About Me

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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.

Thursday, 13 March 2014

The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls
 
THE HARP that once through Tara’s halls   
  The soul of music shed,   
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls   
  As if that soul were fled.   
So sleeps the pride of former days,           
  So glory’s thrill is o’er,   
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,   
  Now feel that pulse no more.   

No more to chiefs and ladies bright   
  The harp of Tara swells:           
The chord alone, that breaks at night,   
  Its tale of ruin tells.   
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,   
  The only throb she gives,   
Is when some heart indignant breaks,           
  To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore
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.
FAIRY QUEENS OF IRELAND

There are many great fairy queens that are remembered in Irish folk tales. They are known as 'bean righean na brugh', the fairy queen of the palace, and are quite clearly the tutelary goddesses of local tribes. Many are still said to be the guardians of certain Irish clans.

Three miles south west of Lough Gur is Cnoc Aine, or Knockainy, the hill of Aine, one of the most important fairy queens of Munster. Also on the shores of the lake is Cnoc Finnine, of the goddess Fennel, the sister of Aine.

Many of the sidhe folk have encounters or relationships with mortals. The Earl of Desmond once saw Aine combing her hair on the bank of a river. He fell in love with her and seizing her cloak made her his wife. The offspring of this union was Aine's enchanted son Geroid Iarla, who lives under the lake awaiting his return to the world of men. Once every seven years he emerges from the water as a phantom riding on a white horse.

Aine is revered throughout Ireland. In Co. Derry locals say she was a mortal woman who was 'taken' by the fairies; the local family O'Corra are said to be descended from Aine. In Co. Louth Aine's stronghold is at Dunany point (Dun Aine). Every year three days are dedicated to her, the first Friday, Saturday and Sunday after Lammas; it was said that she would claim a life on those days.

It is at Cnoc Aine in Co. Limerick where Aine is most well remembered as a great queen. Every year on St. John's Eve (24 June) local people would form a procession around the hill, then carry flaming torches through the fields of ripening crops. Aine herself was seen on many occasions leading the procession.

The fairy queen of the north of Munster is Aoibheal; she is the ancestral deity of the O'Briens, (the descendants of Brian Boru) who rules from Craig Liath (grey rock) in Co. Clare. At the great battle of Clontarf, Aoibheal had fore-knowledge of the outcome and tried to warn her people. Aoibheal is revered in many of the 'Aislings', the vision poems of the eighteenth century concerning the future freedom of Ireland.

Cliodna is loved and cherished by the people of Co. Cork, where a number of place names are associated with her. She is the guardian goddess of the O'Keefes, and said to be the eldest daughter of the last Druid of Ireland. One of the three great waves mentioned in Irish mythology is Tonn Cliodna, the wave of Cliodna, off the coast at Glandore, Co. Cork. A legend tells of Ciabhan of the Curling Locks who took Cliodna out of the lands of Manannan and brought her to the shores of Ireland in his curragh. He left Cliodna alone on the shore while he went off to hunt deer; while he was gone Manannan sent a huge wave over the strand and Cliodna was drowned.

In the north east of Leinster the fairy queen Grian of the Bright Cheeks has her abode on Cnoc Greine. The sidhe mound of her father was attacked once by the five sons of Conall. Grian pursued them and in revenge she transformed them into badgers. In the Irish sagas Grania eloped with Diarmaid, and all over Ireland there are cairns and cromlechs known locally as 'the bed of Diarmaid and Grania'. In Co. Tipperary, east of loch Derg, lies Knockshegouna, the fairy hill of Una. Una is the wife of the fairy king Finnbheara of Cnoc Meadha; she is a somewhat elusive figure, but nevertheless her sidhe dwelling was a very important place in former times, and she is still remembered by local people.


FAIRY KINGS OF IRELAND


The great fairy king of Co. Galway in the west of Ireland is Finnbheara (Finnvarr). Cnoc Meadha is his abode, a prominent hill west of Tuam, on top of which is a burial mound. To the north west is Magh Tuireadh, where the legendary battle between the Fir Bolgs and the Tuatha De Danaans took place. There are many stories which illustrate Finnbheara's liking for earthly women. He would often draw young girls away to dance all night with him in his palace, but the next morning they were always found safely asleep in bed. One particular nobleman was not so fortunate, however. His bride was taken one time by the fairy king. The bride's old nurse told the noble that he must dig down into the sidhe mound, starting at the top. But during the night the fairies of the mound filled the tunnel back in with earth. This happened again on the second night. In despair the nobleman turned to the old nurse again, who told him to sprinkle the earth with salt and place a line of burning turf around the trench, as the sidhe could not resist that. The following morning the bride was found safe in her bed.

Finnbheara is also known to love horses, and he is usually seen riding a black horse with flaring red nostrils. Some-times he would invite young men to ride with his fairy host.

In Co. Limerick the fairy king Donn of Knockfierna is well remembered. There is a large earthern fort on his hill and a number of dolmens known as the 'Giants Graves'. You can see the entrance to his fairy palace. Donn is the ancient Celtic god of the Dead who rules the rocky islands to the south west on the Atlantic coast. Donn is also known in Co. Fermanagh as the ancestor of the Maguires, whom he helped in their battles. Sometimes he is seen riding on a white horse on stormy nights, when people would exclaim: "Donn is galloping in the clouds tonight". Donn now more closely resembles a medieval Irish landlord than a god. He rules quite strictly but will aid his people when needed. He is also believed to fight against rival hosts in other counties, the winner carrying off the best potato crop for that year.

It will be noted that the fairy queens and kings are in fact the old pagan gods and goddesses 'in disguise' who have long been revered by the Irish. I once heard someone state that the Celtic gods of Ireland had long been wiped out, buried under the sway of Catholicism. Yet anyone who has been to the Emerald Isle, or listened to her many folk tales can see for themselves that this is very far from the reality. The old gods live on in folk tales as the giants of the hill; the Gobhan Saor who built all the bridges of Ireland; the Gille Decair, a clown and trickster; the carl (serf) of the drab coat and many others. The old deities were once worshipped throughout Ireland, however it is in the west that they are best remembered now, the east having been more Christianized and anglicised, and subject to more invasions. By contrast, the west of Ireland, to which the native Irish were driven ("to hell or Connaught") has held on longer to her ancient heritage.

Wednesday, 12 March 2014

Marked by Sidhe

I tried to capture you
In the forests of Donegal,
Your bark of hair, red, so dark,
Was smear, camouflage, and window
Into a lost Fae world made as I was sinking
Without ever knowing, falling, without fear
Years later, you have long left and I still
Breathe in a wooden box of dream.
The Hosting Of The Sidhe

The host is riding from Knocknarea

And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?

Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

William Butler Yeats
The Sidhe

When the moon is full
On a starless night
A lone Sidhe puts his lips to the horn
And he begins to blow


The music echoes through the fog
Each Sidhe picks up the song
The grey horses lift their ears
Answer the call, then begins to run across the bog

They ride in the wild hunt
Strange wild and free
The mist roils as they fly
Everyone douth flee

They ride through the forest dark
The ground is hard
They kill on a lark
Full of the battle lust

A fire burns inside their hearts
Driving others to pain
They destroy, they hurt
For nothing to gain

When the moon is full
On a starless night
A lone Sidhe puts his lips to the horn
And he begins to blow
The Legend of Tír na nÓg


Long ago, on an isle of emerald green, surrounded by a sea of azure blue, there lived a young man named Oisín.

Oisín liked to explore the moors with the Fianna the name of a band of ancient warrior-hunters and defenders of Ireland.

One day, when Oisín and the Fianna were out hunting, they saw an extraordinary sight. It was a beautiful young woman with long red hair, riding on a spirited white mare. The sun glistened off the maiden's hair, casting a magical golden light.

The mare's movements were so fluid that she appeared to float across the ground. As her rider brought her to a stop before the group, the horse's hooves struck at the field stones impatiently, sending small sparks into the air.

"My name is Niamh," the woman said, in a voice that sounded like the music of a harp. "My father is the king of Tír na nÓg."

Oisín stepped forward from the group of hunters to welcome the rider. As his eyes met Niamh's, they fell in love.

"Come with me to Tír na nÓg," Niamh pleaded to her new found love. After only a moment's hesitation, Oisín swung up behind Niamh onto the white horse.

Together, they crossed the sea to Tír na nÓg.

Having grown up on the Emerald Isle, Oisín would never have believed that a more beautiful land existed. But, as he gazed upon Tír na nÓg, he was stunned by the beauty around him.

In this magical land, Niamh and Oisín built a life together. They spent each day exploring Tír na nÓg with the white mare. Niamh and Oisín's love grew deeper as Niamh shared the beauty of her enchanted homeland.

300 years passed as though it were but a single day. No one in Tír na nÓg ever grew old or fell sick. They lived in endless, youthful moments filled with happiness.

In spite of the beauty of the land and the deep love that Niamh and Oisín shared for each other, a small part of Oisín's soul knew loneliness.

Such feelings were unheard of in Tír na nÓg but in spite of her efforts, Niamh was unable to ease Oisín's loneliness.

So, when Oisín came to Niamh and told her of his desire to return to Ireland to see his family and the Fianna again, she could not hold him back.

"All right," said Niamh. "Return to Ireland on the back of the white mare. But my dear, your foot must not touch the soil of Ireland!"

Immediately Oisín rode the white horse back across the sea to the land of his birth.

As soon as the mare's hooves touched Ireland's soil, Oisín realized how much the land had changed. Oisín's family and friends had long passed away. Their grand castle was over grown with ivy.

Oisín was so caught up in his quest to find his family and his grief at their loss, that he forgot to care for the beautiful white horse. In spite of her hunger and fatigue she continued to respond to her rider.

Finally, with a sad heart, Oisín turned the mare back toward the sea to return to Tír na nÓg.

Approaching the sea, he came upon a group of men working in a field. As the mare reached the group, her fatigue caused her to stumble. Her hoof hit a stone. Oisín bent down to pick up the rock, planning to take it to Tír na nÓg. He was sure that it would ease his sadness to carry a piece of Ireland back with him.

But as his hand grasped the stone, Oisín lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Within moments, Oisín aged 300 years.

Without her rider, the mare reared up and rushed into the ocean, returning to Tír na nÓg and her beloved Niamh.

When the men in the field witnessed this, they were amazed. Not only had they seen a young man age before their eyes, they had also seen a tired old plow horse transformed into a beautiful silver-white mare, who raced into the sea.

The men went to Oisín's aid and carried him to St. Patrick.

When Oisín met St. Patrick, he told Patrick of the his family and the Fianna, who had disappeared from Ireland almost 300 years before. Then he told St. Patrick of Niamh and the magical land of Tír na nÓg.

As Oisín ended his story, a great weariness swept over him and he closed his eyes in eternal slumber.

Even to this day, the fishermen and lighthouse keepers still tell of foggy nights when the moon is full, and they see a shimmering white horse dancing in the waves along the shores of Ireland. Some say that the red-haired maiden who rides the horse still searches for Oisín.

Approximate pronunciation guide
Fionn – Fyonn
Oisín – Ush-een
Eachtra – Acht-tra
Niamh Chinn Óir – Nee-ve keen ore
Fianna- fee-anna
Gleann na Smól - Glan nah Smole (valley of the thrushes)

For Our Miss Niamh

Niamh Chinn Oir - Queen of Tir Na Nog

Across the dewy morning hills of Eireann
Rode Niamh Chinn Oir on a snow-white steed
To Oisin fairy poet of the Fianna
For she fain would this mortal wed

Come with me to the fairy land of Tir Na Nog
For I have long loved you said she
And Oisin taken with her beauty
He bade farewell to his company

They rode through stormy regions far across the sea
To a land where time had ne'er its harvest reaped
And for an age there Oisin lived contented
Till longing for his comrades made him weep

I cannot help but read these sad dreams in your eyes
So you may return to your country
And take my blessing with this one command
Do not dismount from you fairy steed

But when at last he reached that misty island
So strange a sight did meet his puzzled frown
For Oisin rode as a giant among the people
And nowhere were the Fianna to be found

He learned from a gathering of workers
Together straining with a heavy load
That centuries before his friends had perished
Which painful tidings filled him with despair

As payment for the news that we have told you
Pray help us with this heavy stone to move
For if your strength should match your mighty stature
Scarce more than a touch enough should prove

But the saddle tore as Oisin leaned to help them
And sorely he upon the ground was thrown
He quickly turned into an aged man
And ne'er again set eyes on Tir Na Nog.

Leo O'Kelly

TÍR NA nÓG

Fadó fadó Éirinn, roimh theacht don nua-aois,
Bhí conaí ann ar an bhFiann,
Fionn 's a mhac Oisín
Is iomaí eachtra a bhain leo siúd,
Is iomaí casadh croí,
Ach ní dhéanfar dearmad ar an lá
A bhuail Oisín le Niamh.

Niamh Chinn Ór, as Tír na nÓg,
B'í an bhean ab áille gné a chas ar Oisín Óg
Mheall í é le breathacht,
Mheall sí é le póg,
Mheall sí é gan aon agó
Go Tír na nÓg
Bhí Oisín, lá brea gréine,
Ag siúl le ciumhais na habhann
' Measc blathanna buí, is luachra,
Taibhsíodh dó an tsamhail,
Spéirbhean ghléigeal álainn
A d'fhag croí an laoich sin fann,
Thug cuireadh dó go ír na nÓg
Go síoraí cónaí ann.

Tír álainn, tír na hóige,
Tír dhiamhair aislingí
Trí chéad bliain chaith Oisín ann
I ngrá mór le Niamh
Ach fonn nár fhág é choíche,
Is nach bhféadfadh sé a chloí,
Dul thar n-ais go hÉirinn,
Go bhfeichfeadh sé í arís.

"Ná fág an áit seo," arsa Niamh
"Ná himigh uaim, a chroí"
"Ma fhágann tusa Tír na nÓg,
Nó fhillfidh tú arís."
Ach d'fhill Oisín ar Éirinn,
Mar bhí fiabhras ina chroí
Is fuair sé bás ós comhair an Naoimh
B'shin deireadh lena thriall.
Tír na nÓg, ó Tír na nÓg,
Tír uasal na draíochta a bhí ann fadó,
Féach thiar ansin í
Thiar ar fhíor na spéire
San áit go mba mhaith liom bheith,
Sin Tír na nÓg.


Colm Mac Séalaigh

Saturday, 22 February 2014

The Vision – The Angel of Mons

 
They came, each summoned by the clarion call
That hereafter might yet become their tolling bell of effigy.
Each had come to defend freedom, a hope, a cause...
A country, threatened by evil catastrophe.   

Were we never so strong, never so vulnerable, never so unprepared? 
And yet, gladly we fought.  But at what cost, for what gain and at what price?
Every soldier’s wounded soul, made whole only by healing messages of love –
The muted hopes and dreams of dear ones left at home.  

Obliteration, annihilation - war - call it what you will. 
Fighting for glory - a barbed-wire crown?  

And yet - many have trod this path,
Not knowing to what victory they aspired.

Our song of triumph deadened in the lingering mists of battlefield agony.
Never to be repeated? 
Did a vision once inspire us? 
Had God been on our side?  

Were there shining angels there to sound our victory? 
Or was it just a mirage, as the new day dawned at last?


Peter Summers