Comment by brendan woods on March 4, 2016 at 9:42am

RENDEZOUS

In a quaint old chateau garden
stood a shepherdess of carven stone
and over by the sleeping fountain
stood a little shepherd all alone
but when moonlight floods the alleys
and the nightingale sings all night through
they waken and they meet together
in a sentimental rendezvous
ah,ma belle,at last we meet!
Oshepherd mine,speak lower i entreat
theres none to hear ,my own,my sweet!
how the nightingale above
is singing dearest,of our love!
will you dance with me my love?
softly plays moonlight fountain
making music in the lonly spot


as the shephedess and shepherd mingle
in the places of an old gavotte
and the little marble cupid
laughs to see the lovers dancing so
and keeping to the quaint old measure
he is beating with his broken bow!
and now the night is still
the fountain waves into silince
the bird has ceased her trill
the shepherds pair can murmer what they will
when one oclock is tolled
their hour of magic life is over their arms must now unfold
and love turns marble cold
through the garden goes the shepherd
stepping ever where the shadows fall
his shepherdress is left all lonely
on her little marble pedestal
and the gardener on the morrow
passes by the two and never knows
the little shepherd now is holding fast
the sherpherdess'smarble rose

Comment by brendan woods on March 4, 2016 at 9:44am

This piece was written by a Lisburn man Bill Brownlee around 1957, he went to live in Grangemouth, Scotland 

In a lonely part of Ireland, near the town of Mullingar
We were gathered in the evening, in a little village bar
Through the door there came a stranger, just a tramp he seemed to be
In his face the sign of hunger, almost anyone could see

But he brought a breath of summer, as he slowly wandered in
Dressed in rags that someone gave him, and the boots now worn so thin
Someone's son my mind was thinking, someone fallen by the way
Or perhaps a long lost father, who had seen a better day

Could I join you for a minute, just before I go my way
In a voice as sweet as music, mindful of a summer day
I have wandered o'er the moorland ,seen the rising of the sun,
And my poor old feet are weary, life's hard battle must be won

To a seat I saw him totter, heard the whisper of a sigh,
Then I saw the old face brightened, with a twinkle in the eye
Lonely there he sat and listened, to the stories that were told
Someone's son or father ,who had wandered from the fold

Surely there must be a story, hidden somewhere in the breast,
Of a tramp who roams the moorland, something different from the rest
As I made my way to join him, something told me he was glad
Folk around me gazed in wonder, some they even thought me mad

Thank you sir, I heard him saying Loneliness can bring a chill
Maybe I should tell a story Though with tears my eyes they fill
In my youth I was an artist, painted pictures by the score
Then one day I found an angel, married her in Annaghmore

I was happy with my ,sunshine came our way
And each night we knelt together, just to meditate and pray
But a thief he came and stole her ,took the flower I cherished rare,
Isn't there a god in heaven to protect a life so fair

Did you ever lose a fortune, did you lose your only friend
Did the sunshine never bless you, nor the lonely not bend
Did you ever see the finger, pointed at you all the day
Broken hearts are never mended, in this hard and cruel way

I left home with all its sadness, left the place where I was born
Made the sky my only blanket, and my friend a sundecked morn
When they told me she was dying, even after all the years
Like a baby I was crying, finding solace in my tears

To the place where she is lying, every year I make my way
And I place a wreath of roses, on that brown and sacred clay
Roses plucked from out the hedgerows, but she seen them just the same
And I know she hears me whisper, as I quietly breathe her name

You may ask why I remember, why she's always in my dreams
But true love is ne'er forgotten, and a fond smile always beams
I forgave and granted pardon, even in my prayers I say
That a souls not lost to heaven, just for erring on the way

Summer brings its gladness, and the birds sing high above
Just to bring me consolation, an an atmosphere of love
But a tramp in lonely exile still within his native land
Must keep trying must keep trying, only god can understand

Thank you, sir, for all your goodness, I must now be on my way
I have many miles to wander, ere I meditate and pray
God alone now brings me comfort, only he can give me peace
Till this world shall mark me absent, and all worry it shall cease

In a lonely part of Ireland, near the town of Mullingar
We were gathered in the evening, in a little village bar,
Through the door there passed a stranger, just a tramp he seemed to be
In his face the sign of heaven, almost anyone could see.

Comment by brendan woods on March 4, 2016 at 9:46am

the free bird		Lead	[-]
Posts: 136 Oct 21 15 6:21 AM 2.29.74.116	Tags [Edit]: None The free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings... in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. Maya Angelou

Comment by brendan woods on March 4, 2016 at 9:49am

Caoch O'Leary
John Keegan 1809-1849
One winter's day, long, long ago,
When I was a little fellow,
A piper wandered to our door,
Grey-headed, blind and yellow;
And, how glad was my young heart
Though earth and sky looked dreary,
To see the stranger and his dog -
Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary.
And when he stowed away his bag,
Cross-barred with green and yellow,
I thought and said, "In Ireland's ground
There's not so fine a fellow."
And Fineen Burke, and Shaun Magee,
And Eily, Kate and Mary,
Rushed in with panting haste to see
And welcome Caoch O'Leary.
O God be with those happy times
O God be with my childhood.
When I bareheaded roamed all day
Bird nesting in the wildwood
I'll not forget those sunny hours
However years may vary.
I'll not forget my early friends
Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.
Poor Caoch and Pinch slept well that night,
And in the morning early
He called me up to hear him play
"The wind that shakes the barley:"
And then he stroked my flaxen hair
And cried, "God mark my deary"
And how I wept when he said "Farewell,
And think of Caoch O'Leary."
And seasons came and went, and still
Old Caoch was not forgotten,
Although we thought him dead and gone
And in the cold grave rotten:
And often when I walked and talked
With Eily, Kate or Mary,
We thought of childhood's rosy hours
And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.
Well twenty summers had gone past,
And June's red sun was sinking,
When I, a man, sat by my door,
Of twenty sad things thinking.
A little dog came up the way,
His gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail a lame man limped -
'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary.
Old Caoch, but O how woebegone!
His form is bowed and bending,
His fleshless hands are stiff and wan,
Ay, time is even blending
The colours on his threadbare bag;
And Pinch is twice as hairy
And thinspare as when first I saw
Himself and Caoch O'Leary.
"God's blessing here!" the wanderer cried,
"Far, far be hell's black viper:
Does anybody hereabouts
Remember Caoch the Piper?"
With swelling heart I grasped his hand,
The old man murmured. "Dreary,
Are you the silky-headed child
That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?"
"Yes, yes," I said—the wanderer wept
As if his heart was breaking—
"And where, avic-machree," he sobbed,
"Is all the merry-making
I found here twenty years ago
"My tale," I sighed, "mighty weary:
Enough to say there's none but me
To welcome Caoch O'Leary."
"Vo, vo, vo!" the old man cried
And wrung his hands in sorrow:
"Pray let me in, astore machree,
And I'll go home tomorrow.
My peace is made, I'll go home tomorrow.
My peace is made, I'll calmly leave
This world so cold and dreary;
And you shall keep my pipes and dog, And pray for Caoch O'Leary."
With Pinch I watched his bed that night,
Next day his wish was granted,
He died and Father James was brought,
And the Requiem Mass was chanted.
The neighbours came, to dig his grave
Near Eily, Kate and Mary.
And there he sleeps his last final sleep—
God rest you Caoch O'Leary.             

Comment by brendan woods on March 4, 2016 at 2:20pm

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Poems by Bobby Sands : 7 / 10

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The Rhythm Of Time - Poem by Bobby Sands

There's an inner thing in every man, 
Do you know this thing my friend? 
It has withstood the blows of a million years, 
And will do so to the end.

It was born when time did not exist, 
And it grew up out of life, 
It cut down evil's strangling vines, 
Like a slashing searing knife.

It lit fires when fires were not, 
And burnt the mind of man, 
Tempering leandened hearts to steel, 
From the time that time began.

It wept by the waters of Babylon, 
And when all men were a loss, 
It screeched in writhing agony, 
And it hung bleeding from the Cross.

It died in Rome by lion and sword, 
And in defiant cruel array, 
When the deathly word was 'Spartacus'
Along with Appian Way.

It marched with Wat the Tyler's poor, 
And frightened lord and king, 
And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare, 
As e'er a living thing.

It smiled in holy innocence, 
Before conquistadors of old, 
So meek and tame and unaware, 
Of the deathly power of gold.

It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets, 
And stormed the old Bastille, 
And marched upon the serpent's head, 
And crushed it 'neath its heel.

It died in blood on Buffalo Plains, 
And starved by moons of rain, 
Its heart was buried in Wounded Knee, 
But it will come to rise again.

It screamed aloud by Kerry lakes, 
As it was knelt upon the ground, 
And it died in great defiance, 
As they coldly shot it down.

It is found in every light of hope, 
It knows no bounds nor space
It has risen in red and black and white, 
It is there in every race.

It lies in the hearts of heroes dead, 
It screams in tyrants' eyes, 
It has reached the peak of mountains high, 
It comes searing 'cross the skies.

It lights the dark of this prison cell, 
It thunders forth its might, 
It is 'the undauntable thought', my friend, 
That thought that says 'I'm right! '



BOBBY SANDS was twenty seven years old when he died on the sixty sixth day of hunger-strike in the H-Block prison hospital, Long Kesh, on the 5th May 1981. The young IRA Volunteer who had spent almost the last nine years of his short life in prison as a result of his Irish republican activities was, by the time of his death, world-famous having been elected to the british parliament and having withstood pressures, political and moral (including an emissary from Pope John Paul II) , for him to abandon his fast which was aimed at countering a criminalisation policy by the british government. His name became a household word in Ireland, and his sacrifice (as did that of those who followed him) overturned british propaganda on Ireland and had a real effect in advancing the cause of Irish freedom. 

Bobby Sands

Comment by brendan woods on March 5, 2016 at 3:55am

The Four Farrellys

In a small hotel in London I was sitting down to dine.
When the waiter brought the register and asked me if I'd sign.
And as I signed I saw a name that set my heart astir —
A certain "Francis Farrelly" had signed the register;
I knew a lot of Farrellys and out of all the crew
I kept on "sort of wonderin'" which Farrelly were you.
And when I'd finished dinner I sat back in my chair,
Going round my native land to find, what Farelly you were.
 
SOUTH

Were you the keen-eyed Kerryman I met below Kenmare,
Who told me that when Ireland fought "the odds were never fair?"
If Cromwell had met Sarsfield, or Owen Roe O'Neill,
It's not to Misther Gladstone we'd be lookin' for repeal.
Would have Ireland for the Irish, not a Saxon to be seen,
And only Gaelic spoken in that House in College Green.
Told me landlords wor the Divil! their agints ten times worst,
And iv'ry sort of government for Ireland was a curse!
Oh! if you're that Francis Farrelly, your dreams have not come true,
Still, Slainthe! Slainthe! Fransheen! for I like a man like you!

NORTH

Or were you the Francis Farrelly that often used to say
He'd like to blow them Papishes from Derry walls away?
The boy who used to bother me that Orange Lodge to join,
And thought that history started with the Battle o' the Boyne —
I was not all with ye, Francis, the Pope is not ma friend,
But still I hope, poor man, he'll die without that bloody end. -
And when yer quit for care yerself, and get to Kingdom Come,
It's not use teachin' you the harp — you'll play the Orange drum!
Och! man, ye wor a fighter, of that I had no doubt.
For I see ye in Belfast one night when the Antrim Road was out!
And many a time that evenin' I thought that ye wor dead,
The way them Papish pavin' stones was hoppin' off yer head.
Oh! if you're the Francis Farrelly who came from North Tyrone -
Here's lookin' to ye, Francis, but do leave the Pope alone!
 
EAST

Or were you the Francis Farrelly that in my college days
For strollin' on the Kingstown Pier had such a curious craze?
D'y mind them lovely sisters — the blonde and the brunette?
I know I've not forgotten, and I don't think you forget!
That picnic at the Dargle — and the others at the Scalp —
How my heart was palpitatin' — hers wasn't — not a palp!
Someone said ye married money — any maybe ye were wise,
But the gold you loved was in her hair, and the d'monds in her eyes!
So I like to think ye married her and that you're with her yet,
'Twas some "meleesha" officer that married the brunette;
But the blonde one always loved ye, and I knew you loved her too,
So me blessin's on ye, Francis, and the blue sky over you!

WEST

Or were you the Francis Farrelly I met so long ago,
In the bog below Belmullet, in the County of Mayo?
That long-legged, freckled Francis with the deep-set, wistful eyes,
That seemed to take their colour from those ever-changing skies,
That put his flute together as I sketched the distant scene,
And played me "Planxy Kelly" and the "Wakes of Inniskeen."
That told me in the Autumn he'd be Bailin' to the West
To try and make his fortune and send money to the rest.
And would I draw a picture of the place where he was born,
And he'd hang it up, and look at it, and not feel so forlorn;
And when I had it finished, you got up from where you sat,
And you said, "Well, you're the Divil, and I can't say more than that."
Oh', if you're that Francis Farrelly, your fortune may be small,
But I'm thinking — thinking — Francis, that I love you best of all;
And I never can forget you — though it's years and years ago -
In the bog below BeImullet, in the County of Mayo.

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