THREE OLD BROTHERS While some go dancing reels and some Go stuttering love in ditches The three old brothers rise from bed, And moan, and pin their breeches; And one says, "I can sleep no more, I'd liefer far go weeping, For how should honest men lie still When brats can spoil their sleeping?" And blind Tom says, that's eighty years, "If I was ten years younger I'd take a stick and welt their rumps And gall their gamest runner!" But James the youngest cries, "Praise God, We have outlived our passion!" And by their fire of roots all three Praise God after a fashion. Says James, "I loved when I was young A lass of one and twenty That had the grace of all the queens And broke men's hearts in plenty, But now the girl's a gammy crone With no soft sides or boosom, And all the lads she kist's abed Where the fat worm chews 'em; And though she had no kiss for me, And though myself is older, And though my thighs are cold to-night, Their thighs I think are colder!" And Blind Tom says, "I knew a man A girl refused for lover Worked in America forty years And heaped copper on copper, And came back all across the foam, Dressed in his silks and satins, And watched for her from dawn to dark And when she passed him in her shawl He cracked his sides for laughing. And went back happy to the west And heeded no man's scoffing, And Christ!" moans Tom, "if I'd his luck I'd not mind cold nor coughing!" Says Patcheen then, "My lot's a lot All men on earth might envy, That saw the girl I could not get Nurse an untimely baby!" And all three say, "Dear heart! Dear heart!" And James the youngest mutters, "Praise God we have outlived our griefs And not fell foul like others, Like Paris and the Grecian chiefs And the three Ulster brothers!" -- Frank O'Connor (born 1903)

If anyone has anthing on the McCorkell's of Londonderry, let me know. Maybe we could exchange details :) MaryMc

Emigration - One of these final partings was witnessed by a writer named Harriet Martineau, "Letters from Ireland," pub. London 1852. The writer, who frowned upon grief openly expressed reacted accordingly with a peculiarily British blend of sympathy and disdain, prejudice and an assumption of moral superiority: "The last embraces were terrible to see; but worse were the kissings and the claspings of the hands during the long minutes that remained...When we saw the wringing of hands and heard the wailings, we became aware, for the first time perhaps, of the full dignity of that civilisation which induces control over the expression of emotions. All the while that this lamentation was giving (me) a headache...there could not but be a feeling that these people, thus giving vent to their instincts, were as children, and would command themselves better when they were wiser. Still, there it was, the pain and the passion: and the shrill united cry...rings in our ears, and lo! ng will ring when we hear of emigration." Another person's account of an emigrant's parting found in manuscript 1411, Irish Folklore Department, University College, Dublin: "...It was just like a big funeral..and the last parting...was indeed sad to see...The parents especially were so sad, as if the person leaving were really dead...You would rather not be there at all if you would be any way soft yourself."

BOLD PHELIM BRADY, THE BARD OF ARMAGH Oh! List to the lay of a poor Irish harper, And scorn not the strains of his old withered hand, But remember those fingers they could once move sharper To raise the merry strains of his dear native land; It was long before the shamrock our green isle's loved emblem Was crushed in its beauty 'neath the Saxon lion's paw I was called by the colleens of the village and valley Bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh. How I long for to muse on the days of my boyhood, Though four score and three years have flitted since then, Still it gives sweet reflections, as every young joy should, That merry-hearted boys could make the best of old men. At a pattern or fair I could twist my shillela Or trip through a jig with my brogues bound with straw, Whilst all the pretty maidens around me assembled Loved bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh. Although I have travelled this wide world over, Yet Erin's my home and a parent to me, Then oh, let the ground that my old bones shall cover Be cut from the soil that is trod by the free. And when sergeant death in his cold arms shall embrace me, O lull me to sleep with sweet Erin go bragh, By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife, O place me, Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh. -- Anonymous Street Ballad A pattern is a gathering at a saint's shrine or well, a festival for a patron saint; pattern is derived from patron. Shillela is apparently a stick or club, bard an exalted national poet.

BIO: At one time, Mary Higgins Clark supported her five children as a widow by writing material for radio programs. Although she had a pile of 40 rejection slips, she continued to hold out the hope of becoming a successful novelist. Ms. Clark had a dramatic change of fortune when her 1976 suspense novel, "Where Are The Children," became a bestseller. Since that time, the inherited flavor of her immigrant father from Roscommon, and her grandparents, born in Cos. Mayo and Sligo, has permeated her writing. Her family emigrated circa 1900, the family name Higgins. Raised in The Bronx, close to her future alma mater, Fordham University, Clark grew up surrounded by Irish characters. "They spoke with great lyricism and directness," she recalled. "Their style has influenced the way I developed as a writer...I know these people to their very bones." With more than 17 bestsellers to her credit by mid-1998, Clark continues to write, while delighting in the successes of her daugher, Carol, who has followed in her mother's inspiring footsteps. -- Excerpt, "The World of Hibernia," Summer 1998

BIO: Although specific details of Angela Lansbury's connection to Ireland were not revealed in "The World of Hibernia," Summer 1998 issue, it does state that the Irish family surname was MacGill. Lansbury, who was born in London to a lumber merchant and his actress-wife, Moyna MacGill, has enjoyed a long career in films to include her first film, "Gaslight" (1944), which earned her the first of three Oscar nomations. Other notable films include "The Picture of Dorian Gray" (1945), and "The Manchurian Candidate" (1962). Broadway admirers have honored this versatile lady with four Tony Awards, and her role in "Murder, She Wrote," was a rock-solid hit in the 1980s. In the late 1960s, a fire destroyed her Malibu, CA home, and Lansbury moved her family to Ireland. Although she has loved spending time in Ireland, as late as 1998, she had made her permanent home in Los Angeles. "I used to spend vacations in Ireland as a child and I love to go back," says Angela, who has enjoyed the "quiet, rural life" offered by her cottage by the sea.

BIO: Per Summer 1998 issue of "World of Hibernia" magazine, William M. Daley (then 49) was the U. S. Secretary of Commerce, beginning in 1997. Mr. Daley has a third generation connection to Ireland, his family having emigrated in the mid-1800s, their counties of origin Waterford and Cork, the family names Daley and Ghilfoyle. Having had a father like Richard J. Daley, mayor of Chicago from 1955-1976, it is not surprising that William Daley and his brothers were attracted to careers in government service. In 1998, his brother Richard had their father's old job as mayor, while John was a member of the Cook County Commissioners. William is the sibling who left the Windy City for an insider's role in Washington D.C. Having first gained national attention as the mastermind of the North American Free Trade Agreement, he is presently (1998) U. S. Secretary of Commerce. As head of the agency charged with formulating American trade policy, Daley has played an important role in! encouraging the business community to foster ties with Ireland. "Being able to visit Northern Ireland and representing the American government at this historic moment is a humbling experience," Daley confessed, clearly excited by the opportunity to contribute to a lasting peace in the homeland of his Daley ancestors, who hailed from Dungarvan, Co. Waterford.

Hello I am researching Thomas Sullivan and his father Macehal Sullivan. The date of birth I have for Thomas Sullivan is 23/8/1838. Macehal Sullivan married a Elisabeth Walsh. I recently learnt that they may be come from Cork in Ireland. I have no other information at present. Does any one know if Macehal is the Irish spelling of Michael. Any help would be most appreciated as I do not have any idea on how to proceed in tracing Irish persons. I have just started international research on my family tree. Thanks Clive Barker

Co. Clare's usual 140-square mile area called the Burren or boireann (stony place) is an intricately beautiful natural phenomenon - a moonscape in which Ice Age glaciers marched south across Galway Bay and rode up and over the Burren plateau. The ice stripped away all the weathered rock, scraped out tiers of cliffs and smooth, flat terraces on the hills, and deepened the valleys and hollows. It left a litter of boulders made of limestone and Connemara granite. When walking over a stretch of the shattered, uneven pavement, a whole slab of limestone may teeter underfoot and fall back into place with a ring like a cracked church bell, the noise echoing down through crevices, fissures and shafts until it reaches caves far underground and is lost in the cistern-sounds of flowing water. Spring gentians, mountain avens and bloody cranesbill bloom here. Notably, there are are 22 recorded kinds of orchid blossoms to be found in the Burren beginning in late April and continuing into September! Small plants thrive in the most unexpected places requiring just a bit of light, soil and water to spring forth in minature beauty. Also seen are "vanishing lakes," the grassy hollows called turloughs, which brim with water in winter and often empty entirely in summer. In the typical turlough, a rim of black moss on the encircling rocks shows the "high tide" mark. The Burren has the longest cave in Ireland, Poulnagollum, "The Cave of the Doves" with water-smoothed passages that wind for more than nine miles through the dark. Less-adventurous visitors can stroll through the caverns of Aillwee, above Ballyvaughan, with their dry walkways and spotlit stalactites. Ireland's insular history and special Atlantic climate have put together in this corner of north County Clare a bouquet of wildflowers whose mixture is ecologically unique. The famous early 20th century botanist, Robert Lloyd Praeger said, "He who has viewed the thousands of acres of arctic-alpine plants in full flower, from hilltop down to sea level has seen one of the loveliest sights Ireland has to offer." Modern-day botanist Charles Nelson describes the blue color of the spring gentian as "the darker part of the clear summer sky at sunset." Bloody cranesbill, in bloom from June to August, is a piercing magenta color enriched with anthers of turquoise blue on closer inspection. In "stony pastures," bluebells can be found, hazel copses, cushioned in mosses and tall helleborines. The trees of the Burren have curious shapes that seem perfectly suited to their unusual location. Essential to the Burren ecosystem, cows and feral goats found throughout the area graze on hazel scrub that would otherwise proliferate and overshadow more delicate wildlife. -- Excerpt, "The World of Hibernia" - Summer 1998

"At last, Christmas Eve dawned. We brought in the holly which we had collected from the wood the previous Sunday and in a short time holly branches were growing from behind every picture - everywhere but around the clock, which was my father's sanctum and could not be touched. Then the Christmas tree. Our house was surrounded by trees: my father planted them all his life and he loved every one of them. At Christmas he suffered deciding which of his little ones had to be sacrificed. A big turnip was cleaned and a hole bored in it for the candle; this was decorated with red berried holly and placed in the window. That night no blinds would be drawn so that the light would shine out to light the way for Joseph and Mary. Before supper the Christmas log was brought in and placed behind the fire in the open hearth. Banked around with sods of turf it soon sent out a glow of warmth. Our gramophone was normally kept safe in the parlour but at Christmas it took its chance in the kitchen. Every Christmas my father bought new records and we played them non-stop. Silence was restored for the news on the radio but we young ones had no interest in the news; to us there was no world outside our own. After news we all got on our knees for the rosary, something I never enjoyed usually, but on Christmas night it became real; this was the actual birthday of the baby. Before going to bed my father performed the usual ritual winding of the clock. We hung our stockings on the old-fashioned crane convenient for Santa as he came down the chimney, and then mother ushered us all off to bed, the more responsible ones with a sconce and candle. Ours was a large room with two beds and an iron cot with shiny brass railings and knobs. If the night was very cold we had a fire which cast mystic shadows along the low timber ceiling while the moon shone fingers of light across the floor. Try as I might to keep my eyes open to see Santa appear out of the shadows, I was soon carried into the world of nod and woke to the excruciating pleasure of sensing that Santa had been. The gifts in the stockings were always simple and indeed often of a very practical nature but the mystique of the whole occasion gave them an added glow. Having woken mother and father to display for them Santa's benevolence, those of us going to first Mass set out in the early dawn to walk the three miles to the church. Candles glowed from the farmhouses in the surrounding valley, making this morning very different. The lighted church welcomes us, but it was the crib rather than the Mass that was special to me, to whom these were no plaster dummies; they were the real thing. Afterwards we either walked home or got a lift from a neighbouring horse and trap. Breakfast was always of baked ham, after which the remainder of the family went into the second Mass of the day. Before leaving for Mass my mother placed the stuffed goose in a bastable over the fire with layers of hot coals on the cover. There it slowly roasted, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma. The clattering of the pony's hooves heralded the family's arrival home and finally after much ado we were all seated around the table for the Christmas dinner. Was anything ever again to taste as good? My mother's potato stuffing was in a class of its own. We finished our dinner as the King's speech began on the radio. My father had Protestant roots and always instilled in us an appreciation of things British as well as Irish. My mother listened to the Pope, my father to the King of England, and to us they were both as much a part of Christmas as Santa. Our new records were played again and again, and toys were savoured to the full until after supper exhaustion finally won the day and we dragged our small, weary feet upstairs to bed. It was all over for another year, but each year was another page in the book of childhood." -- Excerpts, "To School Through the Fields - An Irish Country Childhood," Alice Taylor, pub. circa 1988. > > ==== IrelandGenWeb Mailing List ==== > Please make sure to visit RootsWeb, our hostmaster, at http://www.rootsweb.com > >

BIO: The enormous success of "To School Through The Fields" thrust this first-time author into the limelight. Alice Taylor admits, "I was writing for myself" - to preserve the memories of childhood, chronicle the history of Lishnaeoga ("the fairy fort"), the farmhouse that her family has owned for eight generations, and to record the story of its inhabitants and their world with a clear-eyed, yet sympathetic understanding of human nature. Her work has been recognized and celebrated at the highest levels of both the Irish and American governments including then president Mary Robinson and Jean Kennedy Smith, US ambassador to Ireland. Often referred to as one of Ireland's best-loved authors, Alice Taylor is a delightful woman, witty, warm, highly capable, and full of self-deprecatory humor. Tall, slim, with white hair and dancing blue eyes, this 60+ lady takes neither herself or her success too seriously. Per Summer 1998 issue of "The World of Hibernia," she frequently mans the counters in the grocery store that he family owns and still helps to operate the town post office, which is also located in the store. Utterly unspoiled by her success, Alice typically builds her own turf fires and often concocts homemade gooseberry jam for visitors. Taylor has been married to Gabriel Murphy for about 30 years; since 1961, the couple has lived in Innishannon, a charming village about 15 miles from the city of Cork. She is the mother of five children and has helped the run a local bed-and-breakfast. In her recently published novel, "The Woman of the House," written at the bedside of her mother who had suffered a stroke, Taylor had many hours to ponder rural women's many contributions to their families and communities. Taylor, who feels that their contributions are often overlooked, wrote "to give them a voice," and to pay tribute "to the strength of women who came off the land." Her "Going to the Well," is a volume of published poems. Alice Taylor recalls the mystique of her own childhood Christmas in Co. Cork in the 1940s: "Christmas in our house was always magical and for weeks beforehand my toes would tingle at the thought of it. The first inkling of its reality was Santa's picture in the "Cork Examiner." We poured over him, loving every wrinkle in his benevolent face. At first his was a small face peering from an obscure corner, but as Christmas drw near his presence became more reassuringly felt as he filled a larger space on the page. The first step in the preparations in our home was the plucking of the geese, not only for our own family but also for all our relations. A night in early December was set aside for killing and plucking; homework has to be completed quickly after school that day and when the cows had been milked and supper finished the kitchen was cleared for the undertaking. I never witnessed the actual killing because my mother performed this ritual away from the eyes of us children, but when she brought the geese still slightly flapping and warm into the kitchen I always felt that she, who was gentle by nature, had been through some sacrificial fire which but for necessity she would have avoided. Each member of the family with arms strong enough sat on a sugan chair with a warm goose across their knee. My father, however, washed his hands of all this crazy carry-on, and after imparting a lecture about relations providing their own Christmas dinner, he set out across the fields roving to a neighbour's house where "sanity" prevailed. Strong feathers were eased off first and put into a big box and then the pure down was stowed in a smaller one. As the night wore on our arms ached and our noses itched with downy fluff, but my mother coaxed and cajoled until half a dozen geese lay starkers on the floor. With our mission accomplished we viewed each other with great merriment, our white down heads and eyebrows lending us the appearance of white-haired gnomes. We tidied everything up then and gathered with cups of cocoa around the open fire, where my father would join us with perfect timing, bringing with him the tang of night air and frost glittering on his high boots." - Excerpt, from her autobiography, "To School Through the Fields..." pub. 1988. > > ==== IrelandGenWeb Mailing List ==== > Please make sure to visit RootsWeb, our hostmaster, at http://www.rootsweb.com > >

FOREVER Those we love truly never die, Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, A ring and flowers, types of life and death, Are laid upon their graves. For death the pure life saves, And life all pure is love; and love can reach >From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach Than those by mortals read. Well blest is he who has a dear one dead: A friend he has whose face will never change -- A dear communion that will not grow strange; The anchor of a love is death. The blessed sweetness of a loving breath Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years. For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears, She's thine unto the end. Thank God for one dear friend, With face still radiant with the light of truth, Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth, Through twenty years of death. -- John Boyle O'Reilly (1844-1890)

A LONGFORD LEGEND Oh! 'Tis of a bold major a tale I'll relate, Who possessed a fine house and a charming estate, Who, when possible, always his pleasure would take >From morning till night in a boat on his lake. So a steam-launch he bought from a neighbouring peer, And learnt how to start her, to stoke, and to steer; But part of the craft he omitted to learn -- How to ease her, and to stop her, and back her astern. Well, one lovely spring morn from their moorings they cast, The furnace alight and the steam in full blast. As they cruised through the lake, oh! what pleasure was theirs! What congratulations! what swagger! what airs! "Evening's come," says the major; "let's home for the night. I'll pick up the mooring and make her all right; Whilst you, my gay stoker, your wages to earn, Just ease her, and stop her, and back her astern." "Do what?" asked the stoker, "Why, stop her, of course!" "Faith! it's aisier stopping a runaway horse! Just try it yourself!" The field officer swore! But that was no use, they were nearly on shore! He swore at himself, at the boat, and the crew; He cursed at the funnel, the boiler, and screw, But in vain! He was forced from his mooring to turn, Shouting, "Ease her, and stop her, and back her astern!" It was clear that on shore they that night would not dine, So they drank up the brandy, the whisky and wine; They finished the stew and demolished the cake As they steamed at full speed all the night round the lake. Weeks passed; and with terror and famine oppressed, One by one of that ill-fated crew sank to rest; And grim death seized the major before he could learn How to ease her, and stop her, and back her astern. And still round the lake their wild course they pursue, While the ghost of the major still swears at the crew, And the ghosts of the crew still reply in this mode, "Just ease her, and stop her yourself -- and be blowed!" Here's the moral: Imprimis, whene'er you're afloat, Don't use haughty words to your crew on your boat; And ere starting, oh! make this your deepest concern - Learn to ease her, and stop her, and back her astern. -- Anonymous

Kelly, (See Furlong query below) -- Be sure and see if your genealogy library as the Filby volumes, as Mr. Filby transcribed data from passenger lists and fragments thereof of immigrants worldwide to the Canadas and America over a great period of time ending circa early 1900s. If you are collecting surname Furlong data -- You have a "famous" person sharing the Furlong name. For your information, in the Summer 1998 issue of "The World of Hibernia," there is an article by Nicholas Furlong, a Wexford scholar and descendant of a man who traded in his farming equipment for a firearm in 1798. His paternal great-great-grandfather, also named Nicholas Furlong, left his rented farm, his wife, teenage children, and home in Rathaspeck to fight as an insurgent under the elected United Irish commander-in-chief, Bagenal Harvey. Five days later Nicholas Furlong was killed at the seize of Ross. At the Battle of New Ross, Beauchamp Bagenal Harvey, on horseback, and his men greatly outnumbered the English (20,000 to 2,000), yet they ultimately lost. Furlong was but one of the 30,000 men killed in a war in which the stakes were of world consequence, of far greater importance perhaps than the insurgents realized. At stake was the victory or destruction of England and the victory or destruction of revolutionary France, and in Ireland, it meant the victory of an equally impressive ideal, the concept of a brotherhood of the Irish as Irish instead of the sectarian tribalism's of Catholic, Protestant and Dissenter. It meant total independence for the Irish and for Ireland or, conversely, overthrow and emasculation. Such perceptions fueled the war and in a humiliated, exploited, robbed and mutilated Ireland, and now with the ringing tones of Thomas Paine's (one of America's founding fathers for equality and religious freedom) "Rights of Man" in every available ear, the resort to arms by ordinary people became contagious. It was an easy matter to nourish the soil of revolt. The reason that Ireland was so hotly contested is because it was of great strategic importance to both the English and the French. Suddenly Ireland was no longer a pleasant island of indigenous culture and ancient language on the fringe of the known Western World. It was a secure and rich outpost situated on the direct seat route to North America, hundreds of miles farther out in the Atlantic than the home ports of England or France. Whoever controlled Ireland controlled the North Atlantic. The author wondered why did his Furlong antecedent obtained a weapon of death and marched from a settled civilian life to war. Was it to get back lands from which Cromwell had expelled his grandparents? Was he a convinced United Irishman? Was he an admirer of the gentle Protestant United Irish landlord, Cornelius Grogan of Johnstown Castle? Was he a victim of the economic catastrophe that had devastated Wexford farming in 1797? The private family account that had been handed down tells of the rage of the "innocent" local men at the retreating Wexford troops, who set fire the thatched houses on their escape route and shot civilians on sight. For that, we were told, the menfolk in fury marched. However, on the discovery and publication of Loyalist Elizabeth Richards' diaries and the Jane Adams dairies, it was clear that there was an active-service United Irish unit with three named officers of captain rank in the parish. Per the author, Patrick Furlong, the teenage son of the killed insurgent, Nicholas of Rathaspeck, became head of the family and chief breadwinner. He married a neighbor's daughter almost immediately, and in 1800 their first son, Nicholas, was born. Today their descendants survive, and hopefully continue to prosper in a wide swath that extends from the parish of their antecedents in Wexford across the world to Perth in western Australia and Vancouver, on the north Pacific coast of Canada. The author also identifies that his maternal grandfather, John Kinsella, was born in Co. Wexford in 1845, within a couple miles of Bunclody. He was reared among survivors, witnesses and participants of that battle. On June 1, 1798, Bunclody (or Newtownbarry, as it was known then) was the site of a remarkable feat of arms for the untrained Irish insurgents. The occupying English forces were driven out and joyful celebrations ensued, but when the Crown forces, under the command of Col. Henry L'Estrange, discovered that they were not being pursued, they halted, turned their cannon around, and from the hill road raked the packed town square and main street. The losses among the insurgents numbered in the hundreds; the wounded among the fighting men and civilians alike. In the mountain-rimmed countryside, this completely unprecedented massacre, in which capture and recapture in an effulgence of blood and fire occurred on the one day, scarred the memory of minds of all participants and witnesses. Not one solitary word of the event or related business was passed on by his Kinsella grandfather; down to his death in the early part of the 20th century, the topic was strictly taboo in his presence. Not one iota of information could be extracted from his eldest surviving daughter, Lena, who lived to the age of 93. This terrible silence about this period reflects "the horrible blank in folk memory," Life, work, survival with head down and shut mouth were the order of the day when the patriots were worsted in the game and when eviction at a landlord's whim thrived even up to the 1880s. The 1798 Rebellion introduced total and vicious war to Ireland to such a degree that, in the major areas of conflict, the memory, the legends, and the private family accounts still sear the consciousness, and the descendants of the revolutionaries regard them with affection and pride. Worsted in the game, certainly, but what a performance by a proud and humiliated people! In that year intellectual, enterprising heroes, Protestant and Catholic alike, joined in this fresh, liberating dream for human rights and self-respect. Were it not for 1798, with its bravery, accomplishment and awfulness, such inspirational giants as Edward Roche, Beauchamp Bagenal Harvey, Henry Joy McCracken, Michael Dwyer, Frt. John Murphy, Thomas Clone, Matthew Furlong, Cornelius Grogan, John Kelly of Killanne, Fr. Philip Roche, Miles Byrne, and others would never have entered the state of Irish, European, and world history from rustic obscurity. The very same may be said of the women. It was the widows, the mothers, and the sisters who saved Ireland after defiance was reduced to debacle. The farms, the businesses and the bread-on-the table demands stimulated their courageous contributions when normal life's battles had to be resumed. -- Excerpts, "The World of Hibernia," Summer 1998 ----- Original Message ----- From: "Kelly Furlong" <kelly@celticrevival.org> To: <IRELAND-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Monday, December 24, 2001 10:35 AM Subject: [IRELAND] Irish Immigrants to Canada Lookup > Somewhere before 1857 when my Joseph T Furlong was born in Newfoundland, > his father, Thomas J Furlong arrived there. > > And, sometime before 1813 but probably after 1799, James Kavanagh arrived > in Newfoundland. > > Could the sks who has that CD take a look see for these ancestors? > > thanks, > kelly > >

Thanks to everyone who answered my call for help on postal address's to Co Cork,what a wonderful and helpful group you all are, Seasons Greetings all the best in 2002, Carole in Canada.

BIO: At her funeral at Mount Olive, IL, it was said of Mary Harris ("Mother Jones"), "She had a small frail body but a great and indomnitable spirit. She was relatively uneducated, but she had a flaming tongue. She was poor, but she had a great blazing love for the poor, the down-trodden, and the oppressed. She was without influence but she had a mother's heart, great enough to embrace the weak and defenseless babes of the world." Mary was born in the city of Cork. Her people were poor. For generations they had fought for Ireland's freedom and many died in that struggle. Her parents, Richard Harris and Ellen Cotter married in Inchigeelagh, Co. Cork on 9 Feb 1834. At that time, per Mary, it was customary for weddings to take place in the bride's home parish. Inchigeelagh was a poor, small village consisting of about a dozen buildings; her father had kin in that parish, but he was from the city of Cork, about 30 miles to the east. Richard and Mary baptized their second-born child, Mary, at St. Mary's Cathedral in Cork on 01 Aug 1837. Mary's older brother, Richard (born 1835) was baptized in Inchigeelagh, but her siblings all began life in the city - Catherine in 1840, Ellen in 1845, and William in 1846. So for more than a generation, the Harrises and the Cotters moved between Cork and Inchigeelagh. Clearly, their roots ran deep in rural soil, but by the time Mary was born in 1837, the family ha! d moved to the city. The river Lee and a good carriage road connected Cork to Inchigeelagh. Her father was to emigrate to America, and as soon as he had become a citizen he sent for his family. Per Mary, 6,000 people, almost all Roman Catholic, had lived in the remote, 6 x 9 mile parish back in Co. Cork. Folk memory recalled great families like the O'Learys, who in better times built imposing castles. But ownership of most of the land had long since passed into English and Protestant hands. Those Cotters and Harrises of Inchigeelagh who retained enough land to be assessed held modest, mostly rented plots. In the U.S. Mary was to become a dressmaker and a teacher. She lived in places to include Monroe MI, Chicago, IL and Memphis, TN. She was married to George E. Jones, in Memphis, I believe, in 1861. George worked in a factory, Union Iron Works and Machine Shop, and was a member of the Iron Molders Union. Her nickname, "Mother Jones," was to become a "household word" in the United States. Mary was extremely outspoken on the rights of workers and poor people, and many fine biographies have been written about her including the recent "Mother Jones, The Most Dangerous Woman In America," by Elliott J. Gorn. Mary died in Prince George's Co., MD, at an advanced age. In the weeks prior, when Lillie May Burgess had attempted to pin a corsage on her, Mother Jones snapped, "Hell, I never have worn those and I don't want one now." She was delighted with her party but it was to be her last public appearance. She said, "I've done the best I could to make the world a better place for poor, hardworking people." On that occasion she recalled that one of her goals had been to help "defend miners against leaders who are thinking more of themselves than they are of my boys."

BIO: Per "The World of Hibernia," Summer 1998, Patrick J. Leahy (then 58), a U. S. Senator from VT beginning in 1974, has a 4th generation connection to Ireland. His family's counties of origins are Cork and Limerick, from which they emigrated in the 1850s. His family names are Leahy, O'Donohue, Holland and Connam. Senator Leahy has a passion for technology, which has earned him the nickname of "CyberSenator" on Capitol Hill. Leahy has not lost sight of the down-home friendliness for which Vermonters are famous, and he attributes his affable nature to the example set for him by his parents. "My grandfather, Patrick J. Leahy, was a stonecutter in VT. He died when my father was still a teenager, leaving my dad to support the family. Dad became a self-taught historian, a leading member of the Vermont business community, and through a lifetime of anonymous charitable giving, helped to protect the families of many people in the community. He and my mother gave me a sens! e that one must do more for our community and country that the other way around." A fitting set of beliefs, coming from a Senator whose home state is best known for country inns, maple syrup, and old-fashioned hospitality.

BIO: Per Summer 1998 issue of "The World of Hibernia," successful journalist and author Pete Hamill (then 62) has a 1st generation connection to Ireland, his family's county of origin Antrim, his family names Hamill and Devlin. To that time, Hamill had written three novels and a memoir including "Snow in August" (1997), and "A Drinking Life" (1994). He has been an editor at different points in his career for "The New York Post" and "The New York Daily News." Although the famed Brrooklynite is considered by many to be the quintessential New Yorker, Hamill, the son of Belfast parents, is never far from his Irish heritage. :For an American also to identify himself as Irish is to embrace a link to an imagined past and the culture that is woven in that past," said Hamill. Visits to Ireland seem to have tapped what Hamill calls "his pagan template," an imagination that comes out when beckoned by "...certain kinds of music or the sight of Irish landscapes. Or while reading ! the magical tales of Irish mythology." A child of the Great Depression in the USA, Hamill is certain that seeing the country survive its toughest economic test fashioned his incurably optimistic outlook on life.

BIO: Per Summer 1998 issue of "The World of Hibernia," Patrick McGovern (then 60) was founder and chairman of International Data Group. His publishing, exposition, and market research empire consists of 185 technology-oriented magazines in 75 countries. He has a second-generation connection to Ireland, his family having emigrated in 1890, their county of origin Cavan, his family names McGovern and O'Malley. From computer whiz kid to corporate genius, Patrick is a self-made man who jumped on the computer services bandwagon when the market was still "ripe for picking." His "....For Dummies" series of books take complex subjects and explain them in simple language. Building a business from the ground up is a McGovern family tradition. Both his County Cavan-born grandfather and his namesake uncle were contractors. A selfless, self-made man, Pat McGovern combines his Boston business savvy with a spirit for adventure which he attributes to rumored ancestor Gracie O'Malle! y, the pirate queen of Ireland.

THE BALLAD OF BEFANA An Epiphany Legend Befana the Housewife, scrubbing her pane, Saw three old sages ride down the lane, Saw three gray travelers pass her door -- Gaspar, Balthazar, Melchior. "Where journey you, sirs?" she asked of them. Balthazar answered, "To Bethlehem, For we have news of a marvelous thing. Born in a stable is Christ the King." "Give Him my welcome!" Then Gaspar smiled, "Come with us, mistress, to greet the Child." "Oh, happily, happily would I fare, Were my dusting through and I'd polished the stair." Old Melchior leaned on his saddle horn. "Then send but a gift to the small Newborn." "Oh, gladly, gladly I'd send him one, Were the hearthstone swept and my weaving done. As soon as ever I've baked my bread, I'll fetch Him a pillow for His head, And a coverlet too," Befana said. "When the rooms are aired and the linen dry, I'll look at the Babe." But the Three rode by. She worked for a day and a night and a day, Then, gifts in her hands, took up her way. But she never could find where the Christ Child lay. And still she wanders at Christmastide, Houseless, whose house was all her pride, Whose heart was tardy, whose gifts were late; Wanders, and knocks at every gate, Crying, "Good people, the bells begin! Put off your toiling and let love in." -- Phyllis McGinley