And My Mother Never Sang Again Ireland
Traditions, folklore, history and more. If it's Irish, it's here. Or will be!
"People will not look forward to posterity who never look backward to their ancestors."
-Edmund Burke
Quotes Library: Books, Movies, Music Prints & Photos Poetry
Jokes
Shops Ireland
Bunús na Gaeilge
(Basic Irish)
Circle of Prayer Blessings
Did You Know?
Himself/Herself
Write to Us
Readers Write.. Links/Link to UsAdvertise with us
Awards & TestimonialsSubmissions Guide
There's a spot in me heart which no colleen may own
Compiled by Bridget Haggerty I well remember listening to my dad sing Mother Machree. I thought it was the mother's last name. It wasn't until I started learning a little bit of the Irish decades later that I discovered ma cree (mochrói) meant my heart. Certainly, it's a far better fit! But, regardless of the meaning, it has remained a favourite, joined along the way with other poems and tributes to Irish mothers. Herewith, just a sampling. Mother Machree
Lyrics by Rida Johnson Young, melody by Ernest r. Ball
There's a depth in me soul never sounded or known
There's a place in my mem'ry, my life that you fill
No other can take it, no one ever will
Sure I love the dear silver that shines in your hair.
And the brow that's all furrowed, and wrinkled with care
I kiss the dear fingers so toil-worn for me
Oh, God bless you and keep you, Mother Machree!
Ev'ry sorrow or care in the dear days gone by
Was made bright by the light of the smile in your eye.
Like a candle that's set in a window at night
You fond love has cheered me, and guided me right.
Sure I love the dear silver that shines in your hair
And the brow that's all furrowed, and wrinkled with care.
I kiss the dear finers so toil-worn for me
Oh, God bless you and keep you, Mother Machree!
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday-
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle-'
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life-
And I see us meeting at the end of a town
On a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us - eternally.
Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street,
by John O'Brien
Where the roses swing their censers by the door?
Have you heard the happy prattle and the tramp of tiny feet
As the sturdy youngsters romp around the floor?
Did you wonder why the viree* comes to sing his sweetest song ?
Did the subtle charm of home upon you fall?
Did you puzzle why it haunted you the while you passed along?--
There's a Little Irish Mother there; that's all.
Did you pick a winsome girleen from the rest,
With her wealth of curl a-cluster as she smiled upon the stool,
In a simple Monday-morning neatness dressed?
Did you mark the manly bearing ofa healthy-hearted boy
As he stood erect his well-conned task to tell ?
Did you revel in the freshness with a pulse of wholesome joy?--
There's a Little Irish Mother there as well. There's a Little Irish Mother that a lonely vigil keeps
In the settler's hut where seldom stranger comes,
Watching by the home-made cradle where one more Australian sleeps
While the breezes whisper weird things to the gums,
Where the settlers battle gamely, beaten down to rise again,
And the brave bush wives the toil and silence share,
Where the nation is a-building in the hearts of splendid men--
There's a Little Irish Mother always there. There's a Little Irish Mother--and her head is bowed and gray,
And she's lonesome when the evening shadows fall;
Near the fire she "do be thinkin'," all the "childer' are away,
And their silent pictures watch her from the wall.
For the world has claimed them from her; they are men and women
now,
In their thinning hair the tell-tale silver gleams;
But she runs her fingers, dozing, o'er a tousled baby brow--
It is "little Con" or "Bridgie" in her dreams. There's a Little Irish Mother sleeping softly now at last
Where the tangled grass is creeping all around;
And the shades of unsung heroes troop about her from the past
While the moonlight scatters diamonds on the mound.
And a good Australian's toiling in the world of busy men
Where the strife and sordid grinding cramp and kill;
But his eyes are sometimes misted, and his heart grows brave again--
She's the Little Irish Mother to him still. When at last the books are balanced in the settling-up to be,
And our idols on the rubbish-heap are hurled,
Then the Judge shall call to honour--not the "stars," it seems to me,
Who have posed behind the footlights of the world;
But the king shall doff his purple, and the queen lay by her crown,
And the great ones of the earth shall stand aside
While a Little Irish Mother in her tattered, faded gown
Shall receive the crown too long to her denied. A Mother's Love Is A Blessing
by Thomas P Keenan An Irish boy was leaving
Leaving his native home
Crossing the broad Atlantic
Once more he wished to roam
And as he was leaving his mother
Who was standing on the quay
She threw her arms around his waist
And this to him did sayA mother's love's a blessing
No matter where you roam
Keep her while she's living
You'll miss her when she's gone
Love her as in childhood
Though feeble, old and grey
For you'll never miss a mother's love
Till she's buried beneath the clay
And as the years go onwards
I'll settle down in life
And choose a nice young colleen
And take her for my wife
And as the babes grow older
And climb around my knee
I'll teach them the very same lesson
That my mother taught to me
A mother's love's a blessing
No matter where you roam
Keep her while she's living
You'll miss her when she's gone
Love her as in childhood
Though feeble, old and grey
For you'll never miss a mother's love
Till she's buried beneath the clay
Also see The Dublin Lady by David Sissons Click here to read our Mothering Sunday in Old Ireland
The irish Mother (Mother giving water to children) Mother Blessing Children
Ilnacullen, Co. Cork - an Island Garden
Located in the sheltered harbour of Glengarriff in Bantry Bay. Ilnacullin, which means island of holly, is a small island known to horticulturists and lovers of trees and shrubs all around the world as an island garden of rare beauty.
The vivid colours of Rhododendrons and Azaleas reach their peak during May and June, whilst the hundreds of cultivars of climbing plants, herbaceous perennials and choice shrubs dominate the midsummer period from June to August.
Because of its sheltered situation and the warming oceanic influence of the Gulf Stream, the climate is favourable to the growth of ornamental plants from many parts of the world.
Even for those who aren't particularly interested in gardens, there are many other scenic views, especially in the surrounding waters where seals frequent the rocks on the southern shore.
The cover photo on Bridget's book The Traditional Irish Wedding shows a wrought iron garden gate on Ilnaculen. I took that photo. To see it, go to the home page. It's part of the opening paragraph Failte.
—Russ
Resource: Copy and Image - Cork Guide
Click for More Culture Corner.
March 4, 2011
Rollover button Images:
Wedding LaRose, Kids Reading & Kitchen Apples and Tea from All Posters prints.
The information provided on this site is offered as-is, without warranty. This site's owners, operators, authors and partners disclaim any and all liability from the information provided herein.
Any trademarks or registered trademarks on this site are the property of their respective owners.
This Web Site Bashed, Kicked & Glued together by Russ Haggerty.
Source: http://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/ACalend/MothersPoems.html
0 Response to "And My Mother Never Sang Again Ireland"
Post a Comment