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VALLEY Of KNOCKANURE
By DAN KEANE
The bells of St. Bartholomew's rang in the morning air,
The mission bells were pealing to summon souls to prayer,
Three rebel sons of Ireland their fear of danger shed,
To kneel before God's altar and receive eternal bread.
Paddy Walsh and Paddy Dalton and their companion Dee,
Because they loved their Motherland they strove to set her free,
They little knew that morning what they shortly would endure,
As they took the road towards their last abode in the Valley of Knockanure.
The sun of May was rising, casting shadows to the west,
On a bridge in Gortagleanna those men sat down to rest,
They chatted there with Jerry Lyons their comrade from duagh.
But, alas! Too late to make escape when the Black and Tans they saw,
From lorries three in fiendish glee the Tans did leap and roar
With rifle-butt, with fist and foot they beat their prisoners sore,
Nought could they gain, the poured in vain rough language and impure,
No fear they showed in their last abode in the Valley of Knockanure.
They put them in the lorries and travelled towards Athea,
But there, again, they turned west and went the other way
Beyond the Gortgleanna cross a fort came into view
The Black and Tans hatched evil plans in a field behind Lisroe.
Again, their captives gave their names but nothing more they'd tell
Within their breasts beat hearts as brave as e'er for Ireland fell,
The tans foul breath or threats of death could nothing more procure,
For valour glowed in their last abode in the Valley of Knockanure.
With love undying they stood in line, clasped hands and said goodbye,
They shouted prayers for freedom when they knew they were to die.
No order had been given,they fired in random glee,
One dared to dash for freedom; a rebel called Con Dee.
In that lonely dell three comrades fell their tortures were all o'er,
In tale and song they still live on and will for evermore.
They met their God on their own green sod with stainless souls and pure
And their red blood flowed in their last abode in the Valley of Knockanure.
The Tans were raging furious as Dee kept gaining ground,
The hills around re-echoed the rapid rifle sound.
Though wounded early in the chase he held both head and feet
On towards the wild wide mountain where green and purple meet.
He prayed to those he left in death that they his life would spare,
God bless the hands that found him and took him in their care.
They nursed the worn weary limbs that bore him o'er the moor
As he fearless strode from death's abode in the Valley of Knockanure.
The bell of St. Bartholomew's still speaks in solemn tone,
The Patriot hearts who gave their all are still in memory known.
The graves that hold their fleshless bones a veil o'er life has drawn
But their souls have flown to that bright home of God's eternal dawn.
May they look down from Heaven's crown on the land they died to save,
God grant that we might ever be as fearless and as brave.
There's a cross to tell where those men fell our freedom to secure
And the sun of May shines bright today o'er the Valley of Knockanure.
By Dan Keane who was born Sept 17th 1919.
Walsh, Lyons and Dalton were shot by the Tans at Gortaglanna on May 12th 1921.
Con Dee escaped.
Description
GABRIEL FITZMAURICE
Based on the author�s experiences as a teacher, as a parent and as a big kid himself, these newly composed rhymes present the really rotten moments that children relish. These are rhymes that children, young and old, will enjoy repeating to themselves and to friends � they�re rotten and they�re slightly, but nicely, rude. The children LOVE them, their grown-ups pretend to be less amused (but in secret they LOVE them too!)
When you paddle In the sea First you shiver Then you pee And the waves that licked your toes Suddenly Fizz up your nose And you stumble Oh the shock And you swallow water Yock! But it�s sweaty summer weather And it�s great fun altogether!
This book is the best! I love it. Its great fun and really makes me laugh � Jamie, age 8
About the Author
Gabriel Fitzmaurice was born in 1952 in the village of Moyvane, County Kerry, where he still lives. He is principal of the primary school in the village and is the author of more than thirty books, including collections of poetry in English and Irish; his books of verse for children have become classics. Gabriel frequently broadcasts on radio and television on education and the arts.
Title Really Rotten Rhymes
Subtitle
Author Fitzmaurice, Gabriel
Price �7.99
ISBN 9781856355445
Status In Print
Region General
Type Paperback
Category Childrens
Imprint Mercier Press
More titles by this Author
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John Moriarty -
The Mangerton Shaman
By Tony Bailie
With a shock of white hair, ancient lived in eyes and a mildly eccentric dress sense, John Moriarty is someone who causes people to do a double take as he passes by. He exudes an easy going and unselfconscious charm which enthrals the waitresses in the restaurant where we sit down to eat and they seem to squabble over who is going to serve him.
Our conversation is an almost hypnotic experience as Moriarty intones his sentences in a rich north Kerry accent, repeating key phrases two or three times to milk the full impact of the point he wants to make, almost as if he is mimicking the chanting shamans who dominate so much of his writing.
He has published five books drawing liberally upon the legends of Ireland, classical Greece, American Indians, Australian Aborigines, Ancient Egypt, Islam, Asia and the Christian Gospels to try and articulate the inner most mysteries of human consciousness.
John Moriarty pictured by Valerie O'Sullivan outside his home on Mangerton Mountian
Click here for larger pic.
His most recent book Nostos, published in March 2001, is a huge sprawling volume of autobiography containing nearly 700 pages of tightly crammed text, with no chapter breaks, setting out many of the ideas that he had already articulated in his previous books, but in a ``biographical context.��
He was born close to Listowel in Moyvane in 1938, educated at University College Dublin, lectured English Literature in Canada for six years before dropping out of academia to live in Connemara where he worked as a gardener.
``I baptised myself out of culture in Connemara and started to remake my mind again with new sensations, sensations the colour of red stragnum and the sound of the stream, the colour of sunset, the calling of a fox, the smell of heather,�� he says
``I went through libraries, I had been to the galleries and been to the concert halls and I was literally glutted with culture, I had to come out and put my head in a stream in a bog in Connemara and let it all wash out and start again and remake my mind.��
He moved to Kerry six years ago and currently lives in a small book filled house on the slopes of Mangerton Mountain about five miles outside of Killarney. He says he feels like an exile in modern Ireland and only comes down from his retreat to give an occasional lecture or to shop for groceries.
He continues: ``An old name for Ireland is F�dhla and I live in a dimension of the land of Ireland called F�dhla and when I am coming down to Killarney I feel like showing a passport sometimes at Muckross because I�m crossing into Ireland.��
Moriarty�s first book was called Dreamtime after the Australian Aboriginal myth that their ancestors literally dreamed the earth, as we know it, into existence. He says that his writing is an attempt to bring this concept into an Irish and European context.
``I wanted to drop out of official Europe and find out is there an Irish Dreamtime in the way that Australian Aborigines walk their songlines. I feel that is where I live. I live in Ireland�s Dreamtime, I live in Europe�s Dreamtime. It is a dropping out of history and your responsibility to history, returning to the Dreamtime that was before history and so it was an attempt to go back and walkabout in Ireland�s Dreamtime,�� he says.
For Moriarty myths are a means of articulating the inner most concerns of the human psyche and their retelling is a path to self-knowledge.
``The Minotaur myth to me is an enlightenment about the beast within me, it pictures the beast in me, it pictures who I phylogenetically am rather as opposed to who acidicly I am. They let me see myself in my deepest impulses, my darkest impulses,�� he says.
``I open my door to the wisdom of humanity with no customs and excise stuff. If I can touch the pulse of a myth or an Upanishad or of a Sutra from the Buddhist thing, or the Tibetan Book of the Dead then that speaks a truth to me, the truth isn�t tribal, there are tribal truths, but my door is open and I listen extra-territorially, I listen outside of my own territory.
``We have not taken what the myths have said to us seriously, now some of them are stupid and silly, but there are quite a few which to me are places of great revelation and enlightenment and they enable me to know me and to inherit me.
``I am taking responsibility for the darkest impulses within me and saying `John ask this much of yourself but don�t ask that much of yourself, don�t stir up the beast within yourself.' You�re not going to like what you find, you can be terrified by what you find.��
Moriarty had to spend many years battling the ``beasts�� within himself, an experience he says which could have ``blown me away.��
He continues: ``In the way that there is a physical appendix and that siphons off the poisons which if they burst would flood the body and poison the body, I think there is a karmic appendix and the karma of lifetimes is stored in it and a time comes in one incarnation or another that karmic appendix bursts and your mind is flooded with bad karma and there were nights when I felt that the windows of my bedroom were fogged up with the stuff that was coming out of me, it was a real witches cauldron.
``There was a time when I saw three doors before me, a door into a monastery, a door into a high security prison, because it was within me to commit the ultimate crime, the big crime, the kind of impulses that would enable one to commit the ultimate crime were at large in me, and I saw a door into a mental home.�
Moriarty took refuge in an Oxfordshire monastery living there for 18 months as layman, participating fully in the monastic routine and returning to the Catholicism of his youth.
He says: ``I needed divine assistance, I needed to invoke grace, I mean I can�t heal me, I need healing from outside the system that I am and that normally is called grace�. I found when I needed help I found myself falling back into mother tongue and mother tongue wasn�t Hinduism, wasn�t Buddhism, wasn�t Taoism wasn�t Australian Aboriginalism or Native Americanism.
``The Gospels really are a wonderful tall tale about Jesus and its as a tall tale in the best sense of the world that I see them, and I�ve gone so far as to say that even if the tale was ten times taller it would still only be capturing glimpses of the reality� it�s the poetry of Christianity, not the dogmas, the Jesus that I hear instead of the lawyers, the people that would turn it into dogma.
``Christianity enables me to be much more radical than most of the secular radicals. Christianity is so radical that we have to water it down. I don�t think it can be socially realised at all, which is usually the old problem with mysticism. How do you socially institute mystical insights? You could do a lot of damage while trying to do it.��
Moriarty says he felt as if he went through ``fire and purification�� and that in a way the books he writes are part of the healing process.
``It was very important to speak it and to name it� I had to learn the language and the vocabulary and a lot of the vocabulary was the old myths and then the mystics the Upanishads and the Sutras of Hinduism and Buddhism and the Christian mystics and the Muslim mystics,�� he says.
As well as working on another book Moriarty has plans to open what he calls ``a hedge school,�� based on a monastic discipline. He wants it to become a place of learning where people can come to study mythical and mystical texts, particularly the Hindu Upanishads which reflect on the nature of man and the universe.
The Upanishad may not fall within the canon of texts studied in most traditional
western monasteries, but as Moriarty says he wants to ``listen to the wisdom of the world.��
He continues: ``I don�t think within the tribe, I haven�t walled myself in to the tribal thinking. I listen to the wisdom of humanity.��
Phelan, Sheila
Edward F. Barrett (1869-1936), Abbey Playwright
New Hibernia Review - Volume 10, Number 1, Spring 2006, pp. 139-146
Center for Irish Studies at the University of St. Thomas
New Hibernia Review 10.1 (2006) 139-146 _________________________________________________________________ [Access article in PDF] Edward F. Barrett (1869-1936), Abbey Playwright Sheila Phelan National University Of Ireland, Galway The extraordinary creative activity of Dublin's Abbey Theatre in the opening decades of the last century was the work not only of notable figures of literary and theatrical stature but, also of lesser figures who contributed in minor ways as their lives intersected for perhaps a year or two with the visionary project of Yeats and Lady Gregory. Edward F. Barrett, an accountant, wrote plays in his spare time, one of which was produced at the Abbey Theatre in 1918. His story is essentially that of an amateur who, in different circumstance, may have flourished as a playwright. Barrett was born on St. Valentine's Day, 1869. His mother was a Fitzmaurice from Listowel and his father was a publican. When Edward was a young boy, his father sold his pub and moved the family out to Newtown Sandes, a small village in the townland of Coolleen in North Kerry. As he grew up Barrett was interested in books and literature. After leaving school he trained as an accountant. He also taught for a time at St. Michael's College in Listowel. Dublin was an attractive prospect for an ambitious young man, and he soon obtained a position as business manager with Messrs. Smith and Sons, Silversmiths, of Wicklow Street. Although his move to Dublin was permanent, Barrett retained strong ties to Kerry and in 1898, at the age of twenty-nine, he married Nora Hunt, whose family farm at Knockanure was also in the townland of Coolleen. It was, by all accounts, a happy marriage. Nora and Eddie had one daughter, Maura, born in Dublin on October 15, 1906. Eddie Barrett grew up in North Kerry during a time of considerable political and social agitation. Farmers there suffered much..
From Scotland
http://www.nls.uk/broadsides/broadside.cfm/id/14615/criteria/hudson
1857 song
RISE UP
Noble Britons, Bundle an' go.
Curse on this Indian war that ere it began
And wae to the savages that formed the plan ;
But Britons are heroes we'll soon let them know,
That we'll seon be revenged so let's bundle and go.
Sae blaw on the bagpipe and beat on the drum,
Invite a' the lads that hae heart for to come;
That are young, stout, and able to face the black foe,
To protect our British subjects let us bundle and go.
Ye heroes of Britain that on listing are bent,
Gae join with the gallant and brave old tenth ;
For 800 savages they quickly laid low,
To be quick now to join them an' bundle an' go.
Ye heroes of Scotland that are able and free,
Gae join with the gallant and brave ninety three :
For they have gone to the Indies Sir Colin for to join,
And they will add another laurel to their Balaklava fame.
Ye lads of Banffshire and likewise Aberdeen,
Gae list wi' the lads wear the facings o' green ;
Seventy-ninth, seventy eighth and the brave old forty-twa,
For they always are ready to bundle an' go.
Let the bagpipes resound amang the hills o' the north,
Through Cromarty and Caithness to the lands o' Seaforth,
Tell M'Kenzie and Sutherland, M'Kay an' Munro,
That our women have been insulted, and they'll bundle an go
Ye heroes of Ireland, gae list heart and hand,
In the bold Connaught Rangers the pride of your land ;
Or the brave Faugh-a-Balloch, a regiment we know,
That will spend their herrts blood when they bundle and go
Let the harp of Old Ireland sound clear through the air,
From the County of Down to the Curragh of Kildare;
And through the mountains of Kerry to the county of Mayo
Just play Patrick's day and they'll bundle anl go.
In Lanarkshire and Stirlingshire there's plenty brave men,
Renfrew and Argyle there's a number that I ken;
And in through Glengary, Glenlyon and Glencoe,
Play the Campbells are coming, they'll bundle an' go.
Come west by Loch Carron and in by Kintail,
And down through Lochaber to the side o' Locheal;
And cogdah na sith tell the pipers to blow,
And ye'll soon raise the clansmen to bundle an' go.
Raise the standard of Scotland on the banks o' the Tweed,
On the banks of Galean and also the Jed;
The Armstrongs and Elliots, and the Douglas also,
Will shoulder their muskets and bundle an' go.
Brave Colin ye ken lads, he cares nae for blacks,
Gie him a wheen Britons to stand at his back;
Like a lion undaunted he'll rush on the foe,
And wi' his Glasgow sword gar them bundle an' go.
We are gentle as lambs but lions at heart,
But when we're insulted can take our ain part;
We're as hardy as oak and as fleet as the roe,
And to be revenged let us bundle an' go.
Heaven bless our Queen all her rights to maintain,
And grant her long life over Britain to reign,
And still may her brave subjects their loyalty show,
To rise up in thousands an' bundle an' go.
1830-1850
The Wonderful
Grey Horse.
My horse he is white, although at first he was bay,
He took great delight in travelling by night and by day;
His travels were great, if I could the half of them tell,
He was rode in the garden by Adam the day that he fell.
When banished from Eden, my horse was losing his way,
From all his fatigues, no wonder that now he is gray;
At the time of the flood he was rode by mony a spark,
And his courage was good when Noah took him into the ark.
On Babylon plains he ran with speed for the plate-
He was hunted next day, it is said, by Nimrod the great;
After that he was hunted again in the chase of a fox,
When Nebuchadnezzar eat grass in the shape of an ox.
He conducted him home straightway into Babylon Town'
Where the king was restored once more and solemnly crown'd
He was with King Saul, and all his troubles went through,
And was with King David the day that Goliah he slew.
When he saw King David hunted about by King Saul,
My horse took his leave and bid farewell to them all,
He was with King Pharoah in Egypt when fortune did smile
He rode him very stately along the banks of the Nile.
He followed Moses who rode him through the Red Sea,
He then led him out, and he sensibly galloped away ;
He was with King Cyrus, whose name is in history found
And he rode on my horse at the taking of Babylon Town'
When the Jews remained in chains and mercy implored,
King Cyrus proclaimed again to have them restored ;
He was in Judea when Judas Maccebus the great,
Had rode on my horse, as ancient historians relate.
The poor captive Jews received these news with great joy,
My horse got new shoes and pursued his journey to Troy.
When the news reached Troy, with my horse he was found,
He crossed over the wall, and entered the city I'm told.
The city being in flames, by means of Hector's sad fate,
My horse took his leave, and there no longer would wait;
I saw him again in Spain, and he in full bloom,
With Hannibal the great, and he crossing the Alps into Rome
My horse being tall, and the top of the Alps very high,
His rider did fall, and Hannibal the great lost an eye;
My horse got no ease although his rider did fall,
He was mounted again by young Scipio who did him extol
On African's Plains he conquered that part of the globe.
My horse's fatigues would try the patience of Job ;
He was with Brian the Brave when the Munster men he
did command,
Who in thirty-six battles drove the vile Danes from our land
At the battle of Clontars he fought on Good Friday all day,
And all that remained my horse drove them into-the sea;
He was with King James when he reached the Irish shore.
But, alas! he got lame, when Boyne's bloody battle was o'er-
To tell the truth, for the truth I always like to tell.
He was rode by St Ruth the day that in Aughrim he fell ,
And Sarsfield the brave, at the siege of Limerick town,
Rode on my horse and crossed o'er the Shannon I'm told.
He was rode by the greatest of men at the famed Waterloo,
And Daniel O'Connell long sat on his back it is true,
To shake off the yoke which Erin long patiently bore-
My horse being /ill / he means to travel no more.
He is landed in Erin, in Kerry he now does remain,
The smith is at work to fit him with new shoes again;
Place Lan on his back he is ready once more far the field.
And he never will stop till the Tories, he'll make them to yield.
1833
FROM MICHAEL M' CABE.
Just published, an interesting Letter from Michael
M'Cabe, now lying under Sentence of Death,
on the Gaud, in the Calton Jail, addressed to
Rebecca Hudson, Bell's Wynd, his Sweetheart,
which is published here by his own desire.
EDINBURGH, 4th Feb. 1833.
CONDEMNED CELL, CALTON JAIL
"To REBECCA HUDSON, '
' Bell's Wynd.
" MY DEAR REBECCA,
" No doubt but you would feel
truly sorry when you heard of my awful sentence, and I am
sure that you will have been watching every opportunity to
hear of any reprive having been sent to me by our Gracious
Sovereign ; but alas Reba, no such happy and welcome tid-
ings have as yet been transmitted to me. Every moment ap-
pears 28 an hour to me, fondly cherishing, as I do, the hope
that a reprive, or ar lease a respite, will yet be forthcoming.
But even when I reflect on our separation for life, death would
be still more welcome. In sorrow and bitterness do I repent
of my ill spent life, now that I see my days drawing nigh a
close. O that I had abided to the instructions of my youth�
that I had abstained from idleness and evil company�minded
the Sabbath day�that I had attended closely to my business,
theu might I at this moment of painful suffering, been as
happy as any of the innocent companions of my childish days,
I have now only to warn you and other associates in my
guilt, to abstain from bad company�to form a new erra in
your life,�to Remember the Sabbath day, and Keep it holy,
�to dash the venemous glass of ardent spirits from your
mouths, as you would do the most naucious drug, and then
your suffering on the bed on death, will be very different from
mine. These are the causes of a premature end, which the
fruits of life spent like ours, in dissipation, villany, and crime.
Every attention is paid to me here, the Jailors are very kind
aad' I am regularly attended by a clergyman, by whose assi-
duity and feeling-heartedness, I am led to turn my wandering
thoughts on the means of expiation, at that Tribunal where
the judgment of men has no controul. From the liberal ed.
ucation which I received from charitable institutions in Ed-
inburgh, I am, thank God, enable to read the Bible, which
has hitherto been too carelessly thrown aside. In it I feel
unbounded comfort, and I would strongly exhort you to read
it, for in it you will find more comfort, than any gratification
which your wicked companions can suggest. An advice of
this kind, coming from a preacher on the streets may have
little or no impression, but I trust and hope, that coming
from one of your late companions in guilt, it will have an ef-
fectual, and everlasting impression, and than I will have done
one good turn ; I will then be the cause of the saving of a
soul. Dear Rebecca, if you could get some printer to revise
this, and publish it, it may be the means of doing good, for
who can hear the groans of a eulprit, whose honors are so near
and bat will feel affected, and take his sayings seriously to
heart. O that it may make a lasting impression upon the
hearts of many, and turn them from the broad road of misery
destruction, and death. I had a visit from my sister, but
both her feelings and mine, were so overpowered, that I sunk
into a state of insensibility. May God bless her and all my
relations, and may they nor yov, nor any of my late com-
panions sorry in my death.�I must now bid you an eternal
adieu,
MICIAEL M'CABE.
This broadside begins: 'An Account of a wonderful Prodigy seen in the Air, on Tuesday the 15th Day of this Instant May, 1722, by John Moor, at Crawfords-dyke, near Greenock.' Unfortunately, but not unusually, the publisher's name has not been included on this broadside.
his report begins: 'A True and Particular Account of the Disastrous Circumstances attending the Horrible and most awful Appearance of a GHOST, which took place in a House in the High Street of Edinburgh, on Wednesday Evening, the 17th October, 1827.' What then follows is an extract from the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle of the 24th October, 1827. This broadside was printed by William Walters, and sold for one penny.
The account details two ghost sightings in Edinburgh, both of which occurred within the space of a week: one in Stevenlaw's Close and the other at 166 High Street. The first sighting appears to have been witnessed by a group of around 500 hundred people, whilst the spectre at 166 High Street was viewed by a solitary maid-servant. Accounts of apparitions and other strange occurrences were extremely popular amongst the broadside-reading public and, as such, always sold in large quantities..
The second last Speech of Mort Collins, who was execute at Glas-
gow on Wednesday the seventh of Novr, 1792, for the murder
of John Panton, giving an account of his behaviour in prison and
on the scaffold. To which is added the copy of a letter wrote
with his own hand to a friend. Also, the copy of a letter he
received from Capt. Cook, while under sentence of death.
The unfortunate Mort Collins, some days
Before his execution, seemed to be much a-
gitated in his mind, crying out at times so as
to be heard through the streets; on Monday
morning he received the sacrament from a
priest of the Roman profession, he was attend-
ed on Tuesday night and Wednesday Morn-
ing by some friends of that persuasion.-A-
bout two o'clock, the Magistrates accompa-
nied by the Revd. Dr. Taylor, who attend-
ed at their request went into the Court-hall,
where the prisoner was seated, holding in his
hand the Roman Catholic service book for
prisoners, from which he immediately began
to read, with seeming devotion; the prayers
for prisoners going to, and at, the place of e-
xecution. After these were ended, Dr. Tay-
lor took the opportunity of saying, that, if it
was not disagreeable, he wished to speak with
him a little, and to join in prayer: to this Col-
lins replied, that "your prayers may be very
good, but I do not know any prayers ex-
cept those of my own communion, and by
them I chuse to abide." He then read
the Apostles Creed, and the devotional exer-
cises annexed to it in the Service Book, on
faith, hope, charity, patience, and resignation.
After again declining to join in prayer with
the Minister present, he read, a second time,
the prayers for prisoners going to, and at the
place of execution. He then bowed respec-
tfully to the Magistrates; still declining any
conversation. Having drank a glass of wine,
he walked to the scaffold much agitated; where
he spent some time in reading prayers. He
then ascended the platform, and having taken
farewell of the executioner, he read for some
time on a book afterwards his cap was put over
his face, which he put up several times and
called for the innerkeeper of the tolbooth to
take farewell of him, and soon after he gave
the signal when he was launched into eterni-
ty a little after three o'clock, in the presence
of a great concourse of spectators; and having
hung the usual time, he was cut down, and
the body delivered to the professor of Anato-
my for dissection, agreeably to the sentence
of the Court. He was born in the County
of Clare, Ireland, and only twenty-two years
of age.
Copy of a letter from COLLENS to a friend,
Glasgow Tolbooth, 24th Octob, 1792.
DEAR SIR,
"I received your letter,
which gives me a deal of pleasure to hear you
are all well; my dear friends, you may be
sure that I intend to make the best use of my
time that I possibly can, and with the assist-
ance of God, I hope to die in peace with
God and the world, I am now visited by some
of my own profession, which gives me much
pleasure and relief, and in a short time I ex-
pect to have the benefit of some Clergy of
my own profession, which will make me quite
happy in my present miserable state, for no-
thing can give me greater pleasure than to
die in the religion I was brought up to. As
for writing to my parents, I know not what
to think of it; my dear friends, the shock of
it will be insupportable to them, who loved
me with such unbounded tenderness, it can
never be born by them; the distraction it will
cause in them, I am afraid, will end their
days. If possible, I should wish them never
to hear of it, my dear friends, it is not my
horrid destiny that afflicts my troubled soul,
but the unsupportable horror that will seize
my dear parents, that grieves me to the heart;
my dear friends, how different will be the
account that I must be forced to send them
from the last account they received from me,
that was a pleasing account which give them
much delight, but how horrid will this ac-
count of my ignominious death be to them,
they will hear it. O how happy would I be
if they never would hear of it, but it will be
known to them sometime. O blessed be the
name of God that has supported me since I
have fallen by these cruel wretches but it
seems it has been my lot to have fallen.
May he be a support to my afflicted parents
my dear friends, I will wait till those Revd.
Clergy come, and advise with them, for they
know best what to do in it.
Dear sir, I should be glad to see you and your wife, and
Molly before I die, it would give me much
pleasure: when ever you come, I suppose
there will be no hindrance to your seeing
me. You will tell Molly to send them shirts
to us as soon as possible, for the shirts we
have on are very dirty,"
I am,
your unfortunate
MORT COLLINS.
Copy of a Letter from Captain COOK.
Edinburgh Castle, the 30th of Octob. 1792.
COLLINS,
" I received your letter, and it
gives me great pleasure to find you so calm
and resigned in the midst of your present mis-
fortunes; and whatever your destiny may be,
I trust with the blessing of God, you will be
enabled to meet it with firmness and resigna-
tion to the divine will. I have done every
thing in my power for you, but cannot say
how my exertions will end. I hope you have
every possible comfort and nourishment affor-
ded you that your present unhappy situation
will admit. Put your whole trust and confi-
dence in the tender mercies of Almighty God,
and by so doing (tho' in prison) you will find
yourself light and easy; and be assured that
every happiness may attend you, is the pray-
er and sincere wish of"
W. COOK.
1849
MARY LE MORE
As I stray'd o'er the common on Cork's rugged border.
While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array d,
I saw a poor female, whose mental disorder,
Her quick-glancing eye and wild aspect betray'd.
On the sward she reelin'd by the green forn surrounded,
By her side speckled daisies and wild flowers abounded,
To its inmost recesses her heart had been wounded,
Her sighs were unseasing � 'twas Mary la More.
Her charms by the keen blasts sorrow were faded
Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play d on her cheek;
Her tresses a wreath of primroses braided,
And strings of fresh daises hung loose on her neck.
Whilo with pity I gazed, she exclaimed "O my mother !
See the blood on that lash' 'tis the blood of my brother,
I'hey have torn his poor flesh!�& they now strip another
'Tis Connor� tho friend of poor Mary le More.
Though his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean
Those wretches shall fine that my father is brave ;
My father! she cried with tne wildest emotion,
Ah, no, my poor father now sleep in the grave ;
They have toll'd his death bell, they've laid the turf o'er
him
His white locks were b'oody, on aid could restore him,
He is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,
When the blue waves of Erin bide Mary le More.
A lark from the gold blossom'd furso that grow near her,
Now rose, and with energy caroll'd his lay ;
Hush: hush !' she continued,' tho trumpet sounds clearer
The horsemen approach: Erin's daughter's away !
Ah ! soldiers, twas foul, while the cabin was burning.
And o'er a palo father a wretch had been mourning�
Go hide with the sea-mew, ye maids and take Warning,
Those ruffians have ruin'd poor Mary le More.
Away ! bring the ointment�O, God! see the gashes!
Alas ! my poor brother ! come dry the big tear!
Anon we'll have vengeance for those dreadful lashes,
Already the screech-owl and raven appear,
By day tho green grave, that lies under the willow,
With wild flow'rs I'll strow, and by night make my pillow
Till the ooze and dark sea-weed, beneath tho curl'd bil
low,
Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More.
Thus raved the poor maniac, in tones more heart-rending
Than sanity's voice ever poured on my ear ;
When lo ! on tho waste, and the march towords her
bonding
A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear,
'O, the.fiends she exclaimed, and with wild horror start-
ed,
Then through the tall [ ] loudly screaming darted ;
With an overcharged bosom slowly departed,
And sigh'd for tho wrongs of poor Mary la More
Robt. Mintosh Printer.96 King Street Calton.
Eric Bogle was sailing to Australia and his mother Nancy walked with him to the train
In comes the train,and the whole platform shakes,
It stops with a shudder,and a screaming of brakes,
The leaving has come how my weary soul aches,
I'm leaving my Nancy o.
You stand there beside me so determinedly gay,
We talk of the weather and events of the day,
But your eyes tell me all that your words cannot say,
Goodbye my Nancy o.
So come a little closer,
Lay your head upon my shoulder,
and let me hold you one more time,
Before the whistle blows
My suitcase is lifted and stowed on the train,
A thousand regrets whirl around in my brain,
The ache in my heart is now a black sea of pain,
I'm leaving my Nancy o.
You stand there before me so lovely to see,
The grip of your hand is an unspoken plea,
You're not fooling yourself, and youre not fooling me,
Goodbye my Nancy o.
Our time has run out the whistle has blown,
Here I must leave you standing alone,
We had so little time and now the times gone,
I'm leaving my Nancy o.
And as the train starts gently to roll,
and as I lean out for to wave and to call,
I see the first tears trickle and fall
Ah goodbye my Nancy o.