REVIEW: "Cesca's Diary 1913-1916 Where Art and Nationalism Meet," by Hilary PYLE (The Woodfield Press ISBN 0-9534293-7-7, p/b, 45 euros). "She died aged 27, in the great influenza epidemic on October 30th 1918, having married Diarmuid COFFEY that April. Known as Sadhbh TRINSEACH, though christened as Frances Chenevix TRENCH, she learned Irish in the Gaelic League like her sisters and wore her own design of Irish dress, and joined Cumann na mBan - remaining on the most affectionate terms with her brothers who joined the British Army that same year, 1914! She was a prolific artist in oil and pastel of original and commercially reproduced drawings, as well as designing pageants and painting murals. On Easter Monday 1916 she walked into Dublin from her home in Terenure and the next day - having prepared a basket of medical supplies - she cycled to the GPO, made her way in through the front door to her Gaelic League acquaintance - "Mr. PEARSE"! He told her, "Our idea was to! win Irish freedom." Her fragmentary diaries, on which this part of the book is based, reveal an extraordinary image of the situation in which Dubliners seemed to be held like flies in amber, as that week wore on. This book is expensive, but unique in its text and many illustrations."

BIO: When the Queen Mother died peacefully in her sleep at age 101 on the afternoon of March 30, 2002, with her daughter Queen Elizabeth by her bedside, the Royal Family lost its matriarch. British people waited in their thousands to pay their respects to the woman who had been their Queen for 16 years and whose coffin was lying in state in Westminster Hall. For the older generations, this was a way of communing with their past. For the younger generations it was an opportunity to find a new, fresh interest in history. Her great-grandsons, William and Harry, recalled her mischievous sense of humour. "She loved a good laugh, even if the joke was about her," said Prince William. "Anything that was meant to be formal and went wrong she enjoyed..." When lovely little Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon was born on August 4, 1900 at Glamis Castle in Scotland, the Wright brothers were only dreaming of manned flight; space travel existed only in the pages of Jules Verne's science fiction; even television and radio did not yet exist. The motorcar was a novelty for the rich and the legal speed limit on Britain's roads was a leisurely two miles an hour. Diseases, which modern medicine had virtually eradicated in the developed world, could still threaten epidemic at the start of the 20th century and social security, unemployment benefit had yet to be constructed. Women, and the majority of men, did not yet have the right to vote, "democracy" was a very different concept and reality, as was the world inhabited by those who could still be termed "the ruling classes." The upheavals of the 20th century wiped out the monarchs of Eastern, Central and Southern Europe. To the north and west of the old world they fared better and it was there, that ! the beautiful Scots lass could work her magic, an inspirational role she created when royalty becomes a synonym for caring and concern for others, generosity of spirit. Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon was the product of a solid and loving family environment, not always the case among aristocratic families, in which her personal qualities could grow. Her parents, the Earl and Countess of Strathmore, were a remarkable couple who believed in active parenthood when many of their social class seemed intent only on getting their children out of the way, leaving them to the brought up by nannies and governesses, and packed off to boarding school at the earliest age allowed. Elizabeth was the ninth of ten children. The Strathmores were described as a close-knit, pious Scots clan, deeply loving and loyal to each other, deeply religious, and they benefited enormously from having parents who were also friends and advisors. The Strathmores belonged to a tradition of public service ! in return for privilege. The family home, Glamis Castle, was converted into a hospital for wounded soldiers in the First World War. The Strathmores were not protected from the horrors of war, and the family saw three of Elizabeth's brothers in uniform. By 1915 Fergus was dead and Michael had been severely wounded. Elizabeth joined her mother and sisters' work in the hospital's nursing and organisation. She became the hospital's social worker and was soon a favourite with the 1,500 wounded men who had been sent to Glamis to recover. The soldiers remembered her as the high-spirited, fun-loving, very beautiful youngster who did acrobatic tricks on the bicycle to amuse them, playing billiards with them, often beat them at card games, played popular songs on the piano and wrote letters home on their behalf. For many, the Queen Mother was a "pastel dream," smiling and waving graciously as her birthdays mounted - for the Prince of Wales, she was "the most magical grandmother you could have. "I know what my darling grandmother meant to so many other people. She literally enriched their lives and she was the original life enhancer, whether publicly or privately, whoever she was with. And, in many ways, she became an institution in her own right; a presence in the nation and in other realms and territories beyond these shores. At once indomitable, somehow timeless, able to span the generations; wise, loving, and an utterly irresistible mischievousness of spirit. An immensely strong character, combined with a unique natural grace, and an infectious optimism about life itself. Above all, she understood the British character and her heart belonged to this ancient land and it's equally indomitable and humorous inhabitants, whom she served with panache, style and unswerving dignity for nearly 80 years. I know, too, what she meant to my whole family, particularly the Queen, to whom she was such a stalwart and sensitive support when my grandfather died, when he was only ! two and a half years older than I am now. For me, she meant everything and I had dreaded, dreaded this moment along with, I know, countless others. Somehow, I never thought it would come. She seemed gloriously unstoppable and, since I was a child, I adored her. Her houses were always filled with an atmosphere of fun, laughter and affection, and I learnt so much from her of immense value to my life. Apart from anything else, whe wrote such sparklingly wonderful letters and her turn of phrase could be utterly memorable. Above all, she saw the funny side of life and we laughed until we cried -- oh, how I shall miss her laugh and wonderful wisdom born of so much experience and an innate sensitivity to life. She was quite simply the most magical grandmother you could possibly have, and I was utterly devoted to her. Her departure has left an irreplaceable chasm in countless lives but, thank God, we are all the richer for the sheer joy of her presence and everything she stood for."

John Hyland pob unknown possibly No Ireland, born circa early 1830' married early 1850's possibly Mary or Maria Dwyer in England? Also may have married a MacQueen, Shaw, or Urquhart. Resode 1860 McLean Co IL near Bloomington. Daughter Elizabeth born circa 1860 (+/-). Any help out there? May respond off list to: wyoeagle@webtv.net Mary or Maria may have been born in Scotland family oral history says she was a gently reared high born scottish lady.

Streetmap.co.uk http://uk.multimap.com

SNIPPET: Stained glass is an old and honorable craft, and in a small Co. Cork seaside town, one family business has continued this ancient tradition for several generations. James WATSON first came to Youghal in 1888, but the family connection with the craft goes back far further. It is a proudly-maintained tenet of WATSON history that their ancestors have been making stained glass since the Middle Ages and indeed worked on the splendid windows of York Minster. Peter, gggson of the original founder, and son of Paul WATSON now runs the business. He started as an apprentice when he left school, learning the trade from father and uncles, as they had themselves doen before him. "It's very satisfying. You're creating something beautiful that will last well beyond your own time." Peter is hoping his two small sons, who are allowed to watch their father at work, will want to continue the tradition. James WATSON handed the business on to his son, Clement, who in turn handed it on to no less than six of his own sons: Adrian, Cecil, James, John, Paul and Peter. James, however, was invited to do some work in Belfast. As so often happens, he met a local girl up there, married, and set up his own glass business in the North. Meanwhile, the five brothers back in Youghal worked together, carrying on their skills, knowledge and carefully-guarded secrets of this ancient art which had been handed down from one generation to another. Back in the early days, there was a lot more heavy work, as the leading had to be made by a hand-cranked machine, and kilns took days, not hours to fire up. They work from their large detailed artistic drawings called "cartoons." The brilliantly-colored glass used by the WATSONs is imported from Europe: traditionally, the best blue, orange and yellow come from France, green from Germany, and red from England. Painting is done with a translucent stain which is applied in different layers to create the effect of light and shade. A complex piece of work demands several firings, and for final tiny details a needle is used. Even small scraps of precious glass are kept to be used for another project. An example of their lovely work can be seen in the the St. Patrick window at Christchurch, Innishannon. The deconsecrated church of Glengarriff is a lovely building which is enjoying a new lease of life as a popular coffee shop, where light floods in through deep-set windows. Signature on a window reads James WATSON & Co, Youghal and London. Apparently their Cork studio was originally on Catherine Street, on the quayside, where "Moby Dick" was filmed. Cecil WATSON, though now 78 and officially retired, retains the skills perfected throughout his working life. He lives in the old family home which clings to a steep hillside overlooking Youghal Bay. The studio, where he practices his art from time to time, is like an eagle's nest, even further up the cliff, and Cecil nimbly skips up the 40 steps leading to it with its lovely view over town and sea. -- Excerpts, "Ireland of the Welcomes," magazine (Dublin) Mar-Apr 2002

THE TRAVELLERS' TENT Down at the cross-roads on my way to school, I would cycle past the travellers and watch the steam rise from the dark brown dusky tent. Shaped like the last quarter of the moon, it was tiny, a family lived here quietly mending our buckets, making pongers in different sizes. We exchanged vegetables and milk for the goods they provided tin pongers, buckets and crepe paper flowers. After nights of heavy rain they woke to find the sagging canvas sink into the tiny space, their only heat the closely packed bodies within the small tent. -- Mary Guckian, born 1942, Kiltoghert, Co. Leitrim,"Perfume of the Soil" (1999). Mary has lived/visited several places in the world including England, the United States and Australia. She presently works and lives in Dublin. "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

AFTER THE TITANIC They said I got away in a boat And humbled me at the inquiry. I tell you I sank as far that night as any Hero. As I sat shivering on the dark water I turned to ice to hear my costly Life go thundering down in a pandemonium of Prams, pianos, sideboards, winches, Boilers bursting and shredded ragtime. Now I hide In a lonely house behind the sea Where the tide leaves broken toys and hat-boxes Silently at my door. The showers of April, flowers of May mean nothing to me, nor the Late light of June, when my gardener Describes to strangers how the old man stays in bed On seaward mornings after nights of Wind, takes his cocaine and will see no-one. Then it is I drown again with all those dim Lost faces I never understood. My poor soul Screams out in the starlight, heart Breaks loose and rolls down like a stone. Include me in your lamentations. -- Derek Mahon (b. Belfast 1941)

SNIPPET: "For those who stayed in Ireland throughout the Famine, either by force or circumstance or by personal good fortune, the most significant event of 1849 was the visit of the British monarch, Queen Victoria, who enjoyed a great welcome despite Anglo-Irish hostilities. Cheering crowds turned out in August to greet the Queen and her husband, Prince Albert, son of the German Duke of Saxe-Coburg. The royal couple visited Dublin and Cove, the magnificent harbour town 13 miles to the east of Cork. Though Ireland's political leaders were opposed to the royal visit, the Queen was aware of Ireland's suffering and was intent on judging the situation for herself. It is, of course, doubtful that she was able to witness the full horrors of the Famine, the starving beggars and overcrowded workhouses. Instead, she was honoured with lively and expensive festivities. At Cove, the royal yacht was greeted by rockets launched from her naval ships stationed in port; and local resi! dents lit huge bonfires. The servants of one country house were so enthusiastic with their firework display that they set fire to 14 acres of woodland. The next day, at the official welcoming ceremony, the Queen surprisingly announced, 'I have much pleasure in giving my sanction to the change of name which has been sought by the inhabitants and direct that this town shall in future be called Queenstown.' The port had been known as the Cove of Cork, or Cove for short, but it retained its royal name until 1922 when Ireland achieve her independence, and Queenstown was re-named Cobh, which is the Gaelic for cove. Cove is probably the largest and most natural harbour in the world. Its share of maritime tragedies are by no means confined to the Irish Famine and Emigration. Cove was the last port of call for the Titanic, the safest liner afloat, on her fateful maiden voyage, ending in disaster. Nearby, in 1915, the Lusitania was sunk by a German submarine -- an act which pr! ecipitated America's participation in the First World War. As years r olled by there can have been little comfort for the local population of Queenstown." -- Excerpt, "The Famine Ships," Edward LAXTON, (Henry Holt NY/1996).

SNIPPET: Sir William WILDE (1815-76), born near Castlerea, Co. Roscommon, was an internationally famous eye and ear surgeon, medical historian, statistician, and archaeologist. WILDE qualified in medicine in Dublin in 1837 and later studied in London and Vienna. After returning to Dublin, he established St. Mark's eye and ear hospital in 1844, which in 1897 became the Royal Victoria eye and ear hospital. In addition to practising as a surgeon and publishing a major textbook on aural surgery (1853), WILDE also worked on both the 1841 and 1851 censuses. His medical appendix to the 1851 census is a pioneering work in medical history and statistics. He also wrote accounts of his travels in the eastern Mediterranean (1839) and Austria (1845), and published archaeological studies of the Boyne river (1849) and Lough Corrib (1867) areas. WILDE had several illegitimate children, but in 1851 married Jane Francesca ELGEE. They had two sons, William (1852-99), a Dublin barriste! r, and Oscar (1854-1900), the playwright and poet. -- Elizabeth Malcolm, Professor of Irish Studies, University of Melbourne.

MY SON Here is his little cambric frock That I laid by in lavender so sweet, And here his tiny shoe and sock I made with loving care for his dear feet. I fold the frock across my breast And in imagination, ah, my sweet, Once more I hush my babe to rest And once again I Warm those little feet. Where do those strong young feet now stand? In flooded trench half numb to cold or pain, Or marching through the desert sand To some dread place that they may never gain. God guide him and his men to-day ! Though death may lurk in any tree or hill, His brave young spirit is their stay, Trusting in that they'll follow where he will. They love him for his tender heart When poverty or sorrow asks his aid, But he must see each do his part -- Of cowardice alone is he afraid. I ask no honours on the field, That other men have won as brave as he -- I only pray that God may shield My son, and bring him safely back to me. -- Ada Tyrrell

SNIPPET: Louise Imogen GUINEY (1861-1920) grew up in a prosperous family in Roxbury, Massachusetts. Her education consisted of private tutors and then studying at the Academy of the Sacred Heart, an elite convent school. Her genteel life disappeared when her father, an immigrant from Tipperary who had earned fame as a Union Army general, died prematurely of war wounds when she was only 16. By the age of 19, however, GUINEY's poems began to appear in periodicals like the "Atlantic Monthly" and "Scribner's." In 1884 the first of some 30 books of her poetry and prose were published. To supplement her inadequate literary earnings, she accepted an appointment as the postmaster in the Boston suburb of Auburndale. But protests and a boycott by local nativists over the appointment of a Catholic woman to such a prominent position caused her to resign in 1897. In 1900 she sailed to England to concentrate on her writing, where she remained until her death in 1920.

I find this website very informative: http://www.dixons.clara.co.uk/Certificates/births.htm Covers what informations if found on the various certificates. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

The Ireland GenWeb County Tipperary has been updated. New maps, church records, tithes and Griffith's Valuation records have been added plus new surname links. Also added is a new webpage for the Killardry Civil Parish plus the Cullen and Clonbullogue CP webpages have been updated. New town(land)s that have either been add or update are: Ballymorris, Cappauniac, Cloonfinglass, Dangan Beg, Dangan More, Glebe, Kilmoyler, Scart, Toureen, Ballydrehid, Ballygorteen, Carriganagh, Grallagh, Lisheen, Raheen, Tankerstown, Templenahurney, Solloghodbeg, Kilpatrick, Thurles, Ballingarry, Ballintogher, Golden, Borrisokane, Kilsheelan, Tipperary Town, Killenaule, Cahir, CappaghWhite, Cappagh. You can access this website at: http://www.rootsweb.com/~irltip/tipperary.htm If you have any comments, additions and/or corrections, please contact me off the list. I am looking for help with this website. If you would like to adopt a civil parish that is not included, yet, let me know. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

MEMOIR: Perhaps you can still locate a copy of this book: Per book review -- "Jack Corbett, Mariner" (2003) by Alfrederick Smith HATCH, is a newly discovered century-old memoir that vividly recounts HATCH's own terrible Irish Famine ship voyage across the Atlantic from England and is "a well-written, illuminating read." Hatch went on to a prominent life in the United States. He helped the financially strapped Union raise crucial money needed to win the Civil War. And he assisted with the financing of the transcontinental railroad, ultimately becoming president of the NY Stock Exchange in 1883. In 1849, however, HATCH was a mere apprentice seaman, who sailed out of Liverpool on the aptly-named "New World," in the company of what he called "the roughest, dirtiest, swearingest, drinkingest men alive." HATCH very likely would not have survived had it not been for a British sailor named Jack CORBETT, who became his guardian and mentor. Also on board the "New World" were Irish refugees from the Famine. And the vivid first-hand descriptions of immigrant hardships are an invaluable resource - he writes of calamities such as sailors frozen to the mast, food riots, and burials at sea. His friendship with a ne'er-do-well Irish immigrant named Jerry McAULEY, who had a religious conversion in Sing Sing prison led to HATCH putting up the money needed to organize what has been described as the world's first rescue mission for the homeless, Helping Hand for Men. Per review in "Irish America" magazine, all royalties (after out-of-pocket expenses) from the sale of the book was to be donated by the Hatch family to The New York City Rescue Mission founded by Jerry McAuley and A. S. Hatch 130 years ago. Afterword in the book is by Denny Hatch. The Quantuck Lane Press - $24.94/269 pages.

The Song of the Old Mother W B Yeats I Rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow; And then I must scrub and bake and sweep Till stars are beginning to blink and peep; And the young lie long and dream in their bed Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head, And their day goes over in idleness, And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress; While I must work because I am old, And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.

SNIPPET: The beloved lyrics for "Danny Boy" (Londonderry Air) were written by a gentleman in England who had an interest in Irish music but who apparently never set foot in Ireland. In 1910 English lyricist, Frederick WEATHERLY (1848-1929) attached his beautiful lyrics to another tune that proved to be an unsuccessful undertaking. WEATHERLY was a translator of opera and published large quantities of verse and children's books during his lifetime. His "Roses of Picardy," was his most commercially successful ballad during the Great War and made its writer a small fortune. Edward BUNTING (1773-1843) is credited for rescuing the traditional harp music of Ireland. His career began in 1792 when he was hired to write down tunes performed at the Belfast Harp Festival. The tune "A Young Man's Dream" in his collection of ancient Irish music in 1796 seems to be a close match musicality to that of "Danny Boy." A Ms. Jane ROSS from Limavady, Co. Londonderry claimed to have copied down the tune from a blind piper, possibly blind Jimmy McCURRY, who was active in Limavady at that time. Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side. The summer's gone, and all the roses falling, 'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide. But come ye back when summer's in the meadow, Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow - 'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow, Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy, I love you so. And when ye come, and all the flowers are dying, If I am dead, as dead I well may be, Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying, And kneel and say an 'Ave' there for me. And I shall hear though soft you tread above me, and all my grave will warm, sweeter be, For you will bend and tell me that you love me And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

The Ireland GenWeb County Leitrim website has been udated. A webpage has been added for the Cloone Civil Parish and pages have also been added for the following town(land)s: Acres, Aghadruminshin, Aghalough, Agharann, Aghavas, Carrickavoher, Corraneary, Killyfea, Sunnaghconner, Drumshanbo North, Diffin, Drumerkeane, Drumgunny, Miltron Glebe, Dunavinally, Bundarragh, Corduff North, Cornamucklagh, Corriga, Drumbinnis, Gorteen, Gradoge, Kilmakenny, Lugganammer, Rassaun, Drummanbane, Gortnacamdarragh, Annaghmacullen, Clone Town, Drumharkan Glebe, Esker, Racullen Sunnagh Beg & More, Tooma, Cloonee, Corduff South, Drumadorn, Drumconny, Drumlaggagh, Drummeen, Edenbaun, Gortinure, Keldra, Killyvehy, Lecknagh, Mullaghbrack, Mullynadrumman, Creenagh, Lurga, Tullyoran, Adoon, Annaghmaconway, Cornagher, Cornulla, Drumboher, Drumdarkan, Drumgowla, Drumhallagh, Drumkeilvy, Drumna, Edergole, Gorteenoran, Gortnaloughler, Gortnaragh, Halls, Beihy, Drumshanbo South, Fearglass South, Gubadorris, Ross Beg & More, Tooman, Clooncumber, Cloonlaughil, Cloontubbrid, Annaghmore, Annaghoney, Anskert, Cattan, Clooncose, Cornageeha, Drumgownagh, Drumhass, Fearglass North, Muckanagh, Tawnagh More, Tulcon, Beanross North & South, Clooncoe, Drumbad, Drumgilra, Drumgrania, Drumkirk, Errew, Farnaght, Gortletteragh, Lear, Rinn, Trean, Derrindrehid, Dromore, Lavareen, Bellakiltyfea, Lisgillock Glebe, Lissagarvan You can find the website at: http://www.rootsweb.com/~irlleitr/ If you have and additions, corrections and/or comments about the website, please email me off line. I recently took over this site and am looking for helpers. I someone would like to adopt a civil parish, please email me. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

BURIAL The shovels stood in a sticky underbelly of earth as we stepped from the sidelines for him, peeling our jackets, the boys loosening their ties. Soon there was clay on our church-going gear and his voice coming out of our childhood coaching us to put our backs into it. Flowers and fine words had never touched the man like work, grunts behind a shovel's bite, the clean sounds of clods as we heaved them in. Digging, we bowed in memory of his stooped solid shape. The dark damp weight of earth, a provision, a very last word. -- Ms. Rhian Gallagher was born in Timaru, NZ, 1961, and lives in London. Of this poem Ms. Gallagher said that her father was a man of few words. He came out from Ireland in his 20s and worked on building the hydro-dams down south, did other hard manual labor. Per Gallagher - "The physical act of burying him was my brothers' and my eulogy to him. Poem came from real events. In Ireland it is often men of the family who do the burial, so my joining in pushed a little at the traditional male-only role."

Thanks to George from the Irish Heritage Newsletter. Irish Recipe for Easter Crusty Roast Lamb (Uaineoil faoi chrusta) Ingredients: 1 Shoulder of lamb 4 lb 1 c Fresh breadcrumbs Pinch mixed herbs 2 T Butter, soft 1 1/2 lb Potatoes, peeled, sliced 1 Lg onion, diced 1 Lg cooking apple (Peeled, cored and sliced) 10 oz Chicken stock Wipe the lamb over, and cut criss-cross slits around the top. Mix together the breadcrumbs, herbs, butter, salt and pepper. Rub the mixture onto the top of the meat, pressing down well so that it sticks. Fill the bottom of the roasting pan with the vegetables and apple, mixing them and the seasoning well. Put the joint on top, then pour the stock into the pan, but not over the meat. Cover loosely with a piece of foil and bake at 400 F for half an hour. Then lower the heat to 350F, and cook for a further 20-25 minutes to the pound. Take off the foil for the final half hour, and check that the vegetables are nearly cooked. Finish the cooking without the foil, to let the top get brown and crusty. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

Here is a good website to bookmark/favorites for Irish surname research. I will give you some history of the name and the counties it was found with numbers in the Griffith's Valuation around the mid 1800s. http://scripts.ireland.com/ancestor/surname/index.cfm -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com