About Me

My photo
I am Miss Pancake Taylor. I have come from very far away to take care of my family Craig and Zita and Niamh and Emmet. Sometimes I have helpers; my friends the Blackthorn-Badgers. They are very old Scotsmen. I am very glad to meet you.

Sunday, 31 March 2013

Cumha Eoghan Ruaidh Uí Néill

Mar táid a Dhé na Gaedhil gan treóir is truagh!
Síol ádhmhar Néill, síol Éibhir mhóir i dtuaidh.
Síol Táil go tréith, sliocht Shéarlais chródha i nguais,
Gan cháil, gan chéim, ó'n éag sin Eógain Ruaidh.

I dtáimhcheas léir tá Éire ó bhóinn go Muaidh.
Ó Árdloch Léin go Daeil, go Feóir 'sgo buais.
Ó Mháigh go Léim, Ón Éirne fóst go Cruaich,
Gan lann, gan scéith, ó'n éag sin Eógain Ruaidh.

Is láidir a shéideas gaoth gach ló do thuaidh;
Is d'fhás ar léas na ghréine neóil go nuadh;
Is árd do ghéis gach spéir le dóghra cruaidh,
'Sní lán an éasg' ó'n éag sin Eógain Ruaidh.

Faoi chlár i gcré tá féile Fódla uainn.
Bláth na nGaedheal is éasga óir an tsluaigh.
Lámh na n-éacht nár chlaon ón chóir ar luach.
Is d'fhág Éire i mbaoghal fé léan ó'n lá do chuaidh.



Deirdre's Lamentation

The lions of the hills are gone,
And I am left alone--alone.
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and fain would sleep.

The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone--alone.
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.

The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping.
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's body.

Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright.
Many a day the three before me
On their linked bucklers bore me.

Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of their greyhounds at their feet.
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.

In the falcon's jesses throw,
Hook and arrow, line and bow.
Never again by stream or plain
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.

Sweet companions, were ye ever
Harsh to me your sister, never.
Woods and wilds, an misty valleys
Were with you as good's a palace.




Oh! To hear my true love singing,
Sweet as sounds of trumpets' ringing.
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.

Oh! To hear the echoes pealing,
Round our green and fairy sheeling,
When the three with soaring chorus
Made the skylark silent o'er us!

Echo, now, sleep morn and even.
Lark, alone, enchant the heaven.
Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
Naisi's tongue is cold in death.

Stag, exult on glen and mountain.
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain.
Heron, in the free air warm ye,
Usnach's sons no more will harm ye.

Erin's stay, no more ye are
Rulers of the ridge of war.
Never more 'twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight.

Woe is me! By fraud and wrong,
Traitors false, and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold.

Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
Tenfold woe and black dishonour
To the foul and false Clan Conor.

Dig the grave both wide and deep,
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's body.



Bold Robert Emmet

The struggle is over, the boys are defeated,
Old Ireland's surrounded with sadness and gloom,
We were defeated and shamefuIIy treated,
And I, Robert Emmet, awaiting my doom.
Hung, drawn and quartered, sure that was my sentence,
But soon I will show them no coward am I.
My crime is the love of the land I was born in,
A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.
The barque lay at anchor awaiting to bring me
Over the billows to the land of the free;
But I must see my sweetheart for I know she will cheer me,
And with her I will sail far over the sea.
But I was arrested and cast into prison,
Tried as a traitor, a rebel, a spy;
But no man can call me a knave or a coward,
A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.
Hark! I the bell's tolling, I well know its meaning,
My poor heart tells me it is my death knell;
In come the clergy, the warder is leading,
I have no friends here to bid me farewell.
Goodbye, old Ireland, my parents and sweetheart,
Companions in arms to forget you must try;
I am proud of the honour, it was only my duty
A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.


Patriot Game 

Come all ye young rebels, and list while I sing,
For the love of one's country is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame,
And it makes us all part of the patriot game.
My name is O'Hanlon, and I've just turned sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan, and where I was weaned
I learned all my life cruel England's to blame,
So now I am part of the patriot game.
This Ireland of ours has too long been half free.
Six counties lie under John Bull's tyranny.
But still De Valera is greatly to blame
For shirking his part in the Patriot game.
They told me how Connolly was shot in his chair,
His wounds from the fighting all bloody and bare.
His fine body twisted, all battered and lame
They soon made me part of the patriot game.
It's nearly two years since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA,
For I read of our heroes, and wanted the same
To play out my part in the patriot game.
I don't mind a bit if I shoot down police
They are lackeys for war never guardians of peace
And yet at deserters I'm never let aim
The rebels who sold out the patriot game
And now as I lie here, my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained in souls
And I wish that my rifle had given the same
To those Quislings who sold out the patriot game.

Dominic Behan
Easter 1916

I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

W B Yates

Friday, 29 March 2013

I Believe

I believe that the sun shines after the rain
I believe if you don't get hurt you'll never gain
I believe in not doing things the easy way
I believe that being selfish doesn’t pay

I believe in a second chance
I believe in a life long romance
I believe there is life after death
And standing up to a life of mess

I believe in love at first sight
I believe that revenge isn’t right
I believe that first impressions last
And there is nothing better then a good laugh

I believe that dreams do come true
I believe there's destiny for me and you
I believe that good things come to those who wait
I believe love never arrives too late

I believe something good comes from something bad
I believe that for tears of happiness there are tears of sad
I believe everyone has a guardian angel
And the good you do will be rewarded well

I believe sometimes there is no explanation
I believe money can't buy people's affection
I believe you don't know what you've got until it's gone
I believe a new day arrives with every dawn

I believe a smile can be contagious
I believe in being very outrageous
I believe in living with no regrets
I believe that life is as good as it gets

I believe that God watches over us
I believe the little things are worth the fuss
I believe you have each friend for a reason
I believe you will get punished for treason

I believe that what comes first is family
I believe we should all live in harmony
I believe in making the most of a beautiful day
And it's not the end until everything's okay

I believe absence makes the heart grow fonder
I believe you will lose if you sit and wonder
I believe every experience teaches you a lesson
And nothing cures better then a drinking session

I believe everyone has one true love
I believe sometimes we need a little shove
I believe the whole world is a stage
I believe we only get better with age

I believe that to learn you have to live
I believe that to love someone you have to give
I believe one moment can change your life
And there's still help when you’re in strife

I believe everyone has one true friend
I believe love helps a broken heart mend
I believe in the power of a song
And things will change before too long

I believe living is the best experience
I believe in not laughing at other people’s expense
I believe it’s hard to watch a lover leave
And when they’re gone all you can do is breath

I believe to always look on the bright side
I believe that life is just one big ride
I believe when I die people will grieve
But it’s ok because I believe


Kayla Neil

 
Rebecca
Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably

A trick that everyone abhors
In little girls is slamming doors.
A wealthy banker's little daughter
Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater
(By name Rebecca Offendort),
Was given to this furious sport.

She would deliberately go
And slam the door like billy-o!
To make her uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart,
But only rather rude and wild;
She was an aggravating child...

It happened that a marble bust
Of Abraham was standing just
Above the door this little lamb
Had carefully prepared to slam,
And down it came! It knocked her flat!
It laid her out! She looked like that.

Her funeral sermon (which was long
And followed by a sacred song)
Mentioned her virtues, it is true,
But dwelt upon her vices too,
And showed the deadful end of one
Who goes and slams the door for fun.

The children who were brought to hear
The awful tale from far and near
Were much impressed, and inly swore
They never more would slam the door,
-- As often they had done before.
 


Hilaire Belloc
Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
 


Wilfred Owen
Conscientious Objector

I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.
 


Edna St. Vincent Millay

Wednesday, 27 March 2013

A Grain Of Sand

If starry space no limit knows
And sun succeeds to sun,
There is no reason to suppose
Our earth the only one.
'Mid countless constellations cast
A million worlds may be,
With each a God to bless or blast
And steer to destiny.

Just think! A million gods or so
To guide each vital stream,
With over all to boss the show
A Deity supreme.
Such magnitudes oppress my mind;
From cosmic space it swings;
So ultimately glad to find
Relief in little things.

For look! Within my hollow hand,
While round the earth careens,
I hold a single grain of sand
And wonder what it means.
Ah! If I had the eyes to see,
And brain to understand,
I think Life's mystery might be
Solved in this grain of sand.


Robert William Service
And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.


Dylan Thomas
All That is Gold Does Not Glitter 


    All that is gold does not glitter,
    Not all those who wander are lost;
    The old that is strong does not wither,
    Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

    From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
    A light from the shadows shall spring;
    Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
    The crown-less again shall be king.


J. R. R. Tolkien

Tuesday, 26 March 2013

Andrea del Sarto

But do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Fix his own time, accept too his own price,
And shut the money into this small hand
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?


Oh, I'll content him,--but to-morrow, Love!
I often am much wearier than you think,
This evening more than usual, and it seems
As if--forgive now--should you let me sit
Here by the window with your hand in mine
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,
Both of one mind, as married people use,
Quietly, quietly the evening through,
I might get up to-morrow to my work
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.


To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this!
Your soft hand is a woman of itself,
And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside.
Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve
For each of the five pictures we require:
It saves a model. So! keep looking so--
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!
--How could you ever prick those perfect ears,
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet--
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,
Which everybody looks on and calls his,
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,
While she looks--no one's: very dear, no less.
You smile? why, there's my picture ready made,
There's what we painters call our harmony!
A common greyness silvers everything,--
All in a twilight, you and I alike
--You, at the point of your first pride in me
(That's gone you know),--but I, at every point;
My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.


There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top;
That length of convent-wall across the way
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;
The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,
And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand.


How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead;
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!
This chamber for example--turn your head--
All that's behind us! You don't understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the door
--It is the thing, Love! so such things should be--
Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say.


I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep--
Do easily, too--when I say, perfectly,
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge,
Who listened to the Legate's talk last week,
And just as much they used to say in France.
At any rate 'tis easy, all of it!


No sketches first, no studies, that's long past:
I do what many dream of, all their lives,
--Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do,
And fail in doing. I could count twenty such
On twice your fingers, and not leave this town,
Who strive--you don't know how the others strive
To paint a little thing like that you smeared
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,--
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says,
(I know his name, no matter)--so much less!
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.


There burns a truer light of God in them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain,
Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine.
Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,
Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me,
Enter and take their place there sure enough,
Though they come back and cannot tell the world.
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here.


The sudden blood of these men! at a word--
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.
I, painting from myself and to myself,
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced,
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?
Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey,
Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!
I know both what I want and what might gain,
And yet how profitless to know, to sigh
"Had I been two, another and myself,
"Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt.
Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth
The Urbinate who died five years ago.
('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)


Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,
Above and through his art--for it gives way;
That arm is wrongly put--and there again--
A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,
Its body, so to speak: its soul is right,
He means right--that, a child may understand.
Still, what an arm! and I could alter it:
But all the play, the insight and the stretch--
(Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?
Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,
We might have risen to Rafael, I and you!
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think--
More than I merit, yes, by many times.


But had you--oh, with the same perfect brow,
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare --
Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!
Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged
"God and the glory! never care for gain.
"The present by the future, what is that?
"Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo!
"Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!"
I might have done it for you. So it seems:
Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules.


Beside, incentives come from the soul's self;
The rest avail not. Why do I need you?
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?
In this world, who can do a thing, will not;
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive:
Yet the will's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power--
And thus we half-men struggle. At the end,
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.


'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict,
That I am something underrated here,
Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth.
I dared not, do you know, leave home all day,
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.
The best is when they pass and look aside;
But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all.


Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time,
And that long festal year at Fontainebleau!
I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear,
In that humane great monarch's golden look,--
One finger in his beard or twisted curl
Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile,
One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,
I painting proudly with his breath on me,
All his court round him, seeing with his eyes,
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls
Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,--
And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,
This in the background, waiting on my work,
To crown the issue with a last reward!


A good time, was it not, my kingly days?
And had you not grown restless... but I know--
'Tis done and past: 'twas right, my instinct said:
Too live the life grew, golden and not grey,
And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt
Out of the grange whose four walls make his world.
How could it end in any other way?


You called me, and I came home to your heart.
The triumph was--to reach and stay there; since
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?
Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold,
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!


"Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;
"The Roman's is the better when you pray,
"But still the other's Virgin was his wife--"
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge
Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think.
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
To Rafael . . . I have known it all these years . . .


(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,
Too lifted up in heart because of it)
"Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub
"Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how,
"Who, were he set to plan and execute
"As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,
"Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!"
To Rafael's!--And indeed the arm is wrong.


I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see,
Give the chalk here--quick, thus, the line should go!
Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out!
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?
Do you forget already words like those?)
If really there was such a chance, so lost,--
Is, whether you're--not grateful--but more pleased.
Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!
This hour has been an hour! Another smile?


If you would sit thus by me every night
I should work better, do you comprehend?
I mean that I should earn more, give you more.
See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star;
Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by.
Come from the window, love,--come in, at last,
Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with. God is just.


King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,
The walls become illumined, brick from brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,
That gold of his I did cement them with!
Let us but love each other. Must you go?
That Cousin here again? he waits outside?
Must see you--you, and not with me? Those loans?
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?
While hand and eye and something of a heart
Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?


I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The grey remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
How I could paint, were I but back in France,
One picture, just one more--the Virgin's face,
Not yours this time! I want you at my side
To hear them--that is, Michel Agnolo--
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.


I take the subjects for his corridor,
Finish the portrait out of hand--there, there,
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs; the whole should prove enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,
What's better and what's all I care about,
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,
The Cousin! what does he to please you more?

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.
I regret little, I would change still less.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
The very wrong to Francis!--it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and complied,
And built this house and sinned, and all is said.


My father and my mother died of want.
Well, had I riches of my own? you see
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.


They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:
And I have laboured somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures--let him try!
No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes,
You loved me quite enough. it seems to-night.


This must suffice me here. What would one have?
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance--
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me
To cover--the three first without a wife,
While I have mine! So--still they overcome
Because there's still Lucrezia,--as I choose.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.



Robert Browning
A Cavalier Song

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,
Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:
And, pressing a troop unable to stoop
And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,
Marched them along, fifty score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
God for King Charles! Pym and such carles
To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!
Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup
Till you're-

(Chorus)
Marching along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.


Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell.
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!
England, good cheer! Rupert is near!
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here

Marching along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!
Hold by the right, you double your might;
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,

March we along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!


Robert Browning

Colonel Martin

THE Colonel went out sailing,
He spoke with Turk and Jew,
With Christian and with Infidel,
For all tongues he knew.
'O what's a wifeless man?' said he,
And he came sailing home.
He rose the latch and went upstairS
And found an empty room.
The Colonel went out sailing.
'I kept her much in the country
And she was much alone,
And though she may be there,' he said,
'She may be in the town.
She may be all alone there,
For who can say?' he said.
'I think that I shall find her
In a young man's bed.'
The Colonel went out sailing.

III
The Colonel met a pedlar,
Agreed their clothes to swop,
And bought the grandest jewelry
In a Galway shop,
Instead of thread and needle
put jewelry in the pack,
Bound a thong about his hand,
Hitched it on his back.
The Colonel wcnt out sailing.
The Colonel knocked on the rich man's door,
'I am sorry,' said the maid,
'My mistress cannot see these things,
But she is still abed,
And never have I looked upon
Jewelry so grand.'
'Take all to your mistress,'
And he laid them on her hand.
The Colonel went out sailing.
And he went in and she went on
And both climbed up the stair,
And O he was a clever man,
For he his slippers wore.
And when they came to the top stair
He ran on ahead,
His wife he found and the rich man
In the comfort of a bed.
The Colonel went out sailing.
The Judge at the Assize Court,
When he heard that story told,
Awarded him for damages
Three kegs of gold.
The Colonel said to Tom his man,
'Harness an ass and cart,
Carry the gold about the town,
Throw it in every patt.'
The Colonel went out sailing.

VII
And there at all street-corners
A man with a pistol stood,
And the rich man had paid them well
To shoot the Colonel dead;
But they threw down their pistols
And all men heard them swear
That they could never shoot a man
Did all that for the poor.
The Colonel went out sailing.

VIII
'And did you keep no gold, Tom?
You had three kegs,' said he.
'I never thought of that, Sir.'
'Then want before you die.'
And want he did; for my own grand-dad
Saw the story's end,
And Tom make out a living
From the seaweed on the strand.
The Colonel went out sailing.



William Butler Yeats
Byzantium

THE unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.
Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miraclc than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.
At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.
Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.




William Butler Yeats

Sunday, 24 March 2013

At Twilight's Last Gleaming

The Seamstresses of Baltimore
had done their Country proud.
Their Flag, upon a staff of wood,
Defied The British rounds.
Fort McHenry and her men
alone stood in the way
of a squadron of the British fleet
in good King George's pay.


All through the warm September night
We saw red rockets glare.
And when the morning sun arose
our banner was still there.
The tale might have been different
One of death, despair and blood-
One shell had hit the magazine
but it proved to be a dud.

A lawyer and a poet
on a truce ship in the Bay
gave voice to the emotions
that filled his heart that day.
So when you stand and doff your cap
and sing his song I say,
let history become memory
in a simple, subtle way.


John F McCullagh 
His Final tour

The day they knocked the Towers down
He thought he heard his nation's call
He signed his name on the dotted line.
Off he went to train for war.

Just five days into his first tour
insurgents, in a fire fight,
put a bullet in his spine
in a war commenced by George's spite.

He never after walked again.
He felt a burden to his wife.
Time and time again
he lay beneath a surgeons knife.

Until at last he said "enough"
I've had enough of this half life.
No food or drink would he accept,
his only path to that good night.

Before the soldier's "final tour"
Before he joined our honoured dead.
He wrote a letter to George Bush
and this is what the soldier said:

Ten years have passed now since the day
a bullet left me half a man.
A victim of an unjust war.
Your vendetta I can't understand.

I hope someday you can accept
some blame and guilt for all your crimes.
For spending young Americans
on bootless wars in foreign climes.


John F McCullagh 
The News From Moidart

The news from Moidart cam yestreen,
Will soon gar mony ferlie
For ships o' war hae just come in,
And landed royal Chairlie.

Chorus:
Come through the heather, around him gather,
You're a' the welcomer early,
Around him cling wi' a' your kin',
For wha'll be king but Chairlie.


The Highland clan wi' sword in hand,
Frae John o' Groats to Airlie,
Hae to a man declared to stand,
Or fa' wi' royal Chairlie.

There's no a lass in a' the land,
But vows baith late and early,
To man she'll ne'er gie heart or han',
Wha wadna fight for Chairlie.

Then here's a health tae Chairlie's cause,
An' be't complete and early,
His very name our heart's blood warms,
To arms for royal Chairlie.

Come through the heather, around him gather,
You're a' the welcomer early,
Around him cling wi' a' your kin,
For wha'll be king but Chairlie.

Come through the heather, around him gather,
Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' th' gethir,
And crown him rightful, lawful king,
For wha'll be king but Chairlie.



Coal Tattoo

Travelin' down that coal town road. Listenin' to my rubber tires whine.
Goodbye to Buckeye and white Sycamore. I'm leavin' you behind.
I've been coal miner all of my life. Layin' down track in the hole.
Gotta back like an ironwood, bit by the wind. 

Blood veins blue as the coal. Blood veins blue as the coal.

Somebody said, "That's a strange tattoo you have on the side of your head."
I said, "That's the blueprint left by the coal. A little more and I'd been dead.
Well, I love the rumble and I love the dark. I love the cool of the slate,
And it's on down the new road, lookin' for a job. This travelin' nook in my head.

I stood for the union and walked in the line and fought against the company.
I stood for the U. M. W. of A. Now, who's gonna stand for me?
I've got no house and I got no job, just got a worried soul
And a blue tattoo on the side of my head left by the number nine coal. 

Left by the number nine coal.

Some day when I'm dead and gone to heaven, the land of my dreams.
I won't have to worry on losin' my job, on bad times and big machines.
I ain't gonna pay my money away on dues or hospital plans.
I'm gonna pick coal where the blue heavens roll and sing with the angel band.


Billy Edd Wheeler

Friday, 22 March 2013

Quote:

If you will not fight for right when you can easily win without blood shed; if you will not fight when your victory is sure and not too costly; you may come to the moment when you will have to fight with all the odds against you and only a precarious chance of survival. 

There may even be a worse case. 

You may have to fight when there is no hope of victory, because it is better to perish than to live as slaves. 

W Churchill
No Freedom

Take it by your silence
That I'm free to walk out the door
By the look in your eyes I can tell
You don't think I'll be back for more

Try to think of the world
Where you could stay and these safe hands could go
Take your heart above the water
Wherever I choose to go

No love without freedom
No love without freedom
No love without freedom
No freedom without love

Even when you don't see me
Even when you don't hear
I'll be flying low below the sun
And you'll feel it all out here

No love without freedom
No love without freedom
No love without freedom
No freedom without love

No love without freedom
No love without freedom
No love without freedom
No freedom without love

Standing here in silence
The world in front of me
Holding you in my hand
And seeing as you'd see

No love without freedom
No love without freedom
No love without freedom
No freedom without love
No freedom without love.




Dido

Thursday, 21 March 2013

The New St George

The time has come for action
Leave your satisfaction
Can't you hear St. George's tune
When George's tune is calling you on?

Freedom was your mother
Fight for one another
Leave the factory, leave the forge
And dance to the new St. George

Don't believe pretenders
Who say they would defend us
While they flash their teeth and wave
The other hand is being paid

They choke the air and bleed us
These noble men who lead us
Leave the factory, leave the forge
And dance to the new St. George

The fish and fowl are ailing
The farmer's life is failing
Where are all the back room boys?
The back room boys can save us now

We're poisoned by the greedy
Who plunder on the needy
Leave the factory, leave the forge
And dance to the new St. George.




Richard Thompson
 Beeswing

I was nineteen when I came to town, they called it the Summer of Love
They were burning babies, burning flags. The hawks against the doves
I took a job in the steamie down on Cauldrum Street
And I fell in love with a laundry girl who was working next to me

Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, oh she was running wild
She said "As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay.
And you wouldn't want me any other way"

Brown hair zig-zag around her face and a look of half-surprise
Like a fox caught in the headlights, there was animal in her eyes
She said "Young man, oh can't you see I'm not the factory kind
If you don't take me out of here I'll surely lose my mind"

Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine that I might crush her where she lay
She was a lost child, she was running wild
She said "As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay.
And you wouldn't want me any other way"

We busked around the market towns and picked fruit down in Kent
And we could tinker lamps and pots and knives wherever we went
And I said that we might settle down, get a few acres dug
Fire burning in the hearth and babies on the rug
She said "Oh man, you foolish man, it surely sounds like hell.
You might be lord of half the world, you'll not own me as well"

Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, oh she was running wild
She said "As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay.
And you wouldn't want me any other way"

We was camping down the Gower one time, the work was pretty good
She thought we shouldn't wait for the frost and I thought maybe we should
We was drinking more in those days and tempers reached a pitch
And like a fool I let her run with the rambling itch

Oh the last I heard she's sleeping rough back on the Derby beat
White Horse in her hip pocket and a wolfhound at her feet
And they say she even married once, a man named Romany Brown
But even a gypsy caravan was too much settling down
And they say her flower is faded now, hard weather and hard booze
But maybe that's just the price you pay for the chains you refuse

Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
And I miss her more than ever words could say
If I could just taste all of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
Well I wouldn't want her any other way


Richard Thompsom
Charlie He's My Darling

Twas on a Monday morning
Right early in the year
When Charlie came to out town
The Young Chevalier

Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling
Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier

As he cam' marchin' up the street
The pipes played loud and clear
And a' the folk cam' rinnin' out
To meet the Chevalier
Wi' highland bonnets on their heads
And claymores bright and clear
They cam' to fight for Scotland's right
And the young Chevalier

They've left their bonnie highland hills
Their wives and bairnies dear
To draw the sword for Scotland's lord
The young Chevalier

Oh, there were many beating hearts
And mony a hope and fear
And mony were the pray'rs put up
For the young Chevalier

Carolina Oliphant,

Tuesday, 19 March 2013

 The Power of the Dog


    THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
    From men and women to fill our day;
    And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
    Why do we always arrange for more?
    Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
    Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

    Buy a pup and your money will buy
    Love unflinching that cannot lie--
    Perfect passion and worship fed
    By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
    Nevertheless it is hardly fair
    To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

    When the fourteen years which Nature permits
    Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
    And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
    To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
    Then you will find--it's your own affair--
    But...you've given your heart for a dog to tear.

    When the body that lived at your single will,
    With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
    When the spirit that answered your every mood
    Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
    You will discover how much you care,
    And will give your heart for the dog to tear.

    We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
    When it comes to burying Christian clay.
    Our loves are not given, but only lent,
    At compound interest of cent per cent.
    Though it is not always the case, I believe,
    That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
    For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
    A short-time loan is as bad as a long--
    So why in Heaven (before we are there)
    Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

        Rudyard Kipling
In the Neolithic Age
 

    IN the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage
        For food and fame and woolly horses' pelt.
    I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man,
        And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt.

    Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring
        Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove;
    And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg
        Were about me and beneath me and above.

    But a rival, of Solutré, told the tribe my style was outré --
        By a hammer, grooved of dolomite, he fell.
    And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged below the heart
        Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.

    Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting-dogs fed full,
        And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;
    And I wiped my mouth and said, "It is well that they are dead,
        For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong."

    But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole-shrine he came,
        And he told me in a vision of the night: --
    "There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
        "And every single one of them is right!"

         .      .      .      .      .      .       .

    Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me
        Of whiter, weaker fresh and bone more frail; .
    And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer,
        And a minor poet certified by Traill!

    Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow
        When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;
    When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,
        And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.

    Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,
        Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk;
    Still we let our business slide -- as we dropped the half-dressed hide --
        To show a fellow-savage how to work.

    Still the world is wondrous large, -- seven seas from marge to marge --
        And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;
    And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu
        And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.

    Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose
        And the reindeer roared where Paris roars to-night: --
    "There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
        "And -- every -- single -- one -- of -- them -- is -- right!"

        Rudyard Kipling
The Conundrum of the Workshops
 

    WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
    Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
    And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
    Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

    Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew --
    The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
    And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain
    When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

    They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
    Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"
    The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
    While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

    They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West,
    Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest --
    Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
    And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"

    The tale is as old as the Eden Tree -- and new as the new-cut tooth --
    For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
    And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
    The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"

    We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
    We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,
    We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;
    But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"

    When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,
    The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould --
    They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,
    For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

    Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
    And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
    And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,
    By the favour of God we might know as much -- as our father Adam knew!



        Rudyard Kipling
 The Lost Forest
 

    I WALKED with my mother
       Where the tall trees grow,
    And she showed me tiny tables
       Where the elves sit in a row,
    And the bells that ring to call them
       When the night winds blow.

    There were small frosted toadstools,
       And little cups of wine,
    And velvet banks to rest on
       Where moss grew thick and fine,
    And a smooth brown ring for dancing
       Underneath a pine.

    But now when I go walking
       All the way is clear;
    The little bells are silent
       And the moss grown sere,
    And I know that in the moonlight
       Not an elf comes near.

        Aline Kilmer
Robin Hood
 

          NO! those days are gone away,
    And their hours are old and gray,
    And their minutes buried all
    Under the down-trodden pall
    Ofthe leaves of many years:
    Many times have winter's shears,
    Frozen North, and chilling East,
    Sounded tempests to the feast
    Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
    Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

          No, the bugle sounds no more,
    And the twanging bow no more;
    Silent is the ivory shrill
    Past the heath and up the hill;
    There is no mid-forest laugh,
    Where lone Echo gives the half
    To some wight, amaz'd to hear
    Jesting, deep in forest drear.

          On the fairest time of June
    You may go, with sun or moon,
    Or the seven stars to light you,
    Or the polar ray to right you;
    But you never may behold
    Little John, or Robin bold;
    Never one, of all the clan,
    Thrumming on an empty can
    Some old hunting ditty, while
    He doth his green way beguile
    To fair hostess Merriment,
    Down beside the pasture Trent;
    For he left the merry tale,
    Messenger for spicy ale.

          Gone, the merry morris din;
    Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
    Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
    Idling in the "grene shawe";
    All are gone away and past!
    And if Robin should be cast
    Sudden from his turfed grave,
    And if Marian should have
    Once again her forest days,
    She would weep, and he would craze:
    He would swear, for all his oaks,
    Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
    Have rotted on the briny seas;
    She would weep that her wild bees
    Sang not to her---strange! that honey
    Can't be got without hard money!

          So it is; yet let us sing
    Honour to the old bow-string!
    Honour to the bugle-horn!
    Honour to the woods unshorn!
    Honour to the Lincoln green!
    Honour to the archer keen!
    Honour to tight little John,
    And the horse he rode upon!
    Honour to bold Robin Hood,
    Sleeping in the underwood!
    Honour to maid Marian,
    And to all the Sherwood clan!
    Though their days have hurried by
    Let us two a burden try.

        John Keats
 La Belle Dame sans Merci
 

    O, WHAT can ail thee, Knight at arms,
        Alone and palely loitering;
    The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
        And no birds sing.

    O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms,
        So haggard and so woe-begone?
    The squirrel's granary is full,
        And the harvest's done.

    I see a lily on thy brow,
        With anguish moist and fever dew;
    And on thy cheek a fading rose
        Fast withereth too.

    I met a Lady in the Meads
        Full beautiful, a faery's child;
    Her hair was long, her foot was light,
        And her eyes were wild.

    I made a Garland for her head,
        And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone;
    She look'd at me as she did love,
        And made sweet moan.

    I set her on my pacing steed,
        And nothing else saw all day long;
    For sideways would she lean, and sing
        A faery's song.

    She found me roots of relish sweet,
        And honey wild, and manna dew;
    And sure in language strange she said,
        "I love thee true."

    She took me to her elfin grot,
        And there she wept and sighed full sore,
    And there I shut her wild sad eyes
        With kisses four.

    And there she lulled me asleep,
        And there I dream'd, Ah Woe betide,
    The latest dream I ever dreamt
        On the cold hill side.

    I saw pale Kings, and Princes too,
        Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
    Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
        Hath thee in thrall!"

    I saw their starved lips in the gloam
        With horrid warning gaped wide,
    And I awoke, and found me here
        On the cold hill side.

    And this is why I sojourn here,
        Alone and palely loitering;
    Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
        And no birds sing.

        John Keats

Sunday, 17 March 2013

Note: Saint Patrick

St. Patrick was born, not in Ireland, but in Britian around AD 387. Well, actually, he wasn’t called St. Patrick at the time, or even Patrick, but was referred to as Maewyn Succat. Good thing he changed his name later, St. Maewyn’s Day doesn’t have the same ring. We’ll stick with Patrick just in case I’m slaughtering that pronunciation.

Patrick was quite far from being a saint growing up. Until he was 16 he considered a pagan, or maybe even an atheist by today’s definition. It was at that age when he was taken into slavery by a group of Irish marauders that attacked his village.

Patrick was sold to his master, a Druid chief in Ireland, and served him for 6 years. It was during his captivity that he became a Christian. One day he heard what he described as a voice compelling him in his sleep to leave his master, and find a ship that awaited him. He fled to the coast of Ireland, and eventually made it back to his home. He then decided to study in the monastery, and stayed there for 12 years, during which he decided that his calling was to convert the pagans to Christianity.

Eventually he adopted his Christian name, Patricius, or Patrick as we know it, and returned to Ireland after being appointed a Bishop. Patrick was very successful at winning converts, which upset the Celtic Druids who had him arrested several times, but he managed to escape each arrest. Patrick travelled through Ireland, establishing monasteries, schools, and churches throughout the land.

Eventually Patrick returned to where he had once been a slave, to pay his ransom to his former master, and to impart his “blessing” upon him. Despite being treated cruelly, Patrick didn’t hold a grudge against him.

As Patrick approached his master’s old homestead he saw that it was in flames. He found out that the stories people told about him had proceeded him, and in a fit of frenzy, his old master gathered all his treasures into his mansion, set them on fire, and threw himself into the flames. An ancient record ads that “his pride could not endure the thought of being vanquished by his former slave”.

There are a lot of legends surrounding St. Patrick. Some say that he raised people the from the dead. Others say that he drove the snakes out of Ireland, but since there are no fossil records of snakes in Ireland at that time, it is highly unlikely, unless he drove out the fossils as well. Many think that “snakes” was a metaphor for the conversion of the pagans, meaning he drove paganism out from Ireland.

Green wasn’t the original colour associated with St. Patrick, it was first blue. It eventually changes for various reasons, probably because of being used in various Irish flags, and how green is associated with Ireland itself.

Patrick worked in Ireland for 30 years. Afterwords, he retired, and then died on March 17th, in AD 461. There wasn’t a canonization process when Patrick died, that didn’t come until the 12th century. He would have been declared a saint by acclamation, and his sainthood approved by a local bishop soon after he died.

St. Patrick’s Day was originally a Catholic holiday, and still is, but has also evolved into a secular holiday, being celebrated by non-Irish, non-Catholics, and ironically enough, even atheists.

The tradition of pinching people that didn’t wear green is an American tradition that started in the 1700s. People thought wearing green made them invisible to leprechauns, who they thought would pinch people for not wearing green. The pinching served as a reminder to those who were green-abstainers.

Today when people think of St. Patrick, they imagine a leprechaun in a green jacket, hat, pipe, clover, and pot of gold. Not a man who devoted 30 years of his life to teaching and helping the Irish. Hopefully you now know a little more about the history of St. Patrick.

Note:

A small St. Patrick's Day message from The Great Black Lump.

Dia dhuit! Is mise Poppy agus tá mé in a chónaí i gCanada! Is breá liom mo liathróid dearg! Ní maith liom ioraí, tá sé úfasach!

Its no Gaelic mind.. It is some sort of Irish.

Saturday, 16 March 2013

It's a Long Way to Tipperary

Refrain:
It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know.
Goodbye Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square,
It's a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart lies there.


Up to mighty London came
An Irish lad one day,
All the streets were paved with gold,
So everyone was gay!
Singing songs of Picadilly,
Strand, and Leicester Square,
'Til Paddy got excited and
He shouted to them there:
It's a long way . . . .

Paddy wrote a letter
To his Irish Molly O',
Saying, "Should you not receive it,
Write and let me know!
If I make mistakes in "spelling",
Molly dear", said he,
"Remember it's the pen, that's bad,
Don't lay the blame on me".
It's a long way . . . .

Molly wrote a neat reply
To Irish Paddy O',
Saying, "Mike Maloney wants
To marry me, and so
Leave the Strand and Piccadilly,
Or you'll be to blame,
For love har fairly drove me silly,
Hoping you're the same!"
It's a long way . . . .
Cumha Eoghan Ruaidh Uí Néill

Mar táid a Dhé na Gaedhil gan treóir is truagh!
Síol ádhmhar Néill, síol Éibhir mhóir i dtuaidh.
Síol Táil go tréith, sliocht Shéarlais chródha i nguais,
Gan cháil, gan chéim, ó'n éag sin Eógain Ruaidh.

I dtáimhcheas léir tá Éire ó bhóinn go Muaidh.
Ó Árdloch Léin go Daeil, go Feóir 'sgo buais.
Ó Mháigh go Léim, Ón Éirne fóst go Cruaich,
Gan lann, gan scéith, ó'n éag sin Eógain Ruaidh.

Is láidir a shéideas gaoth gach ló do thuaidh;
Is d'fhás ar léas na ghréine neóil go nuadh;
Is árd do ghéis gach spéir le dóghra cruaidh,
'Sní lán an éasg' ó'n éag sin Eógain Ruaidh.

Faoi chlár i gcré tá féile Fódla uainn.
Bláth na nGaedheal is éasga óir an tsluaigh.
Lámh na n-éacht nár chlaon ón chóir ar luach.
Is d'fhág Éire i mbaoghal fé léan ó'n lá do chuaidh.
Cliffs Of Dooneen

You may travel far far from your own native home
Far away o'er the mountains far away o'er the foam
But of all the fine places that I've ever been
There is none can compare with the cliffs of Dooneen

It's a nice place to be on a fine summer's day
Watching all the wild flowers that ne'er do decay
Oh, the hare and the pheasant are plain to be seen
Making homes for their young 'round the cliffs of Dooneen

Take a view o'ver the mountains fine sights you'll see there
You'll see the high rocky mountains on the west coast of clare
Oh, the towns of Kilkee and Kilrush can be seen
From the high rocky slopes 'round the cliffs of Dooneen

So fare thee well to Dooneen fare thee well for a while
And although we are parted by the raging sea wild
Once again I will wander with my Irish colleen
'Round the high rocky slopes of the cliffs of Dooneen

Friday, 15 March 2013

Carrickfergus

I wish I was in Carrickfergus,
Only for nights in Ballygrant
I would swim over the deepest ocean,
For my love to find
But the sea is wide and I cannot cross over
And neither have I the wings to fly
I wish I could meet a handsome boatsman
To ferry me over, to my love and die

My childhood days bring back sad reflections
Of happy times I spent so long ago,
My boyhood friends and my own relations
Have all passed on now like melting snow.
But I'll spend my days in endless roaming,
Soft is the grass, my bed is free.
Ah, to be back now in Carrickfergus,
On that long road down to the sea.

But in Kilkenny, it is reported,
On marble stones there as black as ink
With gold and silver I would support her,
But I'll sing no more 'till I get a drink.
For I'm drunk today, and I'm seldom sober,
A handsome rover from town to town,
Ah, but I'm sick now, my days are numbered,
Come all you young men and lay me down.
Brennan on the Moor

Tis of a famous highwayman
A story I will tell;
His name was Willie Brennan,
And in Ireland he did dwell;
And on the Kilworth mountains
He commenced his wild career,
Where many a wealthy gentleman
Before him shook with fear.

Chorus:
Brennan on the Moor,
Brennan on the Moor.
A brave undaunted robber
Was bold Brennan on the Moor.


A brace of loaded pistols
He carried night and day;
He never robbed a poor man
Upon the king's highway;
But what he'd taken from the rich,
Like Turpin and Black Bess,
He always did divide it
With the widow in distress.

One night he robbed a packman
By name of Pedlar Bawn;
They travelled on together
Till the day began to dawn;
The pedlar seeing his money gone,
Likewise his watch and chain,
He at once encountered Brennan
And he robbed him back again.

One day upon the highway,
As Willie he went down,
He met the Mayor of Cashel
A mile outside the town:
The Mayor he knew his features;
"I think, young man," said he,
"Your name is Willie Brennan;
You must come along with me."

Now Brennan's wife had gone to town,
Provisions for to buy,
And when she saw her Willie,
She began to weep and cry;
He says, "Give me that tenpenny";
As soon as Willie spoke,
She handed him a blunderbuss
From underneath her cloak.

Then with his loaded blunderbuss,
The truth I will enfold,
He made the Mayor to tremble,
And robbed him of his gold;
One hundred pounds was offered
For his apprehension there,
So he with horse and saddle
To the mountains did repair

Then Brennan being an outlaw
Upon the mountains high,
Whith cavalry and infantry
To take him they did try;
He laughed at them with scorn,
Until at length, 'tis said,
By a false-hearted young man
He basely was betrayed.
BOULAVOGUE

At Boulavogue, as the sun was setting
O'er bright May meadows of Shelmalier,
A rebel hand set the heather blazing
And brought the neighbours from far and near.
Then Father Murphy, from old Kilcormack,
Spurred up the rocks with a warning cry;
"Arm! Arm!" he cried, "for I've come to lead you,
For Ireland's freedom we fight or die."

He led us on 'gainst the coming soldiers,
The cowardly Yeomen we put to flight;
'Twas at the Harrow the boys of Wexford
Showed Bookey's regiment how men could fight.

Look out for hirelings, King George of England,
Search every kingdom where breathes a slave,
For Father Murphy of the County Wexford
Sweeps o'er the land like a mighty wave.

We took Camolin and Enniscorthy,
And Wexford storming drove out our foes;
'Twas at Slieve Coillte our pikes were reeking
With the crimson stream of the beaten yeos.

At Tubberneering and Ballyellis
Full many a Hessian lay in his gore;
Ah, Father Murphy, had aid come over,
The green flag floated from shore to shore!

At Vinegar Hill, o'er the pleasant Slaney,
Our heroes vainly stood back to back,
And the Yeos at Tullow took Father Murphy
And burned his body upon the rack.

God grant you glory, brave Father Murphy,
And open Heaven to all your men;
The cause that called you may call tomorrow
In another fight for the green again.


P.J.McCall

Thursday, 14 March 2013

Let Me Die A Youngman's Death

 
Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death.



Roger McGough

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.


Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:


From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.


Edgar Allan Poe
The Persian Version

Truth-loving Persians do not dwell upon
The trivial skirmish fought near Marathon.
As for the Greek theatrical tradition
Which represents that summer's expedition
Not as a mere reconnaisance in force
By three brigades of foot and one of horse
(Their left flank covered by some obsolete
Light craft detached from the main Persian fleet)
But as a grandiose, ill-starred attempt
To conquer Greece - they treat it with contempt;
And only incidentally refute
Major Greek claims, by stressing what repute
The Persian monarch and the Persian nation
Won by this salutary demonstration:
Despite a strong defence and adverse weather
All arms combined magnificently together.



Robert Graves

Wednesday, 13 March 2013

Bean Pháidín


Rachainn go Gaillimh, go Gaillimh,
Is rachainn go Gaillimh le Páidín,
Rachainn go Gaillimh, go Gaillimh,
Is thiocfainn abhaile sa mbád.

 

 chorus
'S é an trua ghár nach mise, nach mise,
's é an trua ghéar nach mise bean Pháidín,
'S é an trua ghéar nach mise, nach mise,
Is an bhean atá aige a bheith caillte.



'S é an trua....

Rachainn go haonach an Chlocháin,
Is siar go Béal 'tha na Báighe,
Bhreathnóinn isteach tríd an bhfuinneog,
Ag súil is go bhfeicfinn Bean Pháidín.

'S é an trua...

Go mbristear do chosa, do chosa,
Go mbristear do chosa, a bhean Pháidín,
go mbristear do chosa, do chosa,
Go mbristear do chosa is do chnámha.

'S é trua....