Comments - BROTHER MICK - The Wild Geese2024-03-29T10:24:35Zhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/comment/feed?attachedTo=6442157%3ABlogPost%3A84748&xn_auth=noThe Four Farrellys
In a small…tag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-03-05:6442157:Comment:1846932016-03-05T09:55:28.613Zbrendan woodshttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/brendanwoods
<h1 class="title tttgap bbbgap">The Four Farrellys</h1>
<div class="rendered poem_body">In a small hotel in London I was sitting down to dine.<br></br> When the waiter brought the register and asked me if I'd sign. <br></br> And as I signed I saw a name that set my heart astir — <br></br>A certain "Francis Farrelly" had signed the register; <br></br> I knew a lot of Farrellys and out of all the crew <br></br> I kept on "sort of wonderin'" which Farrelly were you. <br></br> And when I'd finished dinner I sat back in my…</div>
<h1 class="title tttgap bbbgap">The Four Farrellys</h1>
<div class="rendered poem_body">In a small hotel in London I was sitting down to dine.<br/> When the waiter brought the register and asked me if I'd sign. <br/> And as I signed I saw a name that set my heart astir — <br/>A certain "Francis Farrelly" had signed the register; <br/> I knew a lot of Farrellys and out of all the crew <br/> I kept on "sort of wonderin'" which Farrelly were you. <br/> And when I'd finished dinner I sat back in my chair, <br/> Going round my native land to find, what Farelly you were.<br/> <br/> SOUTH<br/><br/> Were you the keen-eyed Kerryman I met below Kenmare,<br/> Who told me that when Ireland fought "the odds were never fair?" <br/> If Cromwell had met Sarsfield, or Owen Roe O'Neill,<br/> It's not to Misther Gladstone we'd be lookin' for repeal. <br/> Would have Ireland for the Irish, not a Saxon to be seen, <br/> And only Gaelic spoken in that House in College Green. <br/> Told me landlords wor the Divil! their agints ten times worst, <br/> And iv'ry sort of government for Ireland was a curse!<br/> Oh! if you're that Francis Farrelly, your dreams have not come true, <br/> Still, Slainthe! Slainthe! Fransheen! for I like a man like you!<br/><br/> NORTH<br/><br/> Or were you the Francis Farrelly that often used to say <br/> He'd like to blow them Papishes from Derry walls away? <br/> The boy who used to bother me that Orange Lodge to join,<br/> And thought that history started with the Battle o' the Boyne — <br/>I was not all with ye, Francis, the Pope is not ma friend, <br/> But still I hope, poor man, he'll die without that bloody end. - <br/> And when yer quit for care yerself, and get to Kingdom Come, <br/> It's not use teachin' you the harp — you'll play the Orange drum! <br/> Och! man, ye wor a fighter, of that I had no doubt.<br/> For I see ye in Belfast one night when the Antrim Road was out! <br/> And many a time that evenin' I thought that ye wor dead, <br/> The way them Papish pavin' stones was hoppin' off yer head.<br/> Oh! if you're the Francis Farrelly who came from North Tyrone - <br/> Here's lookin' to ye, Francis, but do leave the Pope alone!<br/> <br/> EAST<br/><br/> Or were you the Francis Farrelly that in my college days <br/> For strollin' on the Kingstown Pier had such a curious craze? <br/> D'y mind them lovely sisters — the blonde and the brunette? <br/> I know I've not forgotten, and I don't think you forget! <br/> That picnic at the Dargle — and the others at the Scalp — <br/>How my heart was palpitatin' — hers wasn't — not a palp! <br/> Someone said ye married money — any maybe ye were wise,<br/> But the gold you loved was in her hair, and the d'monds in her eyes! <br/> So I like to think ye married her and that you're with her yet, <br/> 'Twas some "meleesha" officer that married the brunette;<br/> But the blonde one always loved ye, and I knew you loved her too, <br/> So me blessin's on ye, Francis, and the blue sky over you!<br/><br/> WEST<br/><br/> Or were you the Francis Farrelly I met so long ago,<br/> In the bog below Belmullet, in the County of Mayo?<br/> That long-legged, freckled Francis with the deep-set, wistful eyes, <br/> That seemed to take their colour from those ever-changing skies, <br/> That put his flute together as I sketched the distant scene, <br/> And played me "Planxy Kelly" and the "Wakes of Inniskeen." <br/> That told me in the Autumn he'd be Bailin' to the West <br/> To try and make his fortune and send money to the rest. <br/> And would I draw a picture of the place where he was born, <br/> And he'd hang it up, and look at it, and not feel so forlorn; <br/> And when I had it finished, you got up from where you sat,<br/> And you said, "Well, you're the Divil, and I can't say more than that." <br/> Oh', if you're that Francis Farrelly, your fortune may be small, <br/> But I'm thinking — thinking — Francis, that I love you best of all; <br/> And I never can forget you — though it's years and years ago - <br/>In the bog below BeImullet, in the County of Mayo.</div>
Poems by Bobby Sand…tag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-03-04:6442157:Comment:1847802016-03-04T20:20:20.763Zbrendan woodshttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/brendanwoods
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<div id="solSiirMetinDV"><h1 class="title w-660">The Rhythm Of Time - Poem by Bobby Sands</h1>
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<p>There's an inner thing in every man, <br/>Do you know this thing my friend? <br/>It has withstood the blows of a million years, <br/>And will do so to the end.<br/><br/>It was born when time did not exist, <br/>And it grew up out of life, <br/>It cut down evil's strangling vines, <br/>Like a slashing searing knife.<br/><br/>It lit fires when fires were not, <br/>And burnt the mind of man, <br/>Tempering leandened hearts to steel, <br/>From the time that time began.<br/><br/>It wept by the waters of Babylon, <br/>And when all men were a loss, <br/>It screeched in writhing agony, <br/>And it hung bleeding from the Cross.<br/><br/>It died in Rome by lion and sword, <br/>And in defiant cruel array, <br/>When the deathly word was 'Spartacus'<br/>Along with Appian Way.<br/><br/>It marched with Wat the Tyler's poor, <br/>And frightened lord and king, <br/>And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare, <br/>As e'er a living thing.<br/><br/>It smiled in holy innocence, <br/>Before conquistadors of old, <br/>So meek and tame and unaware, <br/>Of the deathly power of gold.<br/><br/>It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets, <br/>And stormed the old Bastille, <br/>And marched upon the serpent's head, <br/>And crushed it 'neath its heel.<br/><br/>It died in blood on Buffalo Plains, <br/>And starved by moons of rain, <br/>Its heart was buried in Wounded Knee, <br/>But it will come to rise again.<br/><br/>It screamed aloud by Kerry lakes, <br/>As it was knelt upon the ground, <br/>And it died in great defiance, <br/>As they coldly shot it down.<br/><br/>It is found in every light of hope, <br/>It knows no bounds nor space<br/>It has risen in red and black and white, <br/>It is there in every race.<br/><br/>It lies in the hearts of heroes dead, <br/>It screams in tyrants' eyes, <br/>It has reached the peak of mountains high, <br/>It comes searing 'cross the skies.<br/><br/>It lights the dark of this prison cell, <br/>It thunders forth its might, <br/>It is 'the undauntable thought', my friend, <br/>That thought that says 'I'm right! '<br/><br/><br/><br/>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. </p>
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</div> Caoch O'Leary John Keegan 180…tag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-03-04:6442157:Comment:1848872016-03-04T15:49:01.797Zbrendan woodshttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/brendanwoods
<p>Caoch O'Leary <br></br>John Keegan 1809-1849 <br></br>One winter's day, long, long ago, <br></br>When I was a little fellow, <br></br>A piper wandered to our door, <br></br>Grey-headed, blind and yellow; <br></br>And, how glad was my young heart <br></br>Though earth and sky looked dreary, <br></br>To see the stranger and his dog - <br></br>Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary. <br></br>And when he stowed away his bag, <br></br>Cross-barred with green and yellow, <br></br>I thought and said, "In Ireland's ground <br></br>There's not so fine a…</p>
<p>Caoch O'Leary <br/>John Keegan 1809-1849 <br/>One winter's day, long, long ago, <br/>When I was a little fellow, <br/>A piper wandered to our door, <br/>Grey-headed, blind and yellow; <br/>And, how glad was my young heart <br/>Though earth and sky looked dreary, <br/>To see the stranger and his dog - <br/>Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary. <br/>And when he stowed away his bag, <br/>Cross-barred with green and yellow, <br/>I thought and said, "In Ireland's ground <br/>There's not so fine a fellow." <br/>And Fineen Burke, and Shaun Magee, <br/>And Eily, Kate and Mary, <br/>Rushed in with panting haste to see <br/>And welcome Caoch O'Leary. <br/>O God be with those happy times <br/>O God be with my childhood. <br/>When I bareheaded roamed all day <br/>Bird nesting in the wildwood <br/>I'll not forget those sunny hours <br/>However years may vary. <br/>I'll not forget my early friends <br/>Nor honest Caoch O'Leary. <br/>Poor Caoch and Pinch slept well that night, <br/>And in the morning early <br/>He called me up to hear him play <br/>"The wind that shakes the barley:" <br/>And then he stroked my flaxen hair <br/>And cried, "God mark my deary" <br/>And how I wept when he said "Farewell, <br/>And think of Caoch O'Leary." <br/>And seasons came and went, and still <br/>Old Caoch was not forgotten, <br/>Although we thought him dead and gone <br/>And in the cold grave rotten: <br/>And often when I walked and talked <br/>With Eily, Kate or Mary, <br/>We thought of childhood's rosy hours <br/>And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. <br/>Well twenty summers had gone past, <br/>And June's red sun was sinking, <br/>When I, a man, sat by my door, <br/>Of twenty sad things thinking. <br/>A little dog came up the way, <br/>His gait was slow and weary, <br/>And at his tail a lame man limped - <br/>'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary. <br/>Old Caoch, but O how woebegone! <br/>His form is bowed and bending, <br/>His fleshless hands are stiff and wan, <br/>Ay, time is even blending <br/>The colours on his threadbare bag; <br/>And Pinch is twice as hairy <br/>And thinspare as when first I saw <br/>Himself and Caoch O'Leary. <br/>"God's blessing here!" the wanderer cried, <br/>"Far, far be hell's black viper: <br/>Does anybody hereabouts <br/>Remember Caoch the Piper?" <br/>With swelling heart I grasped his hand, <br/>The old man murmured. "Dreary, <br/>Are you the silky-headed child <br/>That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?" <br/>"Yes, yes," I said—the wanderer wept <br/>As if his heart was breaking— <br/>"And where, avic-machree," he sobbed, <br/>"Is all the merry-making <br/>I found here twenty years ago <br/>"My tale," I sighed, "mighty weary: <br/>Enough to say there's none but me <br/>To welcome Caoch O'Leary." <br/>"Vo, vo, vo!" the old man cried <br/>And wrung his hands in sorrow: <br/>"Pray let me in, astore machree, <br/>And I'll go home tomorrow. <br/>My peace is made, I'll go home tomorrow. <br/>My peace is made, I'll calmly leave <br/>This world so cold and dreary; <br/>And you shall keep my pipes and dog, And pray for Caoch O'Leary." <br/>With Pinch I watched his bed that night, <br/>Next day his wish was granted, <br/>He died and Father James was brought, <br/>And the Requiem Mass was chanted. <br/>The neighbours came, to dig his grave <br/>Near Eily, Kate and Mary. <br/>And there he sleeps his last final sleep— <br/>God rest you Caoch O'Leary. </p> the free bird
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[-]…tag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-03-04:6442157:Comment:1849382016-03-04T15:46:57.471Zbrendan woodshttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/brendanwoods
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<p class="post-date"><span class="date">Oct 21 15 6:21 AM</span></p>
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<div class="scrolling"><div><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed"><p>The free bird leaps<br/> on the back of the wind<br/> and floats downstream<br/> till the current ends<br/> and dips his wings<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br/> in the orange sun rays<br/> and dares to claim the sky.</span></p>
<div class="text_exposed_show"><p>But a bird that stalks<br/> down his narrow cage<br/> can seldom see through<br/> his bars of rage<br/> his wings are clipped and<br/> his feet are tied<br/> so he opens his throat to sing.</p>
<p>The caged bird sings<br/> with fearful trill<br/> of the things unknown<br/> but longed for still<br/> and his tune is heard<br/> on the distant hill <br/> for the caged bird<br/> sings of freedom</p>
<p>The free bird thinks of another breeze<br/> and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees<br/> and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn<br/> and he names the sky his own.</p>
<p>But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams<br/> his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream<br/> his wings are clipped and his feet are tied<br/> so he opens his throat to sing</p>
<p>The caged bird sings<br/> with a fearful trill<br/> of things unknown<br/> but longed for still<br/> and his tune is heard<br/> on the distant hill<br/> for the caged bird<br/> sings of freedom. <br/> Maya Angelou</p>
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</table> This piece was written by a L…tag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-03-04:6442157:Comment:1848862016-03-04T15:44:20.101Zbrendan woodshttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/brendanwoods
<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">This piece was written by a Lisburn man Bill Brownlee around 1957, he went to live in Grangemouth, Scotland </p>
<p>In a lonely part of Ireland, near the town of Mullingar <br></br> We were gathered in the evening, in a little village bar <br></br> Through the door there came a stranger, just a tramp he seemed to be <br></br> In his face the sign of hunger, almost anyone could see</p>
<p>But he brought a breath of summer, as he slowly wandered in …<br></br></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">This piece was written by a Lisburn man Bill Brownlee around 1957, he went to live in Grangemouth, Scotland </p>
<p>In a lonely part of Ireland, near the town of Mullingar <br/> We were gathered in the evening, in a little village bar <br/> Through the door there came a stranger, just a tramp he seemed to be <br/> In his face the sign of hunger, almost anyone could see</p>
<p>But he brought a breath of summer, as he slowly wandered in <br/> Dressed in rags that someone gave him, and the boots now worn so thin <br/> Someone's son my mind was thinking, someone fallen by the way <br/> Or perhaps a long lost father, who had seen a better day</p>
<p>Could I join you for a minute, just before I go my way <br/> In a voice as sweet as music, mindful of a summer day <br/> I have wandered o'er the moorland ,seen the rising of the sun,<br/> And my poor old feet are weary, life's hard battle must be won</p>
<p>To a seat I saw him totter, heard the whisper of a sigh, <br/> Then I saw the old face brightened, with a twinkle in the eye <br/> Lonely there he sat and listened, to the stories that were told <br/> Someone's son or father ,who had wandered from the fold</p>
<p>Surely there must be a story, hidden somewhere in the breast, <br/> Of a tramp who roams the moorland, something different from the rest <br/> As I made my way to join him, something told me he was glad <br/> Folk around me gazed in wonder, some they even thought me mad</p>
<p>Thank you sir, I heard him saying Loneliness can bring a chill <br/> Maybe I should tell a story Though with tears my eyes they fill <br/> In my youth I was an artist, painted pictures by the score <br/> Then one day I found an angel, married her in Annaghmore</p>
<p>I was happy with my ,sunshine came our way <br/> And each night we knelt together, just to meditate and pray <br/> But a thief he came and stole her ,took the flower I cherished rare, <br/> Isn't there a god in heaven to protect a life so fair</p>
<p>Did you ever lose a fortune, did you lose your only friend <br/> Did the sunshine never bless you, nor the lonely not bend <br/> Did you ever see the finger, pointed at you all the day <br/> Broken hearts are never mended, in this hard and cruel way</p>
<p>I left home with all its sadness, left the place where I was born <br/> Made the sky my only blanket, and my friend a sundecked morn <br/> When they told me she was dying, even after all the years <br/> Like a baby I was crying, finding solace in my tears</p>
<p>To the place where she is lying, every year I make my way <br/> And I place a wreath of roses, on that brown and sacred clay <br/> Roses plucked from out the hedgerows, but she seen them just the same <br/> And I know she hears me whisper, as I quietly breathe her name</p>
<p>You may ask why I remember, why she's always in my dreams <br/> But true love is ne'er forgotten, and a fond smile always beams <br/> I forgave and granted pardon, even in my prayers I say <br/> That a souls not lost to heaven, just for erring on the way</p>
<p>Summer brings its gladness, and the birds sing high above <br/> Just to bring me consolation, an an atmosphere of love <br/> But a tramp in lonely exile still within his native land <br/> Must keep trying must keep trying, only god can understand</p>
<p>Thank you, sir, for all your goodness, I must now be on my way <br/> I have many miles to wander, ere I meditate and pray <br/> God alone now brings me comfort, only he can give me peace <br/> Till this world shall mark me absent, and all worry it shall cease</p>
<p>In a lonely part of Ireland, near the town of Mullingar <br/> We were gathered in the evening, in a little village bar, <br/> Through the door there passed a stranger, just a tramp he seemed to be <br/> In his face the sign of heaven, almost anyone could see.</p> RENDEZOUS
In a quaint old ch…tag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-03-04:6442157:Comment:1849362016-03-04T15:42:43.812Zbrendan woodshttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/brendanwoods
<p><strong>RENDEZOUS</strong></p>
<div class="bn-forum-message-body"><p><br></br><br></br><br></br><br></br> In a quaint old chateau garden<br></br> stood a shepherdess of carven stone<br></br> and over by the sleeping fountain<br></br> stood a little shepherd all alone<br></br> but when moonlight floods the alleys<br></br> and the nightingale sings all night through<br></br> they waken and they meet together <br></br> in a sentimental rendezvous<br></br> ah,ma belle,at last we meet!<br></br> Oshepherd mine,speak lower i entreat<br></br> theres none…</p>
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<p><strong>RENDEZOUS</strong></p>
<div class="bn-forum-message-body"><p><br/><br/><br/><br/> In a quaint old chateau garden<br/> stood a shepherdess of carven stone<br/> and over by the sleeping fountain<br/> stood a little shepherd all alone<br/> but when moonlight floods the alleys<br/> and the nightingale sings all night through<br/> they waken and they meet together <br/> in a sentimental rendezvous<br/> ah,ma belle,at last we meet!<br/> Oshepherd mine,speak lower i entreat<br/> theres none to hear ,my own,my sweet!<br/> how the nightingale above <br/> is singing dearest,of our love!<br/> will you dance with me my love?<br/> softly plays moonlight fountain<br/> making music in the lonly spot<br/><br/><br/> as the shephedess and shepherd mingle<br/> in the places of an old gavotte<br/> and the little marble cupid<br/> laughs to see the lovers dancing so<br/> and keeping to the quaint old measure<br/> he is beating with his broken bow!<br/> and now the night is still<br/> the fountain waves into silince<br/> the bird has ceased her trill<br/> the shepherds pair can murmer what they will<br/> when one oclock is tolled <br/> their hour of magic life is over their arms must now unfold<br/> and love turns marble cold<br/> through the garden goes the shepherd<br/> stepping ever where the shadows fall<br/> his shepherdress is left all lonely<br/> on her little marble pedestal<br/> and the gardener on the morrow<br/> passes by the two and never knows<br/> the little shepherd now is holding fast<br/> the sherpherdess'smarble rose</p>
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