Here's another poem that mentions the whin, I Shall Not Go to Heaven When I Die, by Ireland's Helen Waddell. Not much of a hook to hang a hat on, but any excuse to air this fine poem. I Shall Not Go To Heaven When I Die I shall not go to heaven when I die, But if they let me be, I think I'll take a road I used to know That goes by Shere-na-garagh and the sea, And all day breasting me the winds will blow, And I'll hear nothing but the peewits' cry And the waves talking in the sea below. I think it will be winter when I die, For no one from the North could die in Spring-- And so the heather will be green and grey; And the bog-cotton will have blown away, And there will be no yellow on the whin. But I shall smell the peat, And when it's almost dark I'll set my feet Where a white track goes glimmering to the hills, And see far up a light-- Do you think heaven could be so small a thing As a lit window on the hills at night?-- And come in stumbling from the gloom, Half-blind, into a firelit room, Turn, and see you. And there abide. It it were true, And if I thought that they would let me be, I almost wish it were tonight I died. **************One site keeps you connected to all your email: AOL Mail, Gmail, and Yahoo Mail. Try it now. (http://www.aol.com/?optin=new-dp&icid=aolcom40vanity&ncid=emlcntaolcom00000025)

Jack - That is lovely, haven't heard it before, thanks for sharing. (I understand that the little stone-chat bird can be found in gorse bushes - its call reminiscent of two stones clicking together.) Helen Jane WADDELL, daughter of the Rev. Hugh WADDELL of Co Down, Ireland, was a very gifted medieval scholar, translator, teacher, assistant editor and novelist. Born in Tokyo to Presbyterian missionary parents in 1889, she was the youngest of ten children. She wrote bible stories for children, patriotic poems and served as Air Raid warden in WWII London, her own house being bombed. She died in 1965 in London and was buried in Magherally churchyard, County Down. Jean ----- Original Message ----- From: <JackLangton@aol.com> To: <IRISH-AMERICAN-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Wednesday, December 17, 2008 10:11 AM Subject: Re: [IRISH-AMER] "Whinlands" - Derry's Seamus HEANEY (contemp.) > Here's another poem that mentions the whin, I Shall Not Go to Heaven When > I > Die, by Ireland's Helen Waddell. Not much of a hook to hang a hat on, but > any > excuse to air this fine poem. > > I Shall Not Go To Heaven When I Die > > I shall not go to heaven when I die, > But if they let me be, > I think I'll take a road I used to know > That goes by Shere-na-garagh and the sea, > And all day breasting me the winds will blow, > And I'll hear nothing but the peewits' cry > And the waves talking in the sea below. > > I think it will be winter when I die, > For no one from the North could die in Spring-- > And so the heather will be green and grey; > And the bog-cotton will have blown away, > And there will be no yellow on the whin. > > But I shall smell the peat, > And when it's almost dark I'll set my feet > Where a white track goes glimmering to the hills, > And see far up a light-- > Do you think heaven could be so small a thing > As a lit window on the hills at night?-- > And come in stumbling from the gloom, > Half-blind, into a firelit room, > Turn, and see you. > And there abide. > > It it were true, > And if I thought that they would let me be, > I almost wish it were tonight I died. >