Valentin Iremonger was born in Dublin, 1918, educated at Synge Street Christian Brothers' School, Colaiste Mhuire and the Abbey Theatre School of Acting. Actor and producer at Abbey and Gate theatres, 1940-6. He wrote a small number of impressive lyrics in his late 20s and very little thereafter. Entered Irish diplomatic service, 1946. Over the next approximately 20 years he was Ambassador to Sweden, Norway, Finland, India, Luxembourg and Portugal. He was poetry editor of "Envoy," 1949-51. Co-edited "Contemporary Irish Poetry" (1949) with Robert Greacen, and translated "The Hard Road to Klondike" and "An Irish Navvy, the Diary of an Exile" in the early 1960s. Iremonger died in 1991. THIS HOURE HER VIGILL Elizabeth, frigidly stretched, On a spring day surprised us With her starched dignity and the quietness Of her hands clasping a black cross. With book and candle and holy water dish She received us in the room with the blind down. Her eyes were peculiarly closed and we knelt shyly Noticing the blot of her hair on the white pillow. We met that evening by the crumbling wall In the field behind the house where I lived And talked it over, but could find no reason Whey she had left us whom she had liked so much. Death, yes, we understood: something to do With age and decay, decrepit bodies; But here was this vigorous one, aloof and prim. Who would not answer our furtive whispers. Next morning, hearing the priest call her name, I fled outside, being full of certainty, And cried my seven years against the church's stone wall. For eighteen years I did not speak her name. Until this autumn day when, in a gale, A sapling fell outside my window, its branches Rebelliously blotting the lawn's green. Suddenly, I thought Of Elizabeth, frigidly stretched. -- Valentin Iremonger

This was transcribed and posted to the Brooklyn, New York list but thought it such a sad and touching tale that I had to share. Margaret BROOKLYN UNION ARGUS Monday, 24 September 1877 LONG WATCH ENDED Death of the Twelve o'Clock Man - A History of His Curious Hallucination The poor, demented Twelve o'Clock Man who for so many years haunted City Hall died yesterday in the home of his sister in Warren street, near Washington avenue. His name was Thomas CONNORS. He was born in Westmeath County, Ireland, about fifty years ago, and came to this country in his early boyhood. About ten years ago he was first noticed clinging to the iron railing in front of City Hall at noon, intently watching the face of the great clock in the tower. He was dressed very shabbily, and a black, stubby beard covered his face. He spoke to no one, and refused always to answer any person who spoke to him. As soon as the bell began to strike twelve, he habitually drew himself up to his full height, standing on the stone base of the iron fence, clinging to the rail and throwing his body back as far as his arms would permit, he would remain motionless until the last stroke of the bell ceased to echo, and then stepping down he would shamble off with a sad expression of face, as though disappointed at not meeting some one he had expected to come. He repeated this day after day, in all kinds of weather and soon earned the title of the "Twelve o'Clock Man." He was one of the curiosities of Brooklyn in the first years that he began to visit the hall, but as time passed he received just no more than a sympathetic glance from those who passed him. The small boys who at first annoyed him ceased their jibes on finding that he did not grow angry or in any way show resentment. He went to his post daily, walking with his head down, his body bent forward, his hands thrust into his pantaloon pockets, and his feet dragging heavily along. The expression of sad anxiety onhis face was one rarely seen outside the walls of an asylum for the insane. The lines of his face indicated acute mental suffering, and his manner was that of a man crushed by the weight of sorrow. CONCERNING HIS HISTORY nothing could be learned from CONNORS himself, but a story gained credence that he had been induced to loan $4,000 to a lawyer, who promised to meet him the next day at City Hall at noon, and pay him back his money. CONNORS, it was said, was then sane, but the disappointment turned his brain, and he came each day vainly expecting to meet his debtor and receive his money. Investigation showed that he was never the owner of so large a sum as $4,000, and that he had been a weak-minded Irish boy, whose brain was turned when he reached manhood with the hallucination that a man was to meet him at twelve o'clock at City Hall and pay him money. He was followed one day and traced to a small house in a sparsely settled part of the city, known as Darby's Paten, where he lived with his sister who raised pigs, geese and goats for a living. COONORS earned a little money now and then by sawing wood, putting in coal and doing light chores, but he could never be induced to do any work until after he had been to the Hall and heard the clock strike twelve. He was as uncommunicative to his sister about his troubles as to every one else, and when she tried to talk him out of his apparent belief, he always answered: "He told me to come at twelve o'clock and he said he'd be there." After some time he changed his position going nearer to the City Hall, and at length he was to be found every day leaning against one of the great marble pillars in the portico. He was known to all the officials of the city for the last ten years. Frequently the politicians offered him money, but he uniformly declined to accept charity. He was never known to take alms from anyone. Keeper Patrick TORMEY was more familiar with him than any one else around the City Hall. One Sunday when COONORS came to the Hall Mr. TORMEY told him that no one would be there that day, and CONNORS said: "Yes, but he told me to come at twelve o'clock." Again, when TORMEY passed one chilly morning he said: "Tom, it's cold." "Yes," said CONNORS, "it's cold," drawing his shoulders up and pulling a threadbare coat closer to him. He seemed uneasy when spoken to, but as he never caused any disturbance he was permitted for ten years to follow out his hallucination. CONNORS WAS MISSED from his accustomed haunt about three years ago, and his obituary was published at length in the newspapers, but a few days afterward he turned up again to hear the bell strike twelve. He had been ill, and he hurried back to his post so soon that he had a relapse and missed many more days of watching. From that time his health steadily declined. He grew rapidly feebler and more emaciated during the past years. Constant exposure gave him rheumatic pains and he climbed the steps of the Hall with difficulty. He face bore a sadder expression in the last days when he was seen about the Hall, and he seemed as he went away about to burst into tears. Five weeks ago he was missed again from his accustomed place, and he lay sick in his sister's home until he died yesterday morning, at 7 o'clock, without the attendance of a physician. The Coroner was summoned to hold an inquest, and last night a wake was held over the remains. A picture of the Twelve o'Clock Man swinging back from the iron fence, listening to the sound of the noonday clock, was painted in oil by Prof. Ferd. T. BOYLE, as was a companion picture of him grasping the iron pickets and peering through the fence. The pictures hung for several years on the parlor walls of the Faust Club. Two years ago, J. J. MCCLOSKEY, the actor, wrote a play entitled, "The Twelve o'Clock Man, "representing the odd life of CONNORS. It played for a short time in the Park Theatre.