| T.R | Title | User | Personal
Name | Date | Lines |
|---|
| 103.1 | | JETSAM::COREY | Making last week, yesterday, today! | Wed Dec 03 1986 10:24 | 44 |
| THE PASSING OF THE GAEL
They are going, going, going from the valleys and the hills,
They are leaving far behind them heathery moor and mountain rills,
All the wealth of hawthorne hedges where the brown thrush sways and thrills.
They are going, shy-eyed cailins, and lads so straight and tall,
From the purple peaks of Kerry, from the crags of wild Imaal,
From the greening plains of Mayo, and the glens of Donegal.
They are leaving pleasant places, shores with snowy sands outspread;
Blue and lonely lakes a-stirring when the wind stirs overhead;
Tender living hearts that love them, and the graves of kindred dead.
They shall carry to the distant land a tear-drop in the eye
And some shall go uncomforted--their days an endless sigh
For Kathaleen Ni Houlihan's sad face, until they die.
Oh, Kathaleen Ni Houlihan, your road's a thorny way,
And 'tis a faithful soul would walk the flints with you for aye,
Would walk the sharp and cruel flints until his locks grew grey.
So some must wander to the East, and some must wander West;
Some seek the white wastes of the North, and some a Southern nest;
Yet never shall they sleep so sweet as on your mother breast.
Within the city streets, hot, hurried, full of care,
A sudden dream shall bring them a whiff of Irish air--
A cool air, faintly scented, blown soft from otherwhere.
Oh, the cabins long-deserted!--Olden Memories awake--
Oh, the pleasant, pleasant places!--Hush! the blackbird in the brake!
Oh, the dear and kindly voices!--Now their hearts are fain to ache.
They may win a golden store--sure the whins were golden too;
And no foreign skies hold beauty like the rainy skies they knew;
Nor any night-wind cool the brow as did the foggy dew.
. . . . . . . . . . .
They are going, going, going, and we cannot bid them stay;
Their fields are now the stranger's, where the stranger's cattle stray.
Oh! Kathaleen Ni Houlihan, your way's a thorny way!
---From Ethna Carbery's "The Four Winds of Eirinn"
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| 103.2 | Kathleen is Ireland | EKLV00::OFARRELL | Clonmel DTN 826-2230 | Wed Dec 03 1986 16:47 | 12 |
| Both for the understanding of the poem and understanding of notes
in this file, Kathaleen Ni Houlihan was a name used by Gaelic poets
for Ireland. The British banned the use of Ireland in poetry so
the poets used Kathaleen Ni Houlihan instead.
If you would like to discuss it further why not have a pint with
us on Saturday night next in Kathleen Ni Houlihans in Nashua. You
could recite the poem as your party piece!
Dia dhuit,
Willie
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| 103.3 | More Porter !!! | ENGGSG::BURNS | The West Awake, The West Awake | Thu Dec 04 1986 07:48 | 12 |
|
Just a quick note ....
Willie will be out here from Clonmel this Saturday, (Dec 6th)
and plans to be in attendance at Kathleen N� Houlihans that night.
Everyone is welcome to join us !!!
Kevin
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| 103.4 | coupla questions | HARDY::ST_ONGE | | Thu Dec 04 1986 12:07 | 14 |
| Anyone know when that poem was written?
The Brits banned the use of the word "Ireland" in poetry??? When?
I'm intrigued.
And....where is Houlihan's? As a transplanted Bostonian, I miss
live Irish music. Can anyone give me an address for this pub?
And what nights they have live music? And if its the sort of place
a female can drop in without her mate and not worry about people
assuming all kinds of things....?
thank you
ds
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| 103.5 | | 19628::MR_TOPAZ | | Thu Dec 04 1986 13:15 | 22 |
| re .4:
Houlihan's is in downtown Nashua, on Canal Street (also called
Railroad Square) across from The Stable.
To get there: Follow Rt. 3 north into New Hampshire, then take Exit 5E
(Rt. 111 East). Follow Rt 111 (Kinsley Street) to the 4th traffic
signal (about 1 mile), which will be Main Street. There will be a
pharmacy on the right corner and a branch of the Nahsua library on the
left corner.
Turn left on Main St, and follow Main St through 4 traffic lights.
After the 4th light, you'll cross a small bridge (which is hard to
notice), and then you'll come to another traffic light -- Dunkin
Donuts is on the corner. Turn right here (Canal St/Railroad Sq), and
Houlihan's is about 200 yards ahead on the right, at the red awning.
Houlihan's is a friendly place, not a threatening one. They have live
music Thurs (8:30-1:00), Fri (9-closing), and Sat (9-closing).
--Mr Topaz
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| 103.6 | | TSC01::MAILLARD | | Fri Dec 05 1986 02:45 | 13 |
| Re .4: the Brits banned much more than the use of Ireland in poetry
at the time of the Penal Laws and later. For about two and a half
or three centuries to be an Irish catholic in Ireland was equivallent
to be an underbeing with no legal or civic right whatsoever.
The poem, on the other way, seems to have been written later, at the
time of great emigration which followed the great hunger (1846-1850),
when about 1.5 million Irish starved to death and about 2.5 millions
emigrated, mostly to America, thus dividing by 2 the population
of the island (it's still today less than the 8 millions it was
then). Without any more information, I'd say it must have been written
during the second half of last century, maybe at the very beginning
of the 20th century.
Denis.
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| 103.7 | | GAOV08::FERRIE | Liam Ferrie - Galway | Tue Dec 09 1986 07:40 | 14 |
| Denis is right about the poem being written in the latter half of
the last century. Ethna Carberry was born in 1866 and died in
1902. This was her pen-name. She was born Anna Johnston in
Ballymena, Co.Antrim. Her husband was Seumas MacManus a well
known author from Co.Donegal.
I suspect that few readers would understand the word "whins" in
the poem?
This is the commonly used term in the northern part of Ireland for
the plant that is known as gorse or furze.
Liam
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| 103.8 | Furze | TALLIS::DARCY | George @Littleton Mass USA | Tue Dec 09 1986 11:04 | 8 |
| Liam,
The furze plants are really beautiful, something which one
doesn't find in America.
It makes for great pictures, providing a bit of contrast
in color. But, I guess, the Irish don't really like the
plant because it's a nuisance controlling them.
|
| 103.9 | The whins were golden too... | JETSAM::COREY | Making last week, yesterday, today! | Tue Dec 09 1986 15:03 | 5 |
| Thanks for the info on "whins". That's the only term in the dictionary
for which I couldn't find a meaning and I was just about to post
a note asking about it.
--Chris
|
| 103.10 | Bravo | GAOV07::MHUGHES | I got a mean wriggle | Thu Dec 11 1986 12:55 | 17 |
| Leaprechauns were wistful.
Thank you very much Chris Corey, for that smashing piece of poetry.
I had been looking for exactly this piece for a while now, and to
think that it reared its head from an American source.
Well done.
You'd nearly need to be Irish to sense the mist-eyed sentiment of
that poem, and it certainly stimulated me with regard to modern
day Irish emigration.
I beleive that Kevin Burns or Don Topaz should extract this piece
and bring it down to the much mentioned public house so that the
owner might consider having the poem drafted and mounted on his
wall.
Snake is grateful.
|
| 103.11 | The image of poetic Ireland | JETSAM::COREY | Making last week, yesterday, today! | Thu Dec 11 1986 16:10 | 31 |
| Re:-1
Funny you should mention hanging that on the wall because indeed,
that's where I first saw that piece of poetry.
Now forgive me for not remembering all the fine details because
I'm drawing on memories
that are 10 years old here (April 1976) but I believe I saw that
poem hanging in a frame in O'Donohue's off St. Stevens Green in
Dublin. (I'm not exactly sure of the locale because, er, well,
lads will be lads, and it being the last of our college years we
decided to visit every pub and bar we could cram into an afternoon.
Anyway, "the fog was in" but I -DO- remember that poem on the wall
and I commented on it to the proprietor telling him what a powerful
piece it was, flashing strong images in the mind as it was read,
and he said "take it down, you can have it."
I refused telling him that he should never remove
it since it made the tourist appreciate his own country and certainly
painted a vivid picture of Ireland and gave one a keen sense of
her problems and the problems of those who have gone away.
When I came home I found it and have read it when
I want to bring back to mind Ireland's face, memories and pictures.
I hope it still hangs wherever it was I saw it.
Glad to help.
--Chris
|
| 103.12 | | TOPDOC::AHERN | Dennis the Menace | Tue Aug 06 1991 10:39 | 2 |
| Does anybody know the words to a poem about the bells of Shandon?
|
| 103.13 | | TOPDOC::AHERN | Dennis the Menace | Tue Feb 09 1993 15:11 | 93 |
| RE: .12 by me
>Does anybody know the words to a poem about the bells of Shandon?
When you read the following you'll see why I was looking for this. It
turns out the title was Shandon Bells, not Bells of Shandon. No wonder
I couldn't find it. ;-)
The events described by my Aunt Fran took place about 1902 in
Arlington, Mass.
Well, how come you went first to the Sisters'
School, and then to the Russell School? - interviewer
Well, 'cause I took the last year in the Russell
School. 'Cause in my time in order for a girl from
the Sisters' School to get into high school, she
had to take all kinds of examinations. And my father
thought that was ridiculous, 'cause he knew we were
as smart as anybody else. So he says, "You're not
going to have to take any examination to get into
high school. You can go up to the Russell School,
and you can go right into school with the rest of
them. And you won't have to take any examination."
Which I did. I went into the Russell School and I
walked into the school with the rest of the kids. I
didn't go to the teacher and tell her that I came
from a parochial school or anything. And after I'd
been there a couple of weeks, the superintendent,
Mr. Scully, happened to be in the room. And so the
teacher found out that I did pretty well on reading.
So she asked me to get up and read something. So
instead of reading, I recited a piece of poetry,
the Bells of Shandon. 'Cause, of course, being Irish
I knew it very well. My grandmother had taught it
to me. So I recited the Bells of Shandon and the
superintendent had his eyes open. And afterwords
he had called me up to Miss Adams, was her name.
He asked me what my name was and I told them. He
said "Did you ever go to school here before?" And I
said, "No, I went to the Sisters' School." He said,
"Oh, how did you end up here?" "Well," I told him,
"My father told me to." So that was that. It was
funny . . . I often think of that. She never asked
me where I came from, and yet you think the teacher
would have had a list of names of the children that
were going to come into the class. But I walked in
and I sat on the seat right in the front row, 'cause
I was small. And I had to have one of the low seats,
so I sat right in the front row. And she was very
kind to me. I liked her very much.
- Frances Ahern, 15 April 1974 for Robbins Library
oral history project
The Shandon Bells
With deep affection, and recollection
I often think of those Shandon bells,
Whose sound so wild would, in the days of my childhood,
Fling round my cradle their magic spells.
On this I ponder, where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee,
With thy bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.
I've heard bells chiming, full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine,
While at a glib rate, brass tongues would vibrate-
But all their music spoke naught like thine;
For memory dwelling, on each proud swelling,
Of the belfry knelling, its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon, sound far more grand on,
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.
I've heard bells tolling, Old "Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious,
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;
But their sounds were sweeter, than the dome of Peter,
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly;-
Oh! the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on,
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow, while a tower and kosk o!
In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in air, calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit, of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom, I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem, more dear to me,-
Tis the bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on,
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.
|
| 103.14 | Beckett Collection expanded | TALLIS::DARCY | Alpha Migration Tools | Thu Mar 17 1994 01:21 | 8 |
| BC has expanded Beckett collection
Newton - Boston College yesterday announced the expansion of its
collection of the papers of Irish novelist and playwright Samuel
Beckett, with the receipt of corresponence and manuscripts held by
Barney Rosset, Beckett's North American literary agent and friend.
Boston Globe - 3/16/94
|
| 103.15 | | TOPDOC::AHERN | Dennis the Menace | Thu Mar 17 1994 11:13 | 6 |
| RE: .14 by TALLIS::DARCY
>BC has expanded Beckett collection
Is this the one with Peter O'Toole?
|
| 103.16 | The Rhythm of Time - Bobby Sands | GYRO::HOLOHAN | | Mon May 08 1995 13:56 | 78 |
|
I nDil Chuimhne
Bobby Sands (14th Ann., 5 May)
The Rhythm of Time
There's an inner thing in every man,
Do you know this thing my friend?
It has withstood the blows of a million years,
And will do so to the end.
It was born when time did not exist,
And it grew up out of life,
It cut down evil's strangling vines,
Like a slashing searing knife.
It lit fires when fires were not,
And burnt the mind of man,
Tempering leadened hearts to steel,
From the time that time began.
It wept by the waters of Babylon,
And when all men were at a loss,
It screeched in writhing agony,
And it hung bleeding from the Cross.
It died in Rome by lion and sword,
And in defiant cruel array,
When the deathly word was 'Spartacus',
Along the Appian Way.
It marched with Wat the Tyler's poor,
And frightened lord and king,
And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare,
As e'er a living thing.
It smiled in holy innocence,
Before conquistadors of old,
So meek and tame and unaware,
Of the deathly power of gold.
It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets,
And stormed the old Bastille,
And marched upon the serpent's head,
And crushed it 'neath its heel.
It died in blood on Buffalo Plains,
And starved by moons of rain,
Its heart was buried at Wounded Knee,
But it will come to rise again.
It screamed aloud by Kerry lakes,
As it was knelt upon the ground,
And it died in great defiance,
As they coldly shot it down.
It is found in every light of hope
It knows no bounds nor space,
It has risen in red and black and white,
It is there in every race.
It lies in the hearts of heroes dead,
It screams in tyrant's eyes,
It has reached the peak of mountains high,
It comes searing 'cross the skies.
It lights the dark of this prison cell,
It thunders forth its might,
It is 'the undauntable thought,' my friend,
That thought that says 'I'm right!'
-from *Skylark Sing Your Lonely Song*
(an anthology of the writings of Bobby Sands)
|