencar waterfall of Co. Leitrim, a county which > borders Co. Sligo. > > THE STOLEN CHILD > > Where dips the rocky highland > Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, > There lies a leafy island > Where flapping herons wake > The drowsy water-rats; > There we've hid our faery vats, > Full of berries > And of reddest stolen cherries. > "Come away, O human child! > To the waters and the wild > With a faery, hand in hand, > For the world's more full of weeping > than you can understand." > > Where the wave of moonlight glosses > The dim grey sands with light, > Far off by furthest Rosses > We foot it all the night, > Weaving olden dances, > Mingling hands and mingling glances > Till the moon has taken flight; > To and fro we leap > And chase the frothy bubbles, > While the world is full of troubles > And is anxious in its sleep. > "Come away, O human child! > To the waters and the wild > With a faery, hand in hand, > For the world's more full of weeping > than you can understand." > > Where the wandering water gushes > >From the hills above Glen-Car, > In pools among the rushes > that scarce could bathe a star, > We seek for slumbering trout > And whispering in their ears > Give them unquiet dreams; > Leaning softly out > >From ferns that drop their tears > Over the young streams. > "Come away, O human child! > To the waters and the wild > With a faery, hand in hand, > For the world's more full of weeping > than you can understand." > > Away with us he's going, > The solemn-eyed; > He'll hear no more the lowing > Of the calves on the warm hillside > Or the kettle on the hob > Sing peace into his breast, > Or see the brown mice bob > Round and round the oatmeal-chest. > "For he comes, the human child, > To the waters and the wild > With a faery, hand in hand, > >From a world more full of weeping > than he can understand." > > -- William Butler Yeats, 1889 > > > > ==== IRELAND Mailing List ==== > Visit the Ireland List Homepage: > http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.com/~irelandlist > De nobis fabula narratur, their story is our story > http://irelandgenealogyprojects.rootsweb.com > > ============================== > To join Ancestry.com and access our 1.2 billion online genealogy records, go to: > http://www.ancestry.com/rd/redir.asp?targetid=571&sourceid=1237 >

You might be able to find a copy of this biographical book if the subject interests you: "All Souls," pub. 1999, by Michael Patrick MacDONALD, about growing up in an Irish neighborhood in the south Boston slums. The threats, poverty, drugs, a shadowy gangster world, were real. MacDonald lost four of his siblings to violence and poverty. We meet Ma, Michael's mini-skirted, accordion-playing, usually single mother who cares for her children, there are eventually ten, though a combination of high spirits and inspired "getting over" the men in her life - Dave "Mac" MacDonald, George Fox, Bob King and Coley Perkins. There are Michael's older siblings, Davey, sweet artist-dreamer; Kevin, child genius of scam; and Frankie, Golden Gloves boxer and neighborhood hero - whose lives are high-wire acts playing out in a world of poverty and pride. "My oldest memories are of my mother crying, I don't know how old I was, but I remember looking up from the floor and seeing her sitting on the old trunk that her father had carried from Ireland when he was 18 in search of some good luck in America. She was only crying a little, and tried to hide it from me when she saw that I'd noticed. I climbed onto her lap and asked her why she was sad. She told me then about her baby who'd died and gone to heaven. She said his name was Patrick Michael, but that it was all going to be okay now because now we had someone watching over us, praying for us every day. She told me that I'd taken Patrick Michael's place, and that she'd switched the name around calling me Michael Patrick. She showed me the light green knit hat that someone had given Patrick. He wore that hat home from the hospital when he was born, and he was baptized in it. It still smelled like a baby and had yellowing food stains on it. It was all we had of Patrick. There was no picture ever taken of the six-week-old baby. I could never really get mad at her the way most kids did at their parents, I could never judge her or blame her for anything in our lives. After I saw her cry for Patrick Michael, I only wanted to protect her." Within a few years, the neighborhood's collapse is echoed by the MacDonald family's tragedies. All but destroyed by grief and by the Southie code that doesn't allow him to feel it, MacDonald gets out. His work as a peace activist - first in the all-Black neighborhoods of nearby Roxbury, then back to the Southie he can't help but love - is the powerfully redemptive close to a story that will leave readers utterly shaken and changed. Michael helped launch Boston's successful gun-buyback program and is the founder of the South Boston Vigil Group. On his return to Southie, Michael wrote, "I was back in Southie, 'the best place in the world,' as Ma used to say before the kids died. That's what he call them now, "the kids." Even when we want to say their names, we sometimes get confused about who's dead and who's alive in my family. After so many deaths, Ma just started to call my four brothers "the kids" when we talked about going to see them at the cemetery. But I don't go anymore. They're not at the cemetery; I never could find them there. When I accepted the fact that I couldn't feel them at the graves, I figured it must be because they were in heaven, or the spirit world, or whatever you want to call it. The only things I kept from the funerals were the mass cards that said," Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am the stars that shine through the night," and so on. I figured that was the best way to look at it. There are seven of us kids still alive, and sometimes I'm not even sure if that's true. I came back to Southie in the summer of 1994, after everyone in my family had either died or moved to the mountains of Colorado. I'd moved to downtown Boston after Ma left in 1990, and was pulled one night to wander through Southie. I walked from Columbia Point Project, where I was born, to the Old Colony Project where I grew up, in the "Lower End," as we called it. ...I walked the streets of my old neighborhood..."the kids" were joined in my mind by so many others I'd last seen in caskets at Jackie O'Brien's Funeral Parlor. They were all here now, all of my neighbors and friends who had died young from violence, drugs, and from all the other deadly things we'd been taught didn't happen in Southie. We thought we were in the best place in the world in this neighborhood, in the all-Irish housing projects where everyone claimed to be Irish even if his name was Spinnoli. We were proud to be from here, as proud as we were to be Irish. Southie was Boston's proud Irish neighborhood. That's what we considered each other in Southie - family. There was always this feeling that we were protected, as if the whole neighborhood was watching our back for threats, watching for all the enemies we could never really define. No "outsiders" could mess with us. So we had no reason to leave, and nothing ever to leave for. When I rode around the Lower End there were the landmarks of my childhood: St. Augustine's grammar school where Ma struggled to keep up with tuition payments so we wouldn't be bused to black neighborhoods; the Boys and Girls Club, where I was on the swim team with my brother Kevin; Darious Court, when I played and watched the busing riots; the liquor store with a giant green shamrock painted on it, where Whitey Bulger ran the Southie drug trade; the sidewalk where my sister had crashed from a project rooftop after a fight over drugs; and St. Augustine's Church, down whose front steps I'd helped carry my brothers' heavy caskets." The book, of course, has its humorous moments.

Ellis Island Snippet: One in about every 25 of the immigrants to pass through Ellis Island (1892-1954) came from Ireland. The first ever was a young girl from Cork named Annie MOORE. Arriving on January 1, 1892, on her 15th birthday, Moore stepped off the "S. S. Nevada" to a new land and right into the history books. There to greet her as the first immigrant to enter the brand-new federal immigrant processing center in New York Harbor were city, state and federal officials who presented Annie with a certificate and a ten-dollar gold piece. MOORE's story was typical of many Irish immigrants. Her parents had sailed for America earlier, leaving Annie and her two brothers in the care of an aunt. Once they were settled, they sent for their children.

(See query below): While original wills and administrations of the property-owning classes were apparently destroyed in a fire in Public Records Office along with most (but not all) of the Will and Grant Books in which they were inscribed -- indexes, abstracts and transcripts remain, many with considerable amounts of information. See John Grenham's "Tracing Your Irish Ancestors," for 300+ pages on different types of records, resources in general, those specific to a particular Irish county. There is a chapter on wills pre-1858 and post-1858. ----- Original Message ----- From: "larry dodds" <larrydodds@shaw.ca> Could someone tell me if any wills and testamentary papers can be found in > any of the old records. looking for wills of John DODDS died 1835 in Armagh > city, and perhaps others. > any wills available for the years 1780, 1818, 1801, 1805, 1824??? all DODDS > that died in Co. Armagh. any help appreciated. > > searching DODDS, CORBETT > HALL, LAWRENCE, MARTIN, MANN, >>

could someone tell me if any wills and testamentary papers can be found in any of the old records. looking for wills of John DODDS died 1835 in Armagh city, and perhaps others. any wills availabe for the years 1780, 1818, 1801, 1805, 1824??? all DODDS that died in Co. Armagh. any help appreciated. searching DODDS, CORBETT HALL, LAWRENCE, MARTIN, MANN, call 1-204-785-2531, e-mail larrydodds@shaw.ca

Louis MacNEICE was born in 1907 in Belfast although his parents were originally from Connemara, in the West of Ireland. Family moved to Carrickfergus due to the appointment of his father as rector for the anglican church. Trains were a fixture of the Antrim landscape of Louis MacNeice's childhood, and here is one of his earlier poems: TRAINS IN THE DISTANCE Trains came threading quietly through my dozing childhood Gentle murmurs nosing through a summer quietude... And so we hardly noticed when that metal murmur came. But it brought us assurance and comfort all the same, And in the early night they soothed us to sleep, And the chain of the rolling wheels bound us in deep. -- Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

1. St. Patrick has served to inspire generations of people. On St. Patrick's Day March 17, 1943, Eamon de Valera, at the 50th anniversary of the Gaelic League, delivered his "Dream Speech" when he advocated "the Ireland that I would have." His vision, as described in "History Ireland" magazine, was a country where people are gainfully employed, disease and poverty under control, and citizens of all ages can enjoy a life of dignity, free from the degradations of want; a country in which spiritual concerns are more important than materialism and greed regarded as typical of industrial nations. It would, in short, be the home of a people living the life that God desires that man should live. 2. Perhaps the best known of saints throughout the world is St. Patrick; many associate his presence with the peace process particularly in Armagh, the ecclesiastical capital of Ireland where two cathedrals bear his name, Catholic and the Church of Ireland, who present a united front for reconciliation, demonstrating that diversity does not mean disharmony. 3. Theobald Wolfe Tone was the main figure behind the United Irishmen and the 1798 Rising. Many of his adherents were subsequently transported to New South Wales, Australia. New South Wales had its own rebellion of 05 March 1804, when about 300 rebels, including Irish and Scots, staged a revolt against the colonial government. In 1815, thirteen Clonoulty, Tipperary men were arrested for seditious behavior and transported to New South Wales. This event was chronicled by Fr. Max Barrett in his book "Because of These," and by Fr. Brian Maher in his "Planting the Celtic Cross." 4. Colors by Tiffany -- The prestigious NYC firm of Tiffany & Company, known by 1848 for its exquisite jewlery, turned its attention in 1861 to War-related products, including swords, medals, and flags. Colors embroidered by Tiffany & Co. were among the most desirable and costly honors a regiment could receive. National colors by Tiffany were entirely embroidered. Regimental colors were usually embroidered with the state coat of arms or painted with allegorical scenes. Charles Lewis Tiffany (1812-1902) was a dealer in precious stones. His reputation as a jeweler became so great that his name now stands for the highest quality in jewelry. He was born in Killingly, CT. Tiffany went to NYC in 1837, and opened a small notions store. Soon he was specializing in jewelry, glassware and china. Later he imported famous European crown jewels. He also set up factories to manufacture some of the products he sold. His artist son, Louis Comfort Tiffany (1848-1933) became known for the development of "Tiffany Favrile glass." He started his first factory in 1875, and with colored glass made vases, cigarette boxes and tiles for walls and floors. He established the Louis Comfort Tiffany Foundation in 1919. Tiffany was born in NYC. He studied with American artist George Inness and also in Paris. He served as art director of the Tiffany Studios and as president of the Tiffany Co. Few units in the Union army in the American Civil War enjoyed as colorful a reputation as that of the Second Brigade of the II Corps' 1st Division. The Irish Brigade, as it was known, consisted of regiments from MA, NY and PA, marching into battle under emerald flags sporting gold shamrocks and harps. The unit was commanded at Fredericksburg by Brigadier General Thomas F. Meagher, who had escaped to the US from Tasmania, to which he had been banished for conducting revolutionary activities in Ireland. As part of Winfield Scott Hancock's corps, Meagher's men attacked at the Stone Wall in front of Marye's Heights, perhaps the toughest task of this battle. "The brilliant assault on Marye's Heights of their Irish Brigade was beyond description," wrote a Confederate officer on the scene. A Rebel infantryman in the ranks remembered how the cannon fire "tore great gaps in their ranks," followed by "the blinding flash, the deafening roar, the murderous destruction of two thousand well-aimed rifles..." Though the Irish Brigade advanced closer to the enemy lines than almost any other unit on their part of the battlefield, the attack failed, and cost the 1,300-man Irish Brigade 50 killed, 421 wounded, and 74 captured or missing. "As for the Brigade," wrote an officer, "may the Lord pity and protect the widows and orphans of nearly all those belonging to it! It will be a sad, sad Christmas by many an Irish hearthstone in New York, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts." An Alfred Waud sketch depicts the December 13th Union assaults against Marye's Heights. Per another source -- The 69th NY Infantry Regiment - temporarily without their flags, Capt. Thomas F. Meagher and his men maintained their unity at Fredericksburg on December 13, 1862, by wearing springs of green boxwood in their caps. This Irish flag reached the regiment two days later. In 1963, President John KENNEDY gave the flag to the government of Ireland. 5. In 1998, Fordham University Press in the Bronx, New York, published the titles of Irish interest in its Irish in the Civil War series including: (1) "Irish Green and Union Blue, the Civil War Letters of Peter Welsh, Colour Sergeant, 18th Massachusetts; (2) "Memoirs of Chaplain Life," by William Colby; (3) "An Irishman in the Iron Brigade," by Sergeant James P. Sullivan; (4) "The Irish Brigade and its Campaigns, " by Capt. David P. Conyngham; (5) "Story of the 116th Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers in the War of Rebellion," by St. Clair A. Mulholland (about a non-Irish regiment which became part of the famed Irish Brigade). (6) "Commanding Boston's Irish Ninth, the Civil War Letters of Colonel Patrick R. Guiney." 6. While I not certain of the destination, (?Boston) researchers should be aware that there was landlord-assisted emigration of tenants from the large Shirley Estate near Carrickmacross, Co. Monaghan. Perhaps someone can research this. 7. Per "Irish Roots," John Mitchel was tried and found guilty of treason before the rebellion. He was sentenced to 14 years transportation. He served his sentence initially in Bermuda, then in Tasmania. He has no living descendants with the Mitchel surname. Two of his three sons were killed fighting on the Confederate side in the America Civil War, and his grandson, who at one stage was Mayor of New York, as killed in a flying accident. Mitchel also had two daughters, one of whom married a nice of General Robert E. Lee. Some contemporary people with Mitchel connections: Patrick Mitchel of Ballingarry, Co. Tipperary, shared a common ancestor, his gggfather was John Mitchel's first cousin. Michael Higgins from the U.S. has an interesting link to John Mitchel; his gggmother was Jane Haslett, and her cousin, Mary Haslett, was John Mitchel's mother. The same Haslett family also claim a Colonel John Haslet (one T) who served in the Delaware Regiment of Washington's army.! A third person is Judith Burrisk, in Australia. Her gggfather, Daniel Burke, a Tipperary man, played a prominent part in John Mitchel's escape from Tasmania in 1853. He is mentioned in Mitchel's famous book, "Jail Journal." These three contemporary individuals were among those present at the plaque unveiling ceremony at Dromoland Castle in 1998, the 150th anniversary of the Young Ireland Rising. The ceremony took place on the 29th of July, the actual date of the rebellion. Dromoland Castle, was the birhplace of William Smith O'Brien, leader of the Young Irelanders. Direct descendants and descendants of allied lines of John Blake Dillon, William Smith O'Brien, John Mitchel, Thomas Francis Meagher, etc., attended the commemoration. An article and several photos of same can be found in the Third Quarter issue of the 1998 "Irish Roots" periodical.

BIO: Per 1998 issue of "The World Of Hibernia," Sr. Mary Rose McGeady, then 69, was President of Covenant House, Manhattan, New York, with affilitiations to the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul. With a third-generation connection to Co. Donegal, her family names were McGeady, Ennis, Mundis and Gallagher, her family having emigrated circa 1842. Established in 1968 as a refuge for troubled and displaced youngsters, Covenant House has had more than 250,000 children pass through its doors. Overseeing the needs of her inner-city charges has been Sister Mary Rose McGeady. A 40-year veteran of community service, Sister Mary Rose joined the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul when she was 18. Taking an interest in the emotional needs of others, she trained as a clinical psychologist, later moving on to work at the Nazareth Child Care Center in Boston. She eventually came to head a variety of Boston and New York-area child-care centers as administrator, before joining Brooklyn Catholic Charities in 1971. Having an open heart but a no-nonsense attitude, Sister Mary Rose was the natural choice to direct activities at Covenant House, a role she assumed in 1990. Respected by the thousands of young souls whose lives she had touched over the years, Sister Mary Rose takes her job in stride, reaching a segment of soc! iety that many have chosen to overlook. Her photo can be found in the Summer 1998 issue of "The World Of Hibernia."

I WAS A LABOURER I was a labourer in the smoky valley, within the high walls, the tall dark walls of the mills, where the hills go up to the wild moor. I am a dog of the dales, broad is my speech, and my ways are not the smooth ways of the south, but hard, and used to keener weather. All week I worked among the looms while the cloth slacked out and the shuttles clacked swiftly, as the woof was shot through the warp and through my brain dim with the webs of years. All week I was the servant of the loom, chained to the steel for the promise of meagre coin, six days a week, but Sunday comes soon, and I am my master for the waking day that found me with my whippet on the moor. O my faithful lass! Soft was her fell; her eyes were like deep pools stained with peat, shafted with light; and intelligent. She was long in the body, but strong of limb and rib, and her muscles moved under the skin like currents in a bay of the river. She was swift as the wind or as the summer swallow, and I would pit her with the local dogs, backing her swiftness with my sweaty coin and many a shilling have I won with her to spend on some wet evening in a pub or buy the tickets at the picture palace when I took out the girl I meant to marry -- but that is all forgotten with the flesh. I was a labourer in the smoky valley: I am a brittle bone projecting from the sand. -- Sean Jennett (born 1910)

THE LOW FIELD Sitting on this smooth well worn granite rock, Where my father and his father before him sat At the foot of Slieve Gullion Mountain Smoking a Players Number Six. I draw in the air of the freshly turned soil, Tracing the straight lines of the drills in my mind Seeing the fertile auburn earth gently parted Lying open, awaiting the life-giving seed. At the foot of Slieve Gullion is my high field And further down the low road, the low field, >From this rock I see both, bordered by stone ditches And smooth flowing shucks, just as my forefathers did. In the purple heather breeze I hear their words echo, "Plough high down by the holly trees, watch the rocks, Keep the plough board straight, reins tight. Son, a man's known by the line of his drill." Come harvest time the neighbors will gather, The women fresh faced with big heaving bosoms In floral aprons, tied twice round their broad waists, Flattened with boned stays and flannel petticoats. They bring tae, buttermilk and soda farls To men with yellow nicotine beards, who stop to eat, Smoke and talk, as freckled children chase frogs And collect dawking leaves to cure the sting of nettles. When the mist comes down o'er the mountain Weary workers plod home through ditch lined lonans, Up to half doors, removing dirt stained boots. Women tell the weather by the way the fire lights, The men, bone sore, bathe callused feet in warm salted water, Children, tired from play, fall asleep by the fire. Finally the wearied foks retire to feather ticks Where life is made and life departs. In the high field, surrounded by the mist that caps Slieve Gullion The damp evening air seeps into my bones, I head home, past Chambrey's and the Protestant School, Past white washed homes with familiar smells, Fresh oven baked bread, churned butter, Turf scented smoke swells to form a nebulous cone. In the evening solitude, life creeps up through furrowed soil And the bells of Dromintee Chapel ring. -- Sheenagh M. O'Rourke (1995)

Ellis Island Immigration Center - 1892 to 1954: At New York Harbor, steamships first docked in Manhattan. There the first-class and cabin-class passengers got off the ship. The immigrants in steerage waited. Then a ferryboat tied alongside and the immigrants climbed aboard. Their next stop was Ellis Island. Ellis Island was about one mile south of Manhattan. It was once used by early Dutch settlers as a picnic ground. Immigrants used to come through a center called Castle Garden at the tip of Manhattan. But after 1885, when the stream of immigrants was becoming a flood, the federal government decided to build a new center. Ellis Island opened in 1892. Before its doors were closed in 1954, more than 16 million people passed through its great hall. Many of the new immigrants found Ellis Island more frightening than the ocean crossing. One NY journalist described the first day at Ellis Island. "The day of the immigrants' arrival in New York was the nearest earthly likeness to the final day of judgment, when we have to prove our fitness to enter Heaven." When the ferryboat docked at the island, the immigrants were herded off the boat and into one of the red brick buildings. Guards shouted for the immigrants to hurry, hurry. The center at Ellis Island was built to handle 5,000 people daily. During the high tide of immigration more than twice that number passed through the main hall each day. Guards tied large tags to the immigrants' coats. Each tag had a number on it. At the end of a long hallway, these numbers were shouted out in Italian, Yiddish, Greek, Croatian, Polish, German, and other languages. After much pushing and shouting, the newcomers were separated into groups of 30. Then the bewildered immigrant were taken to the Registry Room. It was the largest room many of them had ever seen. A maze of aisles crisscrossed the room. Long lines of people stood in these aisles waiting to be examined by doctors or questioned by immigration officers. The noise inside was a din of shouts, curses, and crying children. First came the doctors. Children over the age of two were made to walk to see if they had a limp. People were checked carefully by doctors. Each doctor held a piece of chalk. If a doctor suspected a heart problem, he would write a giant "H" on the immigrant's coat. That immigrant would then be sent to another room to wait for a more thorough exam. Other letters were chalked onto coats. "F" meant facial rash. "Sc" meant scalp infectoin. "K" meant hernia. The most dreaded letter of all was "X." That meant mental problems, and people marked with an "X" were usually sent right back where they came from. After the doctors came the questions of an immigration officer. "What kind of work do you do? Can you read and write? How much money do you have? Have you ever been in prison?" Immigration laws were confusing, and they kept changing. For example, new immigrants were told by relatives who had already been through Ellis Island to say "no" when asked if they had a job waiting. "But wouldn't it sound better if I said I had a job in the United States," the immigrant wondered. The answer was no. Having a job before entering the country broke the 1885 contract labor law passed by Congress. About one in six immigrants were kept at Ellis Island for medical or other reasons. Those held were given hearings and further medical examinations. They could remain on the island for as long as four days. Most would finally be allowed to continue, but about 2% of the people were sent back to Europe. Those who were detained on the island were given simple but filling meals, such as soup or a thick stew. -- Excerpt, "Cornerstones of Freedom, The Story of Ellis Island," R. C. Stein

The Old Songs -- "I remember as a small boy about five lying on a heap of straw on the granary floor watching Grand-dad mend holes in an old corn-sack draped across his knee with a curved packing-needle threaded with twine that smelt like turpentine. I lay there watching and listening intently as the ancient story unfolded, for the old man was singing, in a deep, resonant voice, a song he had heard from his own grandfather when he had been my age. The dog curled up beside me in the morning sunshine that slanted in through the large, open double doorway feigned sleep. Only the twitching of an ear or an occasional half-hearted attempt to wag his tail when Grand-dad's voice swelled to a higher note gave away the fact that he was alive to all that was going on." -- Bob Copper, "A Song For Every Season," 1971

This was sent to me as the list administrator to forward to the list. I'm not sure what it is all about, and I don't know this person, but if any of you would like to look at it and take the time to fill out the surveys - here it is - if not - just delete. Jan Cortez List Administrator ----- Original Message ----- From: "Kevin Meethan" <K.Meethan@plymouth.ac.uk> To: <IrelandGenWeb-admin@rootsweb.com> Sent: Tuesday, October 15, 2002 5:33 AM Subject: academic research project As well as having an interest in tracing my own family tree (from Ireland as it happens), I am also a sociologist working at the University of Plymouth in England, and I also have more academic research interests in tourism, globalisation and cultural change. It is often claimed that both access to global information and increasing travel will inevitably lead to an homogenised and 'placeless' world, yet evidence tends to suggest that rather, the internet and travel can be used to discover and reinforce a sense of identity rooted in ancestry, history and place. One of the things that immediately struck me was how people, who have probably never met face to face and may even live on different continents, were happy to exchange information and advice with each other. Of course, it was not long before the academic side of me began to ask questions such as: where are these people, what do we have in common, is it the internet that is creating this world-wide interest in genealogy, or would so many people be researching their family history without the internet? I know I would not have! It was while I was thinking over these questions, I also noticed that in the email lists I subscribed to, there were occasional communications that that mentioned travelling back to their ancestral home in order to carry out research, perhaps even to contact and meet living relatives face to face, for all the global connectivity that the internet offers, perhaps there is no substitute for the authenticity of lived experience. Or is it simply enough to know, that in this rapidly changing and globalised world, one's roots can be traced and recorded? Once more, the academic in me took hold, especially when I found out that this particular aspect of travel and tourism has never been researched. With these points in mind I am inviting people to participate in an on-line survey which aims to answer some of these questions. In particular, the aim is to establish the general features of online family history researchers, such as the kinds of research being undertaken, the length of time spent on research, and of course the actual location of researchers. Another aim is to establish the extent of travel that people undertake, if at all, when carrying out their research. Completing the survey should take no longer than 6-8 minutes, and can be accessed by clicking on this link: <http://tecex2.hs.plymouth.ac.uk/roots>If you want to check me out first, you can access my home page which also links in to the survey: <http://www.sociology.plymouth.ac.uk/~kmeethan> Finally, I would like to assure everyone that this research is academic in nature, and as such is not for profit; that all responses will be treated as confidential; that all information will be held on a secure server; and that no personal details will be passed on to any third parties. This research project also conforms to the Ethical Code of the British Sociological Association and the University of Plymouth. If you have any questions regarding the survey, or even know of any information that may be of some use, then please fell free to email me at: kmeethan@plymouth.ac.uk Dr. Kevin Meethan Senior Lecturer Department of Sociology University of Plymouth Drake Circus Plymouth PL4 8AA UK

Anne KENNEDY was a poet, writer, photographer, history buff and broadcaster. She came from Orcas Island off the coast of Washington State to live in Galway, Ireland in 1977. Ms. Kennedy died in 1998, four years after she wrote this poem. BURIAL INSTRUCTIONS I don't want to be cremated my clothes sent home in a bag, my ashes sifted from the furnace grate for my Claddagh ring and gold fillings. No, plant me, like my Grandmother's blazing dahlias in the subsuming earth, where I can be lifted, where there's a chance of resurrection. How about the hump-backed hill beyond Barna riddled with Celtic crosses, or the sun-shot meadow on Orcas facing steaming Mt. Baker. On second thought Westwood is best, beside my mother where the mocking-bird sang the night she was buried. You might know the spot because that's where they placed Marilyn's ashes, in a pale marble crypt looking across at our family plot. They say it's Joe provides the perpetual rose, but no one knows for certain. Be sure you put me in the ground, where I will have a chance to rise. -- Anne Kennedy (1994) (ref. to actress Marilyn Monroe)