BIO: Beneath the warm smile and sparkle in her eyes lies a tremendous drive to excel - both in her vocation as a member of the Sisters of Charity of Saint Elizabeth and as an educator of inner-city children. Her parents, John McDermott and Delia Regan emigrated to America in the mid-1920s but returned to Ireland after their marriage in 1931. The young couple settled in Co. Roscommon, where they gave birth to two children, Jack and Maeve. They re-emigrated to the U.S. in 1934, where they brought two more children, Joe and Ed, into the world. Sister Maeve's county of origin, then, is Roscommon, and her Irish family names include Regan, McDermott, Deignan and Creaton. Sister says she received the blessing of energy from her late father, "which flowed from two loyal hearts - the heart of Ireland, and the heart of the United States." From her mother, she received "the gift of open-hearted hospitality." The McDermotts are a deeply religious family, and both Maeve and her br! other Jack entered the religious life, he presently (1998) serving as pastor of a parish in northern New Jersey. Sister Maeve's work as co-principal of Saint Patrick's and Assumption/All Saints grammar schools in Jersey City, N.J., is legendary. With her encouragement and vision, the inner-city students at these schools are achieving graduation rates and over-all accomplishments that are a model for similar schools around the country. Her clear, straightforward, and unwavering faith combined with a big heart has ensured that a warm "Cead Mile Failte" is exended to all who pass her way. -- Excerpt, "The World of Hibernia" (Summer/1998)

BIO: Connie Mack, a U. S. Senator, Florida, beginning in 1991, states: The Irish know how to weather hard times. Our stories show our love of life, of music, of dance, and of God. The Irish are a beautiful people." Boyish-looking at 57 (1998), Florida Senator Connie Mack is a 3rd generation Irish-American, his family having originated in 1846 from Co. Kerry, the family surname McGillicuddy -- his own given name was Cornelius McGillicuddy III. His kind-hearted nature combined with the story of his inspirational bout with cancer has clearly endeared him to his constituency. Mack's grandfather (also named Connie Mack) was a baseball pioneer, a pitcher who went on to own and manage the Philadelphia Athletics for 50 years. Reaching further back into their history, the Macks apparently trace their lineage to Oilill Olum, King of Munster, whose reign ended in 234 A. D. Mack's personal battle has been with cancer. Both he and his wife, Priscilla, have fought this dreaded d! isease, emerging with strong views on the importance of federally funded medical research. With his infectious "grin," Connie Mack was once voted among the 20 most popular elected officals in the nation. -- Excerpt, "The World Of Hibernia" (Summer, 1998)

BIO: Carolyn McCarthy, U. S. Congresswoman, NY, beginning in 1996, has a 3rd generation connection to Ireland. Her family emigrated in 1890, their county of origin was Cork. Her family's surname was Carey. It has been said that the greatest crusaders for justice are born from tragedy. And thus Carolyn McCarthy, a nurse for three decades, was transformed into a political activist. On Dec. 7, 1993, her son, Kevin, and husband, Dennis, were gunned down as they rode home from work on a packed commuter train. Among those killed in the incident was Dennis, while her son suffered serious injuries, some of them permanent. In the face of this horror rose Mrs. McCarthy's inner strength, which propelled her to Congress three years after the shooting. She credits her Irish background with giving her the ability to continue. "I am extremely proud of my Irish roots. We are a people who have not only coped with life's adversities, but triumphed over them. In a way, my story is! not different from the hundreds of thousands of Irish-Americans who came before me." Having come to Washington a political neophyte, McCarthy brings a much-needed outsider's perspective to Congress. Yet, despite her relative newcomer status, she has made it very clear that when McCarthy "gets her Irish up" - look out! -- Excerpt, "The World of Hibernia" (Summer/1998)

FAIRY SONG from The Land Of Heart's Desire The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart And the lonely of heart is withered away, While the faeries dance in a place apart, Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue; But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, "When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, The lonely of heart is withered away!" -- William Butler Yeats

ON A LONELY SPRAY Under a lonely sky a lonely tree Is beautiful. All that is loneliness Is beautiful. A feather lost at sea; A staring owl; a moth; a yellow tress Of seaweed on a rock, is beautiful. The night-lit moon, wide-wandering in sky; A blue-bright spark, where ne'er a cloud is up; A wing, where no wing is, it is so high; A bee in winter, or a buttercup, Late-blown, are lonely, and are beautiful. She, whom you saw but once, and saw no more; That he, who startled you, and went away; The eye that watched you from a cottage door; The first leaf, and the last; the break of day; The mouse, the cuckoo, and the cloud, are beautiful. For all that is, is lonely; all that may Will be as lonely as is that you see; The lonely heart sings on a lonely spray, The lonely soul swings lonely in the sea, And all that loneliness is beautiful. All, all alone, and all without a part Is beautiful, for beauty is all where; Where is an eye is beauty, where an heart Is beauty, brooding out, on empty air, All that is lonely and is beautiful. -- James Stephens (born 1882)

WISHES FOR WILLIAM These things I wish you for our friendship's sake -- A sunburnt thatch, a door to face the sun At westering, the noise of homing rooks; A kind, old lazy chair, a courtly cat To rub against your knees; Shelves of well-chosen books; I wish you these. I wish you friends whose wisdom makes them kind, Well-leisured friends to share your evening's peace, Friends who can season knowledge with a laugh; A hedge of lavender, a patch of thyme, With sage and marjoram and rosemary, A damask rosebush and a hive of bees, And cabbages that hold the morning dew, A blackbird in the orchard boughs - all these, And -- God bless you. Children, no matter whose, to watch for you With flower faces at your garden gate, And one to watch the clock with eager eyes, Saying: "He's late -- he's late." -- Winifred M. Letts (born 1882)

THE WOMAN WITH CHILD How I am held within a tranquil shell, As if I too were close within a womb. I too enfolded as I fold the child. As the tight bud enwraps the pleated leaf, The blossom furled like an enfolded fan, So life enfold me as I fold my flower. As water lies within a lovely bowl, I lie within my life, and life again Lies folded fast within my living cell. The apple waxes at the blossom's root, And like the moon I mellow to the round Full circle of my being, till I too Am ripe with living and my fruit is grown, Then break the shell of life. We shall be born, My child and I, together, to the sun. -- Freda Laughton (born 1907) Dedicated to all parents who have lost a child, who can look forward to the promised reunion with those departed and of eternal life - Jean

Came across an interesting meaning to a name that is found in different locations in Ireland. There are several in County Derry. Tamlaght - burial place usually for plague victims Thought the meaning of the word held some interesting history. My husband is from Croatia. Inside his parish church there is a burial slab on one of the side altars - it states not to open the grave because victims of the Black Plauge are buried there. Slan go foill, Margaret (Mairead)

Irish Tinkers: "This is how I makes a cup if yer want to know how's the thing done. I sits with the anvil like a saddle between me legs. I just pick up my hammer or a stick that says to me it is going to make a right hammer, and I just hit the tin plate just straight between the eyes that's looking back at me in the mirror of me soul, and I just put together the edges of the tin to make me a handle first, and when I have the two edges bent straight in a line I hit the shape into a ladle and leave it aside me. Then I take up me snips and snip out the cup and with a clean tinwhistle you could see the snips takin' all of the tin in. Then I cuts me the circle, the brim, and I get me the rivets aside me, and I put it together with rivets or I can solder in the fire if the fire is lazy and the solder is right. It's the cleanest trade is the tin. But cleaner still sweeping, and you can clean the sky of sparrows with my little brushes..." "I just combed her hair and said there now child go off and play and patted her head with the sides of the comb to make her fine. I always plaited her hair that time in the morning and then she went out playing somewhere, I don't know where; & that morning they found the where, in the long plaited grasses by the river where she was drowned, may God rest her soul, and I never saw the place before because we never went swimming, until we went swimming that day for to get her little body out and I had a pot of stew hanging on the fire waiting ready hot for to give her. I threw it out on the grass rather than give it - my dead, my dear, dead, daughter. My young son came running in and he says to me, She's stuck, she's stuck, God help her! He was so young he didn't know what had happened. He didn't know she was dead. Oh, my poor dear dead daughter, may God rest her! I hurled myself at her grave. I wrecked myself. I drank myself. I threw white paint and ashes at me mouth! . I didn't want to live after and I swore I'd have no more children after. But I got ten children now, God bless them all, but it's not the same as my Bridget, may God rest her!" -- Excerpts of conversations, "Irish Tinkers," Wiedel & O'Fearadhaigh

More Voices of Tinkers: "Well, now I don't gossip about no one just in case the wind is shifty like a weasel or the lake is round like a hollow ear. My ears burn never 'cause to tell you the truth if you know what I mean I like being respected." "I see no harm in letting the children do for themselves with a little bit of education, but if it's all the same to you, they gets a fair amount of that at home with all they have to do -- shouting for the horses in the morning and calling for their dogs in the field and they do knows how to tie a rope to more than a little dog, and how to skin a cat; they knows how to catch a fish in the river with a piece of grass, how to throw a whistling sound to the colt, a whistling coat to the foxes and how to take a chicken from the jaws of a stoat, & 'tis no mean education they gets out of the hammering of tin and the hammering of their mother's voice on their little animal ears..." "Schools can fix children in a bad way you know. It's better you'd keep them out of it betimes. Some of them treats their children terrible. They don't give them what they want in the line of nourishment or contentment..." "We're queer ways travelling people. One night we'll stay and one night we'll not and we'll have the whole camp gone up and thrown into a cart, cocks and roosters and goats and all the crockery and the kettle bar and all your belongings heaped together in a heap on the back of the cart." -- Excerpts of conversation, "Irish Tinkers," Wiedel & O'Fearadhaigh

EARLY THOUGHTS Oh gather the thoughts of your early years, Gather them as they flow, For all unmarked in those thoughts appears The path where you soon must go. Full many a dream will wither away, And Springtide hues are brief, But the lines are there of the autumn day, Like the skeleton in the leaf. The husbandman knowns not the worth of his seed Until the flower be sprung, And only in age can we rightly read The thoughts that we thought when young. -- William Edward Hartpole Lecky (1838-1903)

HERRINGS Be not sparing Leave off swearing. Buy my herring Fresh from Malahide, Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. Come, sixpence a dozen, to get me some bread, Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. -- Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)

Voices of Irish Tinkers: "If you ask: What's the time? do you have the time?, people do be vexed and they stare at you with their calculations as if you were riding about in a painted dream on the old horse & cart. We have black teeth but we dream just the same as the people that live in houses. Just to be born on the side of the road is to go down in disrepect. I know a man went down in Australia and he came back in Ireland as a tinker but they still had no respect for him..." "When I was small and went for water up the ditch where my Mammy sent me I saw the houses, standing up high over the hills and trees, some of them. I often thought betimes to meself I wonder why we're sitting outside waiting for to go inside. Mammy brought me inside houses with her when she went every Thursday . Sometimes they'd sprinkle holy water on us and sometimes they'd harm us with a few hard knocks and curse us passing..." "Betimes it do be peaceful on the road. I get a queer feeling when I do hear the goats scratching on the bark of the trees and they hop around in the branches and they rock the caravan of an evening & I lean out & tell them get off heifer, get off rooster, get off, get off, and don't be rocking the old caravan. The wind does have the best job in doing that. There's no need for you to scratch me ears out with your midnight goings on." -- Excerpts of conversation from " Irish Tinkers," Wiedel & O'Fearadhaigh

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)

Hi Jean and list. The Thomas Moore poem, " Believe Me, If All Those Enduring Young Charms" was sung by John McDermott in the initial Irish Tenors concert in Dublin about three years ago. The concert is available on tapes, CD's and videos. Mc Dermott did a wonderful job. Its too bad that there can't be room for a fourth in the trio. I'd be willing to endure a four-headed Irish Trio. Regards, Tom O'Hare

THREE CHILDREN NEAR CLONMEL I met three children on the road -- The hawthorn trees were sweet with rain The hills had drawn their white blinds down -- Three children on the road from town. Their wealthy eyes in splendour mocked Their faded rags and bare wet feet, The King had sent his daughters out To play at peasants in the street. I could not see the palace walls; The avenues were dumb with mist; Perhaps a queen would watch and weep For lips that she had borne and kissed -- And lost about the lonely world, With treasury of hair and eye The tigers of the world would spring, The merchants of the world would buy. And one will sell her eyes for gold, And one will barter them for bread, And one will watch their glory fade Beside the looking-glass unwed. A hundred years will softly pass, Yet on the Tipperary hills The shadows of a king and queen Will darken on the daffodils. -- Eileen Shanahan (born 1901)

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)

DISPOSSESSED POET I am from Ireland, The sad country, Born, as can be proved, In her chief city. When I was a child, I heard much slander Touching her, from goose And hissing gander. When I was a youth, A war sent me Two seas off from her, In longing twenty. It was there I found A taste for roaming, As in summers hot Bees do for swarming. No land sees me now Five moons or longer, Even she who reared Proves little stronger. I have lost her speech; Her men would count me Stranger if I spoke, Not of their country. I have lost her ways, Her thought, her murmur; I have lost all But my love for her. -- Monk Gibbon (born 1896)

TINKER'S MOON Four children on a rumbling cart, A woman trudging beside that load, A lank man leaving the horse to guide A wet road; a dry road: A gravelly road that a woman shall walk And a lank man leave the horse to guide; The tinker's children take their chance, and bide. A lane leads on to one more lane, An uphill to one more hill; A potato patch to thin on the way, a hen to kill, And hunger again: and sleep again: And a moonlight flit while the salmon leaps >From a smouldering spot by the riverside; The tinker's children take their chance, and bide. When Wicklow woods first seemed to wait, As still they wait tonight; I heard that creaking, rumbling cart. And stars the same were out. When you gave pennies to the youngest child, A silent child: a tawny child: The tinker's children meekly are, and mild. And still I hear strange woods among Whenver a creaking cart goes down; The singsong twang of the bawneen man: "Thank you my lady, thank you my lady." As when you gave the child a penny. I heard it in an Irish voice to-day, And saw again though long gone by Four children on a rumbling cart, A woman trudging beside that load, A lank man leaving the horse to guide A wet road: a dry road: A gravelly road for a moonlight flit >From a smouldering spot by the riverside; I saw the stony, rocky road where the tinker's children bide. -- Ewart Milne (born 1903)

THE LEPRAHAUN In a shady nook one moonlit night, A leprahaun I spied In scarlet coat and cap of green, A cruiskeen by his side. 'Twas tick, tack, tick, his hammer went, Upon a weeny shoe, And I laughed to think of a purse of gold, But the fairy was laughing too. With tip-toe step and beating heart, Quite softly I drew nigh. There was mischief in his merry face, A twinkle in his eye; He hammered and sang with tiny voice, And sipped the mountain dew; Oh! I laughed to think he was caught at last, But the fairy was laughing too. As quick as thought I grasped the elf, "Your fairy purse," I cried. "My purse?" said he, "'tis in her hand, That lady by your side." I turned to look, the elf was off, And what was I to do? Oh! I laughed to think what a fool I'd been, And, the fairy was laughing too. -- Robert Dwyer Joyce (1830-1883)