Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

— Alfred Lord Tennyson.

The Wintry Night

Around the fire, one wintry night,
The farmer's rosy children sat,
The faggot lent its cheerful light,
And jokes went round, and harmless chat.

When hark! a gentle hand they hear
Low tapping at the bolted door;
And, thus to gain their willing ear,
A feeble voice was heard implore.

'Cold blows the blast across the moor,
The sleet drives hissing in the wind;
Yon toilsome mountain lies before,
A dreary, treeless waste behind.

'My eyes are weak and dim with age,
No road, no path, can I decry;
And these poor rags ill stand the rage
Of such a keen, inclement sky.

'So faint am I, these tottering feet
No more my palsied frame can bear,
My freezing heart forgets to beat,
And drifting snows my tomb prepare.

'Open your hospitable door,
And shield me from the biting blast;
Cold, cold it blows across the moor,
The weary moor that I have passed!.

With hasty steps the farmer ran,
And close before the fire they place
The poor have- frozen beggar man,
With shaking limbs and pallid face.

The little children flocking came,
And warmed his stiffened hands in theirs
And busily the kindly dame
A comfortable meal prepares.

Their welcome cheered his drooping soul;
And slowly down his wrinkled cheek,
The round tear was seen to roll,
That told the thanks he could not speak.

The children, too, began to sigh,
And all their merry chat was o'er;
And yet they felt — they knew not why —
More glad than they had been before.

— Anonymous

Night in Winter

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat in clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed;
The house-dog on his paws outspread
laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall,
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;

What matter how the night behaved!
What matter how the north-wind raved!
Blow high, blow low, not all it's snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.

— John Greenleaf Whittier

Ode to Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless.
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run,
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,
And fill all with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while they hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives and dies;
And full-grown lambs bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

— John Keats

The Birthday

Last Thursday, on May 12th, I had an unexpected call from a lovely lady, Ethel Walsh, who lives about a mile from me. Ethel asked if I would like to attend a little celebration the following evening to honour the 80th birthday of her father, Paddy Power.

I have known Paddy for more than 60 years and always held him in high esteem. We would not meet very often, as is the way with the world, but would concur on many matters of public interest.

On yesterday's pleasant May evening, after a hot sunny day, I attended a grand ceremony in Grangemockler Church, administered by Fr. Gear, with beautiful singing by Mala Ragget accompanied by organist Tony Egan. I stood outside the Church afterwards and greeted Paddy for a short while as he had many wanting to shake his hand. I also greatly enjoyed meeting a lady, whom I have always held in high regard, Nonie Freaney, who maintains the old pub tradition in nearby Nine-mile-house.

Maybe the following poem would somehow be appropriate for the occasion:

The Light of Other Days 

Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad memories bring the light
Of other days around me.
         
When I remember all
The friends so link'd together
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,    
Whose garlands dead
And all but he departed!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me. 

— Thomas Moore

William Shakespeare

English Poet and Dramatist

William Shakespeare (1564 — 1616), born 452 years ago on this day was the world's supreme creative literary genius. Little is known of his life. While his birth date is conjectural, he was baptised in the parish church of Stratford-upon-Avon on April 26, 1564. His father, John Shakespeare, was a dealer in agricultural produce in that town; his mother, Mary Arden, was a farmer's daughter. William, their third, but eldest surviving child, is thought to have been educated at Stratford Grammar School, to have left in his fourteenth year, and (traditionally) to have been apprenticed to a butcher. In 1852, in his 19th year, he married Ann Hathaway, daughter of a farmer of Shottery whose cottage, still preserved, is now called Ann Hathaway's cottage. She was Shakespeare's senior by eight years. A daughter, Susanna, was born within six months of the marriage, and twins (Hamnet and Judith) in 1585. Hamnet died in his 12th year, but the daughters both survived their father. Shakespeare moved to London in 1887 and found employment in the theatre at Shoreditch, the only playhouse then existing. He was soon admitted as a member of a company of players to which he remained faithful for the rest of his career.

Turning playwright, Shakespeare revealed unique powers of characterisation and mastery of dramatic speech in both verse and prose, with 37 plays assigned to him in his lifetime. In 1597, he purchased New Place, the second largest house in Stratford, and retired there in 1611. He died at New Place and was buried in the Chancel of Stratford church.

Thousands of books have been written about Shakespeare and his works. His plays are acted and studied more than any other dramatist in history

Creditable Draw by Tipp Footballers

National Football League, Division 3:

Sligo 0-18; Tipperary 3-09

Tipperary footballers showed commendable heart and spirit to finish strongly and earn a 3-09 to 0-18 draw with Sligo at Markievicz Park yesterday. Sligo led by 0-18 to 2-08 with two minutes remaining but a late Alan Moloney goal, and a later point, ensured a share of the spoils. Following a tight first half, Sligo held a 0-10 to 2-03 interval lead, with Michael Quinlivan and Peter Acheson netting Tipperary goals and Acheson giving the visitors their second goal after converting a 22nd minute penalty. The sides were tied on four occasions after the restart and although Sligo kicked on with Niall Murphy and Kyle Cawley, impressive,Tipperary fought hard to carve out a draw.

Football in Tipperary is striving against the tide down the years. The county has had, and still has, great people who work hard to promote the game and try to produce teams of the best possible standard to compete in all grades of inter-county competitions. The county continues to produce players capable of holding their own with the best in the land. Many GAA clubs in the county contain individuals who attend divisional and county board meetings and their attitudes to Tipperary football are at best disinterest and cynicism and, in some cases, even hostility. I cannot understand how anyone with those attitudes could call themselves GAA or Tipperary people.

This year, the manager of the Tipperary minor hurling team has ruled that no player will be allowed to play minor football for Tipperary if the want to be included in the minor hurling panel — a new kind of ban — even if playing all grades of hurling and football with their clubs. Two leading members of the Tipperary senior football team were included in a hurling panel of 40 at the beginning of the National League thus denying the footballers the use of their services even though neither player was even listed among the subs on the hurling panel until yesterday when one of them was introduced four minutes from the final whistle of the defeat to Clare.

The Pascal Fire of Patrick

On Tara's hill the daylight dies,
On Tara's plain 'tis dead.
"Till Baal's unkindled fires shall rise
No fire must flame instead".

'Tis thus the king, commanding, speaks,
Commands and speaks in vain;
For lo! a fire defiant breaks
From out the woods of Slane.

For there, in prayer, is Patrick bent,
With Christ his soul is knit;
And there, before his simple tent,
The Pascal fire is lit.

"What means this flame that through the night
illumines all the vale?
What rebel hand a fire dare light
Before the fires of Baal?"

"O King! when Baal's dark reign is o'er,
When thou thyself art gone,
This fire will light the Irish shore
And lead its people on;

Will lead them on full many a night
Through which they're doomed to go,
Like that which led the Israelite
From bondage and from woe.

This fire, this sacred fire of God,
Young hearts shall bear afar
To lands no human foot hath trod,
Beneath the Western Star;

To lands where Faith's bright flag unfurled
By those who here have knelt
Shall give unto a newer world
The sceptre of the Celt".

— D.F. McCarthy                 

The Harper and His Dog

On the green banks of Shannon when Sheelagh was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And where ever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelagh to part,
She said, while the sorrow was big at her heart,
'Oh, remember your Sheelagh, when far, far away,
And be kind my dear Pat, to your poor dog Tray'.

Poor dog, he was faithful and kind to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor,
When sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter's day
And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.
   
Where shall I go? Poor forsaken and blind,
Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

— Thomas Campbell (1777–1844)

By the Fireside

Where glows the Irish hearth with peat

There lives a subtle spell —

The faint blue smoke, the gentle heat,

The moorland odours, tell

Of long roads running through a red

Untamed unfurrowed land,

With curlews keening overhead,

And streams on either hand;

Black turf-banks crowned with whispering sedge,

And black bog-pools below;

While dry stone wall or ragged ledge

Leads on, to meet the glow

From cottage doors, that lure us in

From rainy western skies,

To seek the friendly warmth within,

The simple talk and wise;

Or tales of magic and of arms

From days when princes met

To listen to the lay that charms

The Connacht dweller yet

And still around the fires of peat

Live on the ancient days;

There still do living lips repeat

The old and deathless lays.

And when the wavering wreaths ascend,

Blue in the evening air,

The soul of Ireland seems to bend

Above her children there.

— T.W. Rolleston

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see,in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

— William H Davies

Irish Company Law

My beloved niece, Gráinne Callanan, recently had the fourth edition of her book on Irish Company Law published; the previous editions were in 1999, 2003 and 2007.

Gráinne has been a lecturer in Company and Insolvency Law at Waterford Institute of Technology for the past 22 years. She has a number of publications in the field of Company Law and was previously employed in the corporate banking sector.

Gráinne has dedicated her latest book to the memory of her late uncle — our brother — James (Seamus) Callanan, who passed away on 26th October 2014.

I will hereon show the dedication that she wrote:

To the memory of my beloved uncle,
James Callanan (1933—2014). 

For the long, long road to Tipperary
Is the road that leads me home
O'er hills and plains, by lakes and lanes
My woodlands, my cornfields
My country, my home.

— John A. Carpenter, c. 1917

Barbara Frietchie

Up from the meadows rich with corn,

Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Fredrick stand,

Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall,

When Lee marched over the mountain wall

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Fredrick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,

Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun

Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,

Bowed with her four score years and ten,

Bravest of all in Fredrick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat, left and right,

He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

'Halt! — the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

'Fire!' — out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash,

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff,

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

'Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,

But spare your country's flag' she said.

A shade of sadness,a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman's deed and word.

 'Who touches a hair of yon grey head

Dies like a dog! March on!' he said.

All day long through Fredrick street

Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long the free flag tossed

Over the heads of the rebel host.

                 

Ever it's torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it with warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honour to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw

Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down

On thy stars below in Fredrick Town.

— John Greenleaf Whittier

August Weather

Dead heat and windless air,
And silence over all;
Never a leaf astir,
But the ripe apples fall;
Plums are purple-red,
Pears amber and brown;
Thud! in the garden-bed
Ripe apples fall down.

Air like a cider-press
With the bruised apples' scent;
Low whistles express
Some sleepy bird's content;
Still world and windless sky,
A mist of heat o'er all,
Peace like a lullaby,
And the ripe apples fall.

— Katherine Tynan

The Snare

I hear a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.

But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid!
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid!

Making everything afraid!
Wrinkling up his little face!
As he cries again for aid;
 — And I cannot find the place!

And I cannot find the place
Where his paw is in the snare!
Little One! Oh, Little One!
I am searching everywhere!

 — James Stephens

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid the face amid a crowd of stars.

— William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Sacred Relics at Kilcash

The following is a piece from Romantic Slievenamon by James Maher, who was also editor of the book:

I visited Kilcash for the third time last week — out of reverence for that hallowed spot — Canon (William) Carrigan 

The Kilcash Prayer Book  

In the 14th volume of the Gaelic Journal, our late friend, Canon (Patrick) Power, lists a 96-page MS prayer-book from the library of St. John's College, Waterford. One does not associate romance with a prayer book, but Canon Power gives this most interesting note on the scribe, Tomás Ó Conchubhair: 

On a winter's evening, seventy years since (i.e. about 1820), a poor scholar in search of a night's shelter, called at the house of a farmer named Tobin at Ballypatrick near Kilcash. The hospitality sought for was freely given and, as a heavy fall of snow occurred during the night, the wanderer was invited to stay until the harsh weather had passed. In gratitude for the kindness shown to him, the guest requested pen and paper and transcribed his volume of prayers, which he presented to his host whose son in turn gave it to its present possessors. The MS, which is excellent, has been used in preparation of the Gaelic prayer-book of the Catholic Truth Society.

The Village Blacksmith

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smith stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from the threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the clergy pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus on the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Wayfarer

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,
This beauty that will pass;
Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,
Lit by a slanting sun,
Or some green hill were shadows drifted by,
Some quiet hill where mountainy men hath sown
And soon would reap,near to the gate of Heaven;
Or children with bare feet upon the sands
Of some ebbed sea,or playing on the streets
Of little towns in Connacht,
Things young and happy.
And then my heart hath told me:
These will pass,
Will pass and change,will die and be no more,
Things bright and green,things young and happy;
And I have gone upon my way
Sorrowful.

— Padraic H. Pearse.

My Old Home

A poor old cottage tottering to it's fall,
Some faded rose-trees scattered o'er the wall;
Four wooden pillars all slant one way,
A plot in front, bright green amid decay,
Where my wee pets, when e'er they came to tea,
Laughed, danced and played, and shouted in high glee;
A rusty paling and a broken gate
Shut out the world and bounded my estate.

Dusty and damp within, and rather bare,
Chokeful of books, here, there and everywhere.
Old-fashioned windows, and old doors that creaked,
Old ceilings cracked and grey, old walls that leaked.
Old chairs and tables, and an ancient lady
Worked out in tapestry, all rather shady.
Bright pictures in gilt frames, the only colour,
Making the grimy papering look duller.

What was the charm, the glamour that o'erspread
That dingy house and made it dear? — the dead,
The dead, the gentle, loving, kind and sweet,
The truest, tenderest heart that ever beat;
While she was with me 'twas indeed a home
Where every friend was welcome, when they'd come;
Her soft eyes shone with gladness, and her grace
Refined and beautified the poor old place.

But she is gone who made home for me there,
Whose child-like laugh, whose light step on the stair
Filled me with joy and gladness, hope and cheer,
To heaven she soared, and left me lonely here —
The old house now has got a brand new face.
The roses are uprooted, there's no trace
Of broken laugh, or blossom — no decay —
The past is dead, the world wags on alway.

— Ellen O'Leary