By Peg Prendeville
Time moved on but the little box, which had been relocated, was so small it was difficult to fit even a small envelope into it and was becoming useless. Even the postman/woman found it a nuisance. So another letter or two in recent months plus a few coaxing words from Ta did the trick. We’ve got our Post-box!
So now we are rejoicing
We’ve no more need for frowns
We can post our letters now in peace
In our new post-box in Knockdown.
It has a bigger mouth, you see
And can easily swallow down
A4 business envelopes
This new post-box in Knockdown
Birthday cards? No problem!
And when Valentine comes round
It will be overflowing
Our new post-box in Knockdown.
To make the task more easy
Mullanes have won renoun
With their selection of greeting cards
Which can be posted in Knockdown.
“Can we get stamps” I hear you asking
Now, you I will astound
When I tell you they’re available
In the supermarket in Knockdown.
So now we are all happy
Like a king with a new crown.
We’re queuing up to post our letters
In the post-box in Knockdown.
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.
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
Author Fitzmaurice, Gabriel
Status In Print
Imprint Mercier Press
More titles by this Author
I and the Village
Poems from the Irish
Come All Good Men & True
World of Bryan MacMahon
I'm Proud to be Me!
Beat the Goatskin Till the Goat Cries
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 Fódhla and I live in a dimension of the land of Ireland called Fódhla 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.''
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..
Paddy Kennelly born 1946 Taught in Asdee from 1972 to 2001
Native of Ballylongford
Jim The Rubbish Man
Whatever you do,Mac an tSionnaigh,
when ever you write the latest history of
And the story of our closing shops
And our empty classrooms, our deserted
And our fall from grace
Among the literati who see us now
As superstitious backwoodsmen
Out of step with the times,
Espousing an antiquated religion
In post-Catholic Ireland –
Whatever you do then,
Don’t, for the love of God
None of your bullshit, please,
About our likes not being seen again.
Where’s your Knockorian sense of humour,
So – concede their every argument
About this economic backwater;
Tell ’em that we apologise
For our location on the map,
That we go to our graves
Sorry we’re not from Dublin
And that we deeply regret any offence
We caused the sneering journalist
Who foraged here to gather
What might fill a page with mockery.
Don’t dare to mention
That bright young men and women
Who, each weekend, return
In jam-packed busloads,
rejecting the enlightened
And politically correct metropolis
for a dose of devilment,
Nor say, wherever men conspire
Around a winter fire
To tell fantastic tales
Of errant wives
Or husbands cuckolded,
Knocklore still lives.
DEATH has taken place Of Paddy Faley of Glenbawn, Ballyhahill. Requien Mass for Paddy Faley was celebrated in the Church of Visitation, Ballyhahill, on Thursday 20th October 2011, by Fr McGrath, Fr Madden and Fr O Leary. Maura and Donie Nolan provided the music and hymns. Paddy Faley a great historian, poet, photographer, actor and a man for all occasions was laid to rest at Templeathea on 20th October 2011, beside his wife and parents Denis who died in 1947 and Bridget who died in 1952, also remembered on headstone is Michael Faley who died 1920. Paddy born 92 years ago in Glasha Athea, he moved later to Glenbawn, Ballyhahill, his wife Ellen White died 1962 and he reared five daughters. Peg Prendeville, Helen Martin, Bridie Murphy, Gerardine White/ O'Kane and Philomena Daly, he is also survived by his brother Joe Faley in Canada, Paddy was immensely proud of his three great grandchildren, his sister and three brothers predeceased him. Members of Comhaltas provided a guard of honour for their great friend and supporter Paddy Faley.
The 'Boro' and the Gleann
The burning question of the day as we got into town
"Can anybody tell me will the 'Boro' beat the Gleann?"
The bets were on, the match began excitement filled us all
And the earth beneath us trembled when the ref. threw in the ball.
So let us sing now all together,
Fill your glasses up with porter, gin and wine;
Let it be fine or stormy weather,
Up the Boro! Up the Boro! every time.
Right from the start the Gleann attacked as we looked on serene
When a punch from Fitz between the the sticks sent up the flag of green;
Another point soon after that our faces turned pale
And the Gleann men on the sideline said "the Boro boys will fail".
The ball in play, the breakaway, the Gleann again attack
But the storm was safely weathered by our Goalie and Fullback;
Each time they tried to rush our lines 'Twas glorious to behold
Their style and dash outwitted by our stalwarts from Glin Road.
From that until the ending the game became a rout
The "Boro" lead at half-time by six points or thereabouts:
The Brosnans and the Guineys, the O'Connors and Culhanes
Swung the balance of exchange round in favour of Moyvane.
Three cheers for Jerry Nolan who broke each Gleann attack
Another for O'Leary, Moyvane's stonewall fullback;
Three cheers for Connie Keamey, Jack Flaherty in the goals
Sure we'll never once be beaten when we've heroes such as those
We've heard much talk of small Sean T, of McCartin and McKeown,
They did their bit to set us free and have us stand alone,
But here's a brave Ger. Carmody, a man amongst great men
Whose opening goal did more than all to give our boys a win
A verse now for Jim Brosnan, the hero of the game,
A worthy son of great Coneen of six All-lreland fame;
Although in stature he is small, he's sure to win renown,
His brilliant goal was cheered by all when Newtown beat the Gleann.
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.
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
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.
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
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
Copy of a letter from COLLENS to a friend,
Glasgow Tolbooth, 24th Octob, 1792.
"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,"
Copy of a Letter from Captain COOK.
Edinburgh Castle, the 30th of Octob. 1792.
" 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"
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
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
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
A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear,
'O, the.fiends she exclaimed, and with wild horror start-
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.
The Lights of Carrigkerry
By Pat Brosnan
Far away across the sea there's a place that's calling me,
As I gaze around this city grand and bright,
For here on this foreign shore, sure my heart feels sad and sore,
And for Limerick's hills and vales I long tonight.
I'll go back across the sea and contented I will be,
Then I never more will cross the ocean foam,
Sure ‘tis there my soul would rest in that spot I love the best,
Where the lights of Carrigkerry call me home.
In this fair land o'er the main, there is plenty wealth to gain,
There are pleasures too and friendships true and kind,
Yet I'd bid them all goodbye if today my plane would fly,
To that misty isle that's always on my mind.
I'll go back across the sea etc.
There is one who's waiting there, with blue eyes and dark brown hair,
Who was lonely when she saw me go away,
But to me she still is dear and the time is now drawing near,
When once more I will be coming home to stay.
I'll go back across the sea etc.
Soon my exile will be o'er and my thoughts with joy and soar,
When by Carrig's streams I'll wander free from care,
There old friends will welcome me, when again my eyes will see,
That most charming gem of Limerick grand and fair.
I'll go back across the sea and contented I will be,
Then I never more will cross the ocean foam,
Sure ‘tis there my soul would rest in that spot I love the best,
Where the lights of Carrigkerry call me home.
They wrote songs about Carrigkerry
P. J. Ahern R.I.P. Nora Dalton R.I.P. Dan Hartigan R.I.P. Dave O’Connor R.I.P. Patrick T. Aherne R.I.P. Pat Brosnan, Paddy Faley, Dan Keane, Tony Geoghegan and Mary Quinn.
The following is a brief synopsis of their work which I hope will be of interest to you, the reader-
“Carrig Town” – David O’Connor and Dan Hartigan
Written by tow locals and regarded as the village anthem. It is an immigration song about leaving Carrig and its lovely scenery and promising to return to Eileen some day soon. It has been recorded by the late Sean “Foxy” O’Connor in 1993 and Mike O’Connor in 2009.
“Carrigkerry Hill” – P. J. Ahern
Written about another local landmark it runs to four verses. A song about what the author could see and hear as he took a stroll along by Carrigkerry Hill.
“Carrigkerry” – P. J. Ahern
A very lengthy and fine piece of poetry in praise of the village and how it grew over the years. P. J., from Glensharrold, mentions the Church, School, River Arra, Bridge Sandpit and hopes for the future.
“An Emigrant’s Farewell to Carrigkerry” – Nora Dalton
Written by Nora Dalton around 1890 after leaving Ireland for America to join the nuns in a California Convent. A touching farewell to her family and home and the people and places that were dear to her around her native Carrigkerry West.
“The Road to Carrig Town”- Dan Keane
A newly composed ballad written in the summer of 1989 by Dan Keane from Knockanure and it won the newly composed County Kerry Fleadh Cheoil Competition. A description of the people and places Dan met on the road from Athea to Nell Flynn’s shop in Carrigkerry.
“The Lights of Carrigkerry”- P.J. Brosnan
Written by Pat Brosnan from Knocknagorna, Athea, and recorded in recent years by George Langan from Glenagragra. It tells the story of an exile who longs for a return to his native place and the girl that awaits him in Carrigkerry.
“Sweet Carrigkerry” – Patrick T. Aherne
Another emigration song written by Patrick T. Aherne from Glensharrold. The author had to leave his native place to work abroad in the fifties and he longed for the day when he could return to live out his remaining days in his native Carrigkerry.
“My Lovely Carrig Home” – Tony Geoghegan
Tony Geoghegan, from nearby Glensharrold, composed this song about 25 years ago. It tells the story of an emigrant who reminisces about his childhood simple ways and happy days spent in his Carrig home.
“The Road to Carrigkerry” – Paddy Faley
A comedy piece written by Paddy Faley, Glenbawn, about a man and a lady in conversation about him killing her ducks with his lorry on the road to Carrigkerry. It had a happy ending with them getting married to each other.
“Carrigkerry Wrenboy Success” – Paddy Faley
From the prolific pen of Paddy Faley the master of tribute pieces. Here he pays tribute to the success achieved by the Carrigkerry Wrenboy Group who won the All-Ireland Wrenboy Competition for the third year in a row at Listowel in September 1999.
“Home in Carrig” – Mary Quinn
Written by Mary Quinn, a former Parish Clerk in Saint Mary’s Church for many years and now in her nineties. A nostalgic 5 verse look back at her life and times spent in the family home in Ballyloughane, Carrigkerry, following her house move to Newcastle West.
“The Fame of Carrigkerry”- Pat Brosnan
Written by Pat Brosnan and six verses in length, a song in praise of the fame of Carrigkerry mentioning its music and song, Irish nights and Wrenboys, Landlords and Black and Tans, people and places and football, trains and much more from his prolific pen.
Poet and Doctor
Mícheál Fanning died on Christmas Eve 2010 at the age of 56.
Noreen arrives from the fruit-filled orchard
before I behold her in the distance.
She walks between the trees in the country estate.
Boats roll in the bay.
The flowers and shrubs bloom,
irises glow in the park.
Two conflate souls float in our Hegemony,
when the bees swarm
and the sun, an orange ball, quavers in the sky.
Noreen moves deeper
into the Bantry wood
under the trees' penumbra.
Sean O Histon
Interviewee: Sean Histon (part 1) Interview location: Athea, Co. Limerick Audio series: Limerick county, first series Product ID: CDLK01-06 Subject: Witchcraft in west Limerick Recorded by: Maurice O'Keeffe Recording date: 2001 Length: Track 1: Sean Histon was recorded at St Ita’s County Home in Newcastlewest. Brought up in Coyle and lived all his life there, he spoke about the Killeen (children’s burial ground). Track 2: He spoke about an old mill in Athea and the Roches who used to live there. The collecting of ureán for the cleaning of flax, being sent astray by the spirits is discussed. Track 4: Joan Grogan, a great-grandmother who worked locally in witchcraft, and her visits to Biddy Earley in Co. Clare. Track 5: A story about his time in the creamery given by Joan Crogan and her cures for local people. She was buried in 1871 in Knockanure
Mary Flannery O Connor who spent the last 13 years of her life battling lupus while writing some of the best fiction the world has ever known—all while living on a 455-acre dairy farm in Milledgeville, Ga. with her mother,
Mary Flannery O’Connor, the only child of Edward O’Connor and Regina Cline O’Connor, was born and baptized in Savannah, Ga in 1925.
A song by John B. Keane
Oh sweet Listowel I've loved you all my days
Your towering spires and shining streets and squares
Where sings the Feale it's everlasting lays
And whispers to you in it's evening prayers
Of all fair towns few have so sweet a soul
Or gentle folk compassionate and true
Where'er I go I'll love you sweet Listowel
And doff my distant cap each day to you
Down by the Feale the willows dip their wands
From magic bowers where soft the night wind sighs
How oft I've roved along your moonlit lands
Where late love blooms and first love never dies
The Minstrel Boy
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you will find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain
Could not bring that proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and brav'ry!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!"
BOOK: A Year on our Farm was launched recently, The author is Ann Talbot nee Fitzgerald a native of Ardagh, and now living in Ballacolla, County Laois. Ann grew up on a mixed farm in Ardagh, and she studied Natural Science and Geography in Trinity and also worked for a time in Australia. She moved to Coole Farm, Ballacolla, when she married her husband Robin in 2002 and they have two daughters. She is a former livestock editor with the Farming Independent (1997 to 2004) and currently freelances for a variety of agricultural publications. She has also worked as a freelance agricultural journalist in the past for the Irish Farmers Journal and the Irish Field. The book is an account of the busy atmosphere and variety of work that occurs in Coole Farm throughout the year. The book is available at www.talbotsofcoolefarm.com
From Knockdown News
Sounds of Summer
Rocking in my garden seat
Creaking gently to and fro
Watching life continuing on
Like a stream in constant flow.
Listening to the chirping birds
Busy at their daily tasks
The leaves are whispering in the breeze
A honeybee goes buzzing past.
A tractor drones in a neighbour’s field
Boasting of a busy day
Taking advantage of the sun
Cutting silage, turning hay.
A cow concerned for her calf
Calls him back with a gentle moo
The clothes are flapping on the line
Peaceful times like this are few.
Children play out on the lawn
Sending out their squeals of joy
Laughing, singing, cheering on
Their playmates in a rugby try.
I close my eyes to appreciate
The restful sounds that I can hear
It’s easy to believe in God
When His presence is so near!
Woodman, spare that tree,
Touch not a single bough.
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now
Easter Reflection: Just Suppose
Here’s a reflection inspired by the events of Easter from Thom Shuman’s Prayers 4 Today blog.
the homeless are
that affordable housing
for everyone is a
and not a problem;
the poor are
telling the truth,
that we silence their voices,
stepping right past them as if
they were invisible,
in our rush to be their
the broken and the sick
that they should
be able to receive
the medical care
of the women is true,
that the grave is empty
and the Gardener
is planting new life
for every one,
~ Copyright © 2013 Thom M. Shuman Posted on Prayers for Today. http://prayersfortoday.blogspot.ca/
Straight through my heart this fact to-day,
By Truth's own hand is driven,
God never takes one thing away.
But something else is given.
I did not know in earlier years,
This law of love and kindness,
I only mourned through bitter tears,
My loss in sorrow's blindness.
But ever following each, regret,
O'er some departed treasure,
My sad repining heart was met,
With unexpected pleasure.
I thought it only happens so,
But Time this truth has taught me,
No least thing from my life can go,
But something else is brought me.
It is the Law , complete, sublime,
And now with Faith unshaken,
In patience I but bide my time,
When any Joy is taken.
No matter if the crashing blow,
May for the moment down me,
Still back of it waits love I know,
With some new gift to crown me.
MICHAEL ROCHE Dromolought, Liselton Cross.
Limerick Leader 1905-current, Saturday, 09 September, 1967; Page: 11
An Mangaire Sugach
THE ROSE OF NEWTOWNSANDES
One evening fair, to take the air as the summer sun went down.
My heart was gay, I said I'd stray to the village o sweet Newtown.
In a neat abode beside the road where a neat plantation stands.
In it dwells my Irish belle, she's the Rose of Newtownsandes,
I stood and gazed and was amazed at the beauty I had seen,
Her nut brown hair waved in the air, and she was dressed in green;
She tripped along quite merrily with a rose-bud in her hand,
She's a charming maid I do declare, she's the Rose of Newtownsandes.
I'd give all earthly treasure if I could gain her hand,
All the gold and silver that glitters in the land;
But sad for me, it ne'er will be that we'll join in wedlock bands,
But I'll watch, and pray, I'll wed one day the Rose of Newtownsandes.
Now to sing the praise of this lovely maid I hope, I won't offend,
I've known her since my boyhood days. she's been my only friend;
Now, I suppose, God only knows wherein this journey stands.
Still I’ll watch, and pray, I’ll wed one day the Rose of Newtownsandes.
I'd give all Damer had in store if she were only mine,
All the land along the Bann and the waters of the Boyne;
America lies far, far away and her scenery it is grand.
But there is nothing there I can compare with the Rosa of Newtownsandes.
Now it's time to close for sweet repose, as time is fleeting by,
With pen In hand I think of her. she's been my only bride.
My dreams and thoughts lie in the west in some far distant land,
And my bones will mingle in the clay with the Rose of Newtownsandes.
Dan Keane, Limerick
A lady whose name is Eileen
Her house it is spotlessly clean
Some years ago
She wed Billy Joe
And their family grew up in Trien.
An illiterate poor fellow in Cahir
In his whole life had only one prayer
When he went on his knees
It was certain to please
"Dear God, I am here and you're there."
P4 Maurice Lenihan Papers
Introduction From Limerick County Library.
The Maurice Lenihan Papers held by Limerick Archives consists of correspondence, Lenihan’s research notes, and three scrapbooks kept by Lenihan himself, which consist of research material, newspaper cuttings, personnel reminiscences and other miscellaneous items. Additionally it includes a photocopy of Thomas Steele’s Practical Suggestions on the Improvement of the Navigation in the Shannon (1828).
Maurice Lenihan was born on 5 February 1811 in St. Patrick’s parish, Waterford. His father was a woollen draper of Waterford, while his mother was from Carrick-on-Suir, although her family was originally from Limerick.
In 1823 he was sent to Carlow College as a lay-student, where he showed great ability in the classics and in modern languages, though not in History. In 1831 he spent his summer holiday with a Mr. Hackett of Clonmel, a cousin, who was the editor of the Tipperary Free Press, and it was in this newspaper where he started his career as a journalist.
In 1833 he joined the Waterford Chronicle and eight years later, in 1841, he moved to Limerick to join the Limerick Reporter. The Reporter was a journal of liberal views started by Rutherford Brown in 1829. Lenihan was the editor of the Limerick Reporter until 1843, when he started working for the Cork Examiner.
His stay in Cork lasted only a few months, because by the end of 1843 he had moved to Nenagh and established his own newspaper, the Tipperary Vindicator. The aims of the Tipperary Vindicator included the disestablishment of the State Church and the repeal of the Act of Union by constitutional means. It was also in Nenagh where he married Elizabeth Spain in November 1843. Lenihan amalgamated the Tipperary Vindicator with the Limerick Reporter, which he purchased in 1849.
In 1853, he decided to enter public life as a member of Limerick Municipal Council, and from 1854 to 1887 (with the exception of two years in the sixties) he represented the Custom House Ward division. In 1870 he was made Justice of the Peace and in December 1883 was unanimously elected as Mayor of the city.
However Lenihan is probably best known as a historian. His most famous work is The History of Limerick, which was published in 1864. The book treats of the history of Limerick from the earliest times to the 1860’s. Lenihan had been encouraged to write this history of Limerick by friends such as Patrick Leahy, Archbishop of Cashel, and the Gaelic scholar, Eugene O’Curry. The book was academically a success. Lenihan’s merits as a historian were recognised by the Royal Irish Academy, when he was elected to membership in 1869. However the book was not a financial success, and contributed to Lenihan’s financial difficulties at the end of his life. Indeed, before his death, he was forced to sell many of the manuscripts he had gathered when writing The History of Limerick and when planning to write histories of Clare and Tipperary. Many of his manuscripts were purchased by the British Museum.
HOLY WELLS: In the May 2016, lecture of Kilrush & District Historical Society, Michael Houlihan will talk about how Irish sacred springs evolved. He will talk about the various types of sacred spaces in the Clare landscape, concentrating on West Clare holy wells and particularly those associated with St. Senan. He will also deal with non-Christian wells and the Holy Well pattern.
Michael Houlihan lives in Quin and worked in pharmaceuticals at Roche Ireland (previously Syntex) in Clarecastle for many years. He completed an MA in Arts (Local History) in 2015, having previously done courses in Archaeology and Regional Studies. He has published two books, "Puck Fair, History and Traditions" (1999) and "The Holy Wells of County Clare" (2015). He is currently working on a book entitled "The Sacred Trees of County Clare".
Bits from ‘frpatmoore.com’ May 7th 2016
The sun shone, the Angelus bell rang out along the river, an effort was in progress to elect a new Taoiseach when we arrived in the Lee Clinic in Cork. I was there with Ann and
Kathleen to receive my biopsy and scan results from the previous week. The biopsy has shown the presence of cancer in the upper oesophagus. It’s disappointing but it was always a possibility. It is a ‘local reoccurrence ,’and the fact that it has been picked up on so early, that the rest of my body is clear, that I have responded positively to radium before and that the medical team are prepared to deal with it opens up a way through it. ‘Second line treatment seems to be the way forward. As Bishop Ray said to me, ‘ I need another great dose of courage.’ I will be finding out in the next week the response of the medical team. Their care and professionalism inspires me. I’m in good form, and appreciate your concern, prayers and good wishes.
A message from Fr Pat: May 12th When I went for my six month check up a biopsy showed the presence of cancer. It's disappointing but not unexpected. After meeting the oncologist its manageable and treatable. Because I responded so well to treatment the last time, that it is caught early and in the one place, there are a number of treatments I can get. I start next Thursday and am in good form. I appreciate your prayerful support and we will continue to pray for each other because God is very near.