News for Smallest Leaf: a new website and a new book!

This week I celebrate my eighth anniversary of blogging here at A Light that Shines Again, 100 Years in America, and Small-leaved Shamrock. It has been slow-going at times, but I've stuck with it and look forward to many writing years ahead.

I am thrilled today to announce my brand new website and blog at smallestleaf.com. I have decided to pair my interest in genealogy with my other favorite hobby - poetry! - and use my website to share both.

Many of you have known me as a genealogy blogger for many years, but you may not have known of my love for poetry. Tales from my family tree are a regular source of subject matter for my poems, along with world history, nature, faith and the writing life.

I have just announced the upcoming publication of my first collection of poetry: winner of the Eakin Book Award given by the Poetry Society of Texas. You’ll find the title familiar. I feel a bit like the Irish mother who gives her firstborn a name that has been in the family for generations. My poetry collection is entitled (surprise!): Smallest Leaf. You can read more about my new book on the Poetry page at my website.

Thanks to all of you readers who have followed me over the years! I hope you'll stick around for what's to come. Happy reading!

"...take a shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod..."

The Irish have long been known for their love of poetry. One of the most popular of Irish verse which some say could serve as the national anthem of Ireland itself, is the poem entitled "Wearin' of the Green".

The poem, which dates back to about 1798 and was written by an unknown poet, strikes a chord in the heart of any true-blooded Irishman.

Here is the poem - an inspiring historical tribute to the Irish soul. You may notice that the last two verses have a different tone to them (one more of resignation). These were written later than the first.

May this poem give you a little more understanding of what the Irish have endured and stir in you a greater love for Erin as we celebrate the feast of St. Patrick - wearin' our green, of course!

The Wearin' of the Green

O Paddy dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep, his colour can't be seen,
For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the Green.

I met wid Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's dear ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they're hangin' men an' women there for the wearin' o' the Green.

Then since the colour we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed,
You may take a shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
It will take root and flourish there though underfoot it's trod.

When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show,
Then will I change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen
But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearin' o' the Green.

But if at last our colour should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part;
I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.

O Erin, must we leave you driven by a tyrant's hand?
Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,
And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearin' o' the green!

This article originally appeared here at A light that shines again in 2008.

"In that safe place in our hearts..."

For Poem in Your Pocket Day this National Poetry Month 2010, I share a special tribute to loved ones gone before us.  It was written by Celtic poet John O'Donohue, who himself passed away in 2008. 

O'Donohue's poem calls to mind the many loved ones that reside in "that safe place in our hearts".  Here at A light that shines again, I seek to remember many of them, some whose voices I can still recollect that "brightened everything", others who I know only "from the old distance of their names".  May their memories "flower with hope in every heart" that remembers them.

On the death of the beloved

by John O'Donohue

Though we need to weep your loss,

You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,

Where no storm or might or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn

Brightening over our lives

Awakening beneath the dark

A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice

Found for us

A new music

That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze

Quickened in the joy of its being;

You placed smiles like flowers

On the altar of the heart.

Your mind always sparkled

With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,

Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer

From the old distance of our names;

Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,

As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,

We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,

Smiling back at us from within everything

To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,

Where we would grow lonely without you.

You would want us to find you in presence,

Beside us when beauty brightens,

When kindness glows

And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,

Darkest winter has turned to spring;

May this dark grief flower with hope

In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.

To serve the call of courage and love

Until we see your beautiful face again

In that land where there is no more separation,

Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,

And where we will never lose you again.

"So grant him life...": Reviving the memory of Patrick Tierney

Having researched the life of suffering and trial of my Irish-immigrant great-great-grandfather Patrick Tierney and recently having shared his naturalization papers

"...swear by the oaths he swore..."

while I treasured his personal signature on those documents,

"...subdue your pen to his handwriting..."

having remembered that it was only sixty years after his death that most of his descendants had no knowledge of even his name,

"...let his forgotten griefs be now, and now his withered hopes..."

and searching now for documents, histories, anything that might give me a glimpse into his life,

"...assemble tokens intimate of him..."

I renew again my intent to share his story here at A light that shines again

"...blow on a dead man's embers and a live flame will start..."

in the hopes that his life of courage and fortitude will inspire those who come after him, giving them strength for their own lives. 

"...so grant him life..."

Patrick J. Tierney

1841-1900

Born in Tipperary, Ireland

Son of Michael and Mary (O'Neil) Tierney

Died in Quincy, Massachusetts, USA

Childhood survivor of the Great Famine

Immigrant to America at age seventeen

Laborer, trader, peddler and grocer in Boston's North End

Husband to Catherine (Kennedy) Tierney

Father of seven

May he rest in peace while the memory of his life lives on

~

Italicized excerpts above are from the poem by Robert Graves entitled To Bring the Dead to Life.  You can find it in its entirety below.  Thanks to Terry Thornton of Hill Country of Monroe County, Mississippi for bringing this poem to light and offering a challenge along with it to "bring the dead to life by using words to fan the embers of those long dead bones and let the resulting flame illuminate their life and times".  

To Bring the Dead to Life

~ Robert Graves

To bring the dead to life
Is no great magic.
Few are wholly dead:
Blow on a dead man's embers
And a live flame will start.

Let his forgotten griefs be now,
And now his withered hopes;
Subdue your pen to his handwriting
Until it prove as natural
To sign his name as yours.

Limp as he limped,
Swear by the oaths he swore;
If he wore black, affect the same;
If he had gouty fingers,
Be yours gouty too.

Assemble tokens intimate of him --
A ring, a hood, a desk:
Around these elements then build
A home familiar to
The greedy revenant.

So grant him life, but reckon
That the grave which housed him
May not be empty now:
You in his spotted garments
Shall yourself lie wrapped.

On Santa and how he immigrated to Ireland (Advent Calendar: Santa Claus)

According to Irish tradition, which appears to have some possible basis in fact, Saint Nicholas may very well have been an Irish immigrant. Yes, you may know that he was St. Nicholas of Myra and spent his youth in Turkey. According to the story, however, he may have unknowingly been moved to the land of Eire after his passing by Irish-Norman knights traveling home from the crusades in the Holy Land.

Take a look at the Saint Nicholas Center's Discovering the Truth About Santa Claus website for the full story along with a photo of what is believed to be the gravestone of Saint Nicholas himself.

The site has a charming poem written about the legend (should we call it that?) by Bill Watkins. I've included a two-stanza preview here. Visit the Saint Nicholas Center website for the rest.

The Bones of Santa Claus

An Irish Saint Nicholas Folk Tale

by Bill Watkins

Where lie the bones of Santa Claus
To what holy spot each pilgrim draws?
Which crypt conceals his pious remains
Safe from the wild wind, snows and rains?...

...That saint protector of the child
Whose relics pure lie undefiled
His casket safe within it's shrine
Where the shamrocks grow and rose entwine...

True or not true, it sure makes a good story. Thanks be to God for the Irish and their gift of blarney.

This article is part of a series written in celebration of the Advent and Christmas seasons. It will be included as part of the GeneaBloggers Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories 2009 Day 6: Santa Claus. Make a visit to Thomas MacEntee's GeneaBloggers website for some additional inspiration to get yourself in the holiday spirit!

The article originally appeared here at A light that shines again and was included in Thomas MacEntee's Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories 2007.

"Out of the dusk of slow-accomplished Time..."

I am fascinated by beautiful poetry. When written well, poetry consists of "the best words in their best order" as Samuel Taylor Coleridge put it. When I find a poem that strikes a chord in me, I enjoy reading it again and again.

It is a special treat to find a poem that is not only appealing as a bit of poetry, but is able to call to mind strong images of places and people and/or a particular time in history.

Emily Lawless, a writer and poet born in 19th-century Ireland, was one such poet who was able to bring history alive with her poetry. Out of What Began: A History of Irish Poetry in English shares a few snippets of her writings including a poem entitled Afterward (which was originally published in The Inalienable Heritage in 1914). According to the book, in this little poem she expresses beautifully "the poet's role as bringing to life the voices of the past".

Afterward
by Emily Lawless

Out of the dusk of slow-accomplished Time,
Out of the shadows, out of the long past,
Lifting that past up on thy haughty rhyme,
Wakening those silenced voices, heard at last;
Fierce with the tumults of eight hundred years,
Loud with their cries of echoing strife and scorn;
Soft with their woes; child of their hopes and fears,
Poet we look for, come; awake! Be born!

Emily Lawless brings a strong image alive in her poem entitled Honor's Grave (also originally published in The Inalienable Heritage). This poem conjures up pictures for me of what the lives of my women ancestors might have been like. After reading her words, I can't help but feel the desire to go and visit their graves to pay my respects to them in the places where "very soundly doth they sleep".

Honor's Grave
by Emily Lawless

Tender soul of womanhood,
All her silent suffering past,
Pious, pitiful, and good,
Safe at last;
Sheltered from the rough wind's blast.
Veiling mists, which come and go,
With transparent fingers mark
Where she lies. Remote and low,
Hark! Oh hark!
What voice whispers through the dark?

Very soundly doth she sleep,
Though around the blown-sand flies,
Though above the storm-clouds sweep
The burdened skies.
She hears nothing where she lies.
Ancient cross, misused and grey,
Ancient cross, with broken arms,
Hold her, shield her night and day,
Safe from harms;
Shield her by thy sovereign charms.
Tiny snail-shells, pencilled, pale,
In the sands about her lie;
Tiny grass-tufts, thin and frail,
Cluster slenderly,
Gather round her tenderly.

Ave Maria! mother mild,
Mary, unto whom she prayed,
Shield thy loving-hearted child,
Gentle maid!
Shield the spot where she is laid.

Lastly, one more poem to share with you on this, Poem in Your Pocket Day 2008.

Forever
by John Boyle O'Reilly

Those we love truly never die,
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath,
A ring of flowers, types of life and death,
Are laid upon their graves.

For death the pure life saves,
And life all pure is love; and love can reach
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach
Than those by mortals read.

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead:
A friend he has whose face will never change -
A dear communion that will not grow strange;
The anchor of a love is death.

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years.
For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears,
She's thine unto the end.

Thank God for one dear friend,
With face still radiant with the light of truth,
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth,
Through twenty years of death.

Make room in your pockets for poetry

Home to the likes of Ann Bradstreet, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost and Mary Oliver (not to mention my poetry-loving grandfather), Massachusetts has long been a hotbed of poetic inspiration.

The Boston area in particular has had a long relationship with poetry. Who couldn't love the city with the nation's oldest all-poetry bookstore?

Boston is also the birthplace of the Favorite Poem Project, begun by Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky as an attempt to encourage the role of poetry in the lives of Americans. View the website's collection of fifty short videos of Americans reading their favorite poems and explaining how poetry has touched their lives.

My two favorite videos so far (I haven't viewed them all) include Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's A Psalm of Life read by Rev. Michael Haynes and Eavan Boland's The Emigrant Irish read by Stephen Murphy.

The Emigrant Irish is a touching tribute to the brave Irish that struggled for their very existence in new lands generations before us. Its use of light as both simile and metaphor struck me. I can't resist sharing it here on A light that shines again. Here is the poem:

The Emigrant Irish
by Eavan Boland

Like oil lamps, we put them out the back —

of our houses, of our minds. We had lights
better than, newer than and then

a time came, this time and now
we need them. Their dread, makeshift example:

they would have thrived on our necessities.
What they survived we could not even live.
By their lights now it is time to
imagine how they stood there, what they stood with,
that their possessions may become our power:
Cardboard. Iron. Their hardships parceled in them.
Patience. Fortitude. Long-suffering
in the bruise-colored dusk of the New World.

And all the old songs. And nothing to lose.

Enjoyed this poem and want to share it? Have other favorites that have touched you or that you have memorized and made a part of you? Why not place a copy in your pocket for Poem in Your Pocket Day, Thursday April 17. If you can't come up with just the right poem, take a look at these choices, already pre-formatted into pocket size.

Happy National Poetry Month!

A challenge to all readers who write their own blogs: Share a favorite poem on your blog for Poem in Your Pocket Day, April 17, 2008. I look forward to reading all of your favorites!

Source: Eavan Boland, "The Emigrant Irish," from Outside History: Selected Poems 1980-1990. Copyright © 1987 by Eavan Boland.

Song of a proud Irishman

My great-great grandfather Patrick Tierney was an Irish laborer who eked out a meager living in the North End of Boston in the late 19th-century. I have often heard of "No Irish Need Apply" signs facing Irish men and women seeking work in the U.S. during that time period and have wondered what types of struggles Patrick faced in his quest to provide for his family.

While thinking of Patrick recently I found the song What Irish Boys Can Do written by William Sutherland and published in 1864. It is one response to the insults that Irishmen received when others "called him green; an Irish bull" and posted "those dirty words: No Irish need apply!"

Here is the full song:

What Irish Boys Can Do
(Answer to: No Irish Need Apply)

They insult an Irishman, and think nought of what they say;
They'll call him green, an Irish bull: it happens every day.
Now to these folks I'll say a word; to sing a song I'll try,
And answer to those dirty words: No Irish need app'y!

So, if you'll give attention, I'll sing my song to you,
And the subject of this song shall be: What Irish boys can do.
If you'd come to Ireland, they'd treat you well, I'm sure;
Pat would share his last potato with the destitute and poor;

If you were sick and weary, and had no place to rest,
The bed you'd get, though poor perhaps, would be Pat's very best.
He'd nurse you, too: he would that, and give you whisky, too;
And you cannot find a nobler act than Irishmen can do.

Did you ever know an Irishman from any danger flinch?
In fighting too he'd rather die than give his foe an inch.
Among the bravest in the world are the sons of Erin's green isle.
Sure, the Iron Duke of Wellington was a native of the soil;

And didn't he badly whip the French on the plains of Waterloo?
Which plainly showed to the whole world what Irishmen can do.
Old Ireland's had her warriors, who fought both true and brave;
Pat's assisted every nation, on the land and on the wave.

And poets, too, she's had: yes, many and many a score;
Where can you find much brighter stars than Lover or Tom Moore?
Old Ireland's had her actors, and authors not a few;
And things of wit and humor the Irish all can do.

Did you ne'er hear tell of Sheridan, or of lamented Catharine Hays!
Did you ne'er see fun in Irish songs, or laugh at Irish plays?
Old Ireland's had her statesmen: their fame the wide world rings!
She's likewise had musicians to tune her old harp' strings!

Not all Irish girls are beautiful, but then they're always true,
And, for faith and generosity, the Irish girls will do.
And then, too, in the present war between the North and South,
Let no dirty slur on Irish ever escape your mouth;

Sure, did you ne'er hear tell of the 69th, who bravely fought at Bull-Run!
And Meagher of the seven days fight that was in front of Richmond,
With General Shields who fought so brave for the flag red, white, and blue?
And anything like a bayonet charge the Irish boys can do.

Then, why slur upon the Irish? Why are they treated so?
What is it you have against them is what I want to know.
Sure, they work for all they get, and that you can't deny!
Then, why insult them with the words: No Irish need apply?

If you want to find their principles, go search the wide world through,
And you'll find all things that's noble the Irish folks can do.


Tommy Makem, a modern day singer-songwriter, wrote his own version of a response to "No Irish Need Apply" back in the 1970's. The lyrics to his song They Told Us No Irish Need Apply can be found on his website Makem.com.

Tommy Makem's song includes mentions of many famous Irish-Americans including politicians, presidents, leaders of the Church and more. My favorite lines in his song are in the seventh verse and celebrate the more common Irishmen, my ancestors:

We're the men who built the railroads,
we're the men who fought the wars
We're the men who manned the police force,
we're the men who drove street cars
We're the men who formed your unions,
we're the men who sang your songs
We're the men who filled your history
and tried to right your wrongs.

For more on the 69th Pennsylvania infantry see my article at Small-leaved Shamrock entitled The fighting Irish in America's Civil War.

For some of the "poets Ireland's had" see "The Wearin' of the Green",
"We searched for birds in every furze...", The dreamer and A child's eye view here at A light that shines again; and The Celtic blessing: food for the soul and On "poor Pat" and his emigration from Ireland over at Small-leaved Shamrock.

You can also find the song What Irish Boys Can Do online at the Library of Congress' American Memory website and at the "Poor Pat Must Emigrate" webpages for the Historical Society of Pennsylvania.

"The Wearin' of the Green"

The Irish have long been known for their love of poetry. One of the most popular of Irish verse which some say could serve as the national anthem of Ireland itself, is the poem entitled "Wearin' of the Green".

The poem, which dates back to about 1798 and was written by an unknown poet, strikes a chord in the heart of any true-blooded Irishman.

Here is the poem - an inspiring historical tribute to the Irish soul. You may notice that the last two verses have a different tone to them (one more of resignation). These were written later than the first.

May this poem give you a little more understanding of what the Irish have endured and stir in you a greater love for Erin as we celebrate the feast of St. Patrick 2008 - wearin' our green, of course!

The Wearin' of the Green

O Paddy dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep, his colour can't be seen,
For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the Green.

I met wid Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's dear ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they're hangin' men an' women there for the wearin' o' the Green.

Then since the colour we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed,
You may take a shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
It will take root and flourish there though underfoot it's trod.

When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show,
Then will I change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen
But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearin' o' the Green.

But if at last our colour should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part;
I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.

O Erin, must we leave you driven by a tyrant's hand?
Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,
And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearin' o' the green!

On the finer points of Irish lacemaking

No, I'm not actually going to explain to you how to do fine lacework. It would be hard for me to find the time and the patience to gain proficiency at that amazing craft.

However, I would like to share some of the finer points of Irish lacemaking with the regard to Irish history: namely the fact that it supported thousands of families during the decades after the Great Famine, providing a way for women to make money to help feed their families.

I enjoyed reading the Irish Family History blog's post about the topic entitled Irish Crochet Lace and Muings Lace School and following their link to the website for the 2005 ‘Irish Crochet Lace - 150 Years of a Tradition’ at Lacis Museum of Lace and Textiles in California. Thanks to the Irish Family History blog, I enjoyed viewing the slide show and reading the exhibit brochure, which gives a nice history of Irish lacemaking in Ireland along with details about the craft itself.

Speaking of Irish lace, ever heard the term "lace-curtain Irish"?

This term was not so much an Irish term as an Irish-American term. It was often used to refer to the more "settled" Irish immigrants - those that were no longer "just off the boat", so to speak.

Kate Marin's comment on the Wicked Good Guide to Boston English site sums up the term "lace-curtain Irish" very nicely:

Lace was an industry that poor women in Ireland were able to pursue whilst doing everything else required to run homes on no resources. However, like the produce and livestock raised during the Irish Famine, lace wasn't made for home use. It was only for export and the tourist trade. Thus, "lace curtain Irish" were doing well for themselves, & might well be lording it over those a rung or two lower on the immigrant ladder.

The home page for the exhibit at the Lacis Museum has a beautiful poem that honors those women who used every bit of their spare time to help support their families through the beautiful craft of Irish lacemaking:

A tribute to the human spirit.
Beauty born of necessity.
Conceived from lowly beginnings,
With a dream of higher aspirations,
It grew out of patience, perseverance and ingenuity,
To stand in majesty,
To feed a nation.

Muings Lace School in County Mayo is currently slated to become a heritage center and museum. For more information on the project please visit Fís na Muingi-Iorras's website: Save Muings Lace School.

Images of the Irish lace and instruction books from Lacis Museum of Lace and Textiles, Berkeley, CA.

"We searched for birds in every furze..."

As you might have known, yesterday was St. Stephen's Day and was traditionally the day for hunting of the wren in Ireland.

In honor of that tradition, which in modern times has been altered to be kinder to the gentle birds, I thought I'd post the words to this song by Sigerson Clifford. The song remembers the Boys of Barr Na Sráide and the days of their youth spent hunting the wren. It gives a lament over a part of Irish history and describes the songwriter's longing for "the place where life began": "that old town between the hills and sea".

Boys of Barr Na Sráide

by Sigerson Clifford

*Dreólín is the Irish Gaelic word for wren.

*A furze is a type of bush, similar to a gorse bush.

Oh, the town, it climbs the mountains and looks upon the sea
At sleeping time or waking time, it's there I'd like to be.
To walk again those kindly streets, the place where life began,
With the Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren.

With cudgels stout they roamed about to hunt for the dreólín*
We searched for birds in every furze* from Litir to Dooneen.
We danced for joy beneath the sky, life held no print nor plan
When the Boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren.

And when the hills were bleedin' and the rifles were aflame
To the rebel homes of Kerry the Saxon strangers came,
But the men who dared the Auxies and fought the Black-and-Tan
Were the Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren.

But now they toil in foreign soil where they have made their way
Deep in the heart of London or over on Broadway,
And I am left to sing their deeds and praise them while I can
Those Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren.

And here's a health to them tonight wherever they may be.
By the groves of Carham river or the slope of Bean 'a Tí
John Daly and Batt Andy and the Sheehans, Con and Dan,
And the Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren.

When the wheel of life runs out and peace come over me
Just take me back to that old town between the hills and sea.
I'll take my rest in those green fields, the place where life began,
With those Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren.

The above image of the wren boys of 1904 is from the book The Birds of the Isle of Man by P.G.Ralfe published in 1905.

On Santa and how he immigrated to Ireland

According to Irish tradition, which appears to have some possible basis in fact, Saint Nicholas may very well have been an Irish immigrant. Yes, you may know that he was St. Nicholas of Myra and spent his youth in Turkey. According to the story, however, he may have unknowingly been moved to the land of Eire after his passing by Irish-Norman knights traveling home from the crusades in the Holy Land.

Take a look at the Saint Nicholas Center's Discovering the Truth About Santa Claus website for the full story along with a photo of what is believed to be the gravestone of Saint Nicholas himself.

The site has a charming poem written about the legend (should we call it that?) by Bill Watkins. I've included a two-stanza preview here. Visit the Saint Nicholas Center website for the rest.

The Bones of Santa Claus

An Irish Saint Nicholas Folk Tale

by Bill Watkins

Where lie the bones of Santa Claus
To what holy spot each pilgrim draws?
Which crypt conceals his pious remains
Safe from the wild wind, snows and rains?...

...That saint protector of the child
Whose relics pure lie undefiled
His casket safe within it's shrine
Where the shamrocks grow and rose entwine...

True or not true, it sure makes a good story. Thanks be to God for the Irish and their gift of blarney.

The topic for this post was inspired by Thomas MacEntee's Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories at Destination: Austin Family. Check out his calendar daily this month for some good mini-memoirs of this nostalgic season. This post will be listed under Santa Claus on December 6.

Some good Irish stories for ya'...

The call for entries for the inaugural edition of the Carnival of Irish Heritage & Culture was announced over at Small-leaved Shamrock. Everyone loves a good Irish story is the result of that call for entries.

If you enjoy reading about the amazing history of the rugged Irish people, or if you just love a good story, happy reading!

Included in the 1st edition of the Carnival of Irish Heritage & Culture is the story about the amazing life of John Boyle O'Reilly: Irish boy, exiled prisoner in Australia, escapee to America and finally, editor and part-owner of Boston's The Pilot newspaper. (Did I forget to mention that he was a poet?) Read The Dreamer here at A Light That Shines Again for my story about O'Reilly's fascinating life.

Want to read the story of some other brave Irishmen and the part they played in the war which faced them in their new country? Take a look at The Fighting Irish in America's Civil War over at Small-leaved Shamrock for the story of the 69th Pennsylvania Infantry: a group of volunteers who ended up fighting in every major battle of the Civil War, most notably the battle of Gettysburg.

For more good Irish reading, take time to read the other entries at the 1st edition of the Carnival of Irish Heritage & Culture.

The 2nd edition of the carnival will feature Irish research & resources.

Here's the specific topic:

As genealogists and historians, we're always trying to get the facts. What was the world like during a certain time and place in history? Who was there - what were their names and where did they live? What role did they play in the world around them?

Please share with us your recommendations for books and resources on Irish genealogy and history. What is your favorite (or most frustrating) database of Irish records? Can you recommend a favorite book or resource for Irish research? How about sharing your favorite Irish history books? Any online resources that have helped you in your search for Irish ancestors or your attempt to gain an understanding of Irish history in general?

I'm looking forward to receiving your recommendations via carnival entry by December 28 and publishing them on January 1, 2008 at Small-leaved Shamrock just in time for a fresh start on our projects for the new year! Even if you've never participated in a blog carnival before, please consider joining us. And if you have any ideas for topics that you would like to see on future editions of the Carnival of Irish Heritage & Culture, please send them via email. Your ideas and suggestions are welcomed!

The dreamer

I'm not sure exactly which side of the family passed down to me a love of poetry, but it has always been a part of me. My grandfather was known to have some classic poems memorized, and he often encouraged my childhood writing attempts, but I do not know if he ever penned a poem of his own. My dream would be to someday uncover a notebook of writings by him or a great-grandfather or great-grandmother who also loved to read and write poetry. So many things are lost to history: names, dates, where family members lived, their occupations. But so much more that a family historian can sometimes only dream of discovering.

So with the knowledge that I have Irish ancestors who loved poetry, and with the sad realization that I may never know who they were, I share with you a story of another Irish poet. One who lived an adventurous and incredibly busy life, yet found the time to pen meaningful verse that still lives on today. In fact, he may have been John F. Kennedy's favorite poet.

John Boyle O'Reilly was born in 1844, just three years after my great-great-grandfather Patrick Tierney and at the onset of the Great Irish Famine. John was born in a castle near Drogheda, north of Dublin, to a family that took seriously their Irish patriotism.

O'Reilly's early life included a good early education, newspaper work and military training. His amazing story continued with his involvement in the secret Irish society of Fenians, two years in English prisons for this offense, his deportation to Western Australia, and finally his escape and arrival in the United States. John began his new life of freedom in Boston and went on to become the editor and part-owner of The Pilot, Boston's well-known Irish newspaper.

After such an adventurous and difficult life, it is no wonder O'Reilly longed for the peaceful days of his childhood back in the country in Ireland.

John Boyle O'Reilly's poem, The Cry of the Dreamer, expresses his longing for a simpler time and place:

I am tired of planning and toiling
In the crowded hives of men,
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
And spoiling and building again,
And I long for the dear old river,
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.

I am sick of the showy seeming,
Of life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by;
From the sleepless thought's endeavor
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a thinker dies in a day.

I can feel no pride, but pity,
For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skillful,
And the child-mind choked with weeds!
The daughter's heart grown willful
And the father's heart that bleeds!

No! no! from the street's rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the wood's low rustle
And the meadows' kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for my dreams alway;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And the toiler dies in a day.

A newspaperman and poet, he had the knowledge of the world around him and the artistic ability to express that world in a way that helped others to see it with new eyes. One of my favorite of O'Reilly's statements speaks of the freedom of the press:

For all time to come, the freedom and purity of the press are the test of national virtue and independence. No writer for the press, however humble, is free from the burden of keeping his purpose high and his integrity white.

Quoted in Roche, James Jeffrey (1891). Life of John Boyle O'Reilly, together with his complete poems and speeches edited by Mrs John Boyle O'Reilly. New York. p 195.

John Boyle O'Reilly was perhaps the most influential Irishman in 19th-century Boston. For twenty years (from his arrival in Boston in 1870 to his death in 1890) he acted, according to irishheritagetrail.com, as "a spokesman for the downtrodden, at times singlehandedly bridging the gap between people of various races, creeds and nationalities".

The life of John Boyle O'Reilly, the ideals he stood for and the work he did to encourage those ideals is immortalized in the John Boyle O'Reilly Memorial (at left), located along the Irish Heritage Trail in Boston. The O'Reilly Memorial was dedicated in 1896.

More information about the O'Reilly Memorial and other sites of interest on the Boston Irish Heritage Trail is located on their website. The Irish Heritage Trail is (according to irishheritagetrail.com) "a self-guided, three mile walking tour that takes you through Boston's downtown, North End, Beacon Hill and Back Bay. You'll learn about famous politicians, artists, matriarchs and war heroes, part of a rich tradition of rebellion, leadership and triumph that personifies the Boston Irish." (Talk about good stories.) The site includes a clickable version of the trail map below, with information about each memorial or site of interest.

Sometimes referred to as "the capitol of Irish America", Boston's past is rich with stories of Irish immigrants like John Boyle O'Reilly and the America that they and their descendants embraced and influenced to become the Boston we know today.

A child's eye view

The Great Famine, though devastating to all areas, caused the most suffering in particular areas. This map shows the areas that were hit the worst.



Being a child, or a parent of a child, in the time of the Great Famine had to be almost unbearable at times. Of course, many of them died. Those that survived suffered through days and nights of hunger pains and illness caused by malnutrition.

The following poem, by Amelia Blanford Edwards, gives us a child's-eye-view of these difficult days:

Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother

Give me three grains of corn, Mother,
Only three grains of corn;
It will keep the little life I have
Till the coming of the morn.
I am dying of hunger and cold, Mother,
Dying of hunger and cold;
And half the agony of such a death
My lips have never told.
It has gnawed at my heart like a wolf, Mother,
A wolf that is fierce for blood;
All the live long day, and the night beside,
Gnawing for lack of food.
I dreamed of bread in my sleep, Mother,
And the sight was heaven to see;
I awoke with an eager famishing lip,
But you had no bread for me.
How could I look to you, Mother,
How could I look to you
For bread to give your starving boy,
When you were starving too?
For I read the famine in your cheek,
And in your eyes so wild
And I felt it in your bony hand,
As you laid it on your child.
The Queen has lands and gold, Mother,
The Queen has lands and gold,
While you are forced to your empty breast
A skeleton babe to hold-
A babe that is dying of want, Mother,
As I am dying now.
With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
And famine upon its brow.
What has poor Ireland done,Mother,
What has poor Ireland done,
That the world looks on, and sees us starve,
Perishing one by one?
Do the men of England care not, Mother,
The great men and the high
For the suffering sons of Erins Isle,
Whether they live or die?
There are many a brave heart here, Mother,
Dying of want and cold,
While only across the channel, Mother,
Are many that roll in gold.
There are rich and proud men there, Mother,
With wondrous wealth to view,
And the bread that they fling to their dogs tonight
Would give life to me and you.
Come nearer to my side, Mother,
Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held
My father when he died;
Quick, for I can not see you, Mother,
My breath is almost gone;
Mother! dear Mother! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn.