Between -

John Montague

Coole Road -

Annon

The School beside the road

Eugene O'Brien

The Top of Cons Road

Billy O'Brien

Tug-O-War Song

Mickey O'Brien

Baile na Saggairt

Fr Michael Troy O.M.I.

Mo Chraoibhin Cno

Edward Walsh

Leath Slí idir Eochaill is Ceapach Chuinn

Michael Kavanagh

Cnoc Álainn na Faille

Máire Bean Uí Bray

A Abha Mhór na Déise

Séan Ó'Caoimh

Suidhe Mochuda

Micháel deLondra, nó Séan Ó'Laoi.

Resurrection

Monsignor Pádraig deBrún

John Montague: Published 1995

That deep dark pool. To come suddenly upon it,

after driving across the Gap in midsummer,

the hedges lush and freighted with foxglove,

hawthorn, blood red and white under shifting,

shining veils of rain

A wind flurry finecombing the growing rain as

a full uddered cow precedes us along the lane,

a curious calf poking its lubberly head over stone

while the country road winds betwixt and between.

Sudden, at the summit of the Knockmealdowns,

a chill black lake, a glacial corrie or tarn,

some large absence, scraped, hacked, torn,

flung down from the far side of the dreaming cliff.

A brooding silence, a hoarded font of nothing,

lightless, still, opaque . . . severely alone.

Except when a shiver, a skirl of wind

makes the water tremble, mild as that of a field of grain.

But on the shorn flank of the mountain,

an enormous flowering, flaring bank of rhododendron,

exalted as some pagan wedding procession.

Fathomless darkness; silent raging colour.

A contrast to make your innermost being tremor,

like a child cradled in this quarry's murmur,

delighted but lost between the dark, the blossoming.

On one side, a moorland's bareness, rufous heather.

Sheltering a long-nebbed curlew, bog asphodel or lobelia,

and on the other, that terraced orchestra of colour,

avenues of lavish, endless, amethyst blossom.

Chill of winter: full warmth of summer,

Colliding head on in stillness, and a heavy aroma.

Unknown: Air McNamara's Band. (Bing Crosby, Decca 1946)

My name is Batty Casey, I'm the Ganger on the job.

My workmen number twenty and their pay is forty bob.

You will see them in the morning, they will not hesitate, to work a pick and shovel at a quarter after eight

The picks go bang and the shovels clang, the boys they toil away. Fennessey works the monkey winch and the roots they leave the clay.

Denny gives a helping hand, when the tree begins to sway, and Coole it is a noisy spot since Casey came the way.

We have the Foley brothers and they come from Tooradoo. We have Fennessey, Walsh and Ahern and they are all a noisy crew.

Quirke works like a nigger and he blisters all his hands.

Dick Nugent makes no delay when he goes to boil the cans. We have young Landers and Griffin from Cloghaun.

We've a man from Ballyheaphy and his name is Bill Drislane. We have Keating Lyons and Bennett and we have Morrissey in the van.

And now to conclude and finish, the job is nearly o'er, I have seen many good workmen in many the job before.

Believe me boy's I'm telling no lie, and I do not give a damn.

The best workmen in Ireland are in Batty Casey's gang.

Eugene O'Brien

It is with deep affection,

I look back on boyhood years.

Around the old bog road

Where oft I used to roam.

Close by sweet seemochuda,

Not far from my abode.

In dear old Ballysaggart,

With the school beside the road.

T'was there I went with schoolmates dear,

As then, will always revere,

They were so true and loyal,

So constant and sincere

I always will remember,

The boyhood love they showed

In dear old Ballysaggart,

With the school beside the road.

The teachers names we will cherish too,

With care they watched us all,

Less we should stray in idle paths,

Or, in misfortune fall

Both Religious and secular,

T'was many rules they showed,

In dear old Ballysaggart,

With the school beside the road.

But time flew past like a trumpets blast,

sure now I'm in manhood's bloom,

I'll weep and sigh for days gone by,

Till I'm laid low in my tomb,

And I will think on each and everyone,

Till to manhood's years I bow,

An I will think of Ballysaggart,

With the school beside the road.

Billy O'Brien

Ballysaggart's my own place, a place dear to me.

That I'll always remember, wherever I be,

When I left it my heart it was heavy with load.

And it goes by the name of the top of Cons road.

It lies near a village five miles from the town.

In full view of Mt Melleray and the tall Knockmealdown.

Kind nature it's beauty in plenty bestowed,

On that dear little spot called the top of Cons road.

Sure it's often I danced there in the sweet summer time,

While the streams rippling by with the music did chime.

There I courted the collersontic (?) the sad day,

That I took my departure to cross over the Sea.

It's well I remember the days of my youth,

When I hurled with the boys and the football did boot.

At the sport's we ran races and bicycles we rode,

Down in Keating's green field by the top of Cons road.

All the travelling showmen put up by it's side,

We swung high in the boats in the sweet even tide.

In a tent in the Scathlow (?) fine pictures were shown,

While a gramophone played by the top of Cons road.

Sure we pulled Tug of war in the sweet summer time,

With Maloney the anchor man strong as a lion,

There the hounds did assemble, the wild fox to erode,

While the horns did echo around the top of Cons road.

As I dream of my youth sure it makes me feel sad,

That I'll never more see the place I roamed when a lad.

But in fancy, I'll go there and make my abode,

God be with you Ballysaggart and the top of Cons road.

Mickey O'Brien

As Seamus he takes up possession

inside the loop of rope

There is need for me to remind you

but he is Ballysaggart's last hope.

Here's to Mike Goulding the stalwart,

he'll assure you this is no fun.

And yet he has played a great part

on the victory the boys they have won.

Then came on was Michael O'Brien

He pulled with such vengeance and skill.

For the way he lay on the rope,

Every heart with joy it would fill.

There was Williams, Moore and Devine

Men of outstanding renown.

But for their strength and courage,

Our team would surely go down.

And now to conclude and finish,

With Dan Shanahan and the bold David Lyons,

Combined with Tim Murphy's great effort,

To Ballysaggart they brought home the crown.

Fr Michael troy O.M.I.

O Baile na Saggart sweet home of my birth,

Where often in boyhood with laughter and mirth,

I danced in your homesteads, I walked by your rills.

I roamed by your valleys, your moors and your hills.

I chased the wild hare o'er your mountain and plain,

I fished in your river in wind and in rain.

But never before did my heart feel that sigh,

As the morning of parting, when I said Goodbye.

Ah how well I remember that valley called "Code".

As I gazed on her beauty while I played at school,

Her groves and her giver with its waters so clear,

As it winded it's way year after year.

The church on the hillside what a beautiful sight,

Where the angel of God keeps guard day and night.

And the school by the roadside with it's chimney so tall,

Where those dear beloved teachers toiled for us all.

As a calm Sunday morning how solemn they kneel,

Of the call of the chapel, by the toll of the bell,

As it peeled through the valley's, what a heart feeling sound.

And called all the people from their homes all around.

Oh t'is oft when I ponder on my Baile Asteoir,

And think of the dear days that I'll see no more,

That a sigh from my poor heart an outlet doth seek,

And my tongue fail to utter what God has in store.

 Although I'm severed far from my home,

Yet I'll never forget it wherever I'll roam.

And I'll pray that the dear ones around it abide,

Will stand with "Blessed" on Gods right hand side.

Edward Walsh (1805~1850)

My heart is far from Liffey's tide

And Dublin Town;

It strays beyond the southern side

Of Cnoc Maol Donn,

Where Capa Chuinn hath woodlands green,

Where Amhan Mór's waters flow,

Where dwells unsung, unsought, unseen,

Mo Chraoibhín Cnó

The highbred dames of Dublin town

are rich and fair,

With wavy plume and silken gown,

And stately air;

Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair?

Can silks thy neck of snow?

Or measur'd pace thine artless grace,

Mo Chraoibhín Cnó

When harebells scarcely show thy trace,

Mo Chraoibhín Cnó

I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave,

That maidens sung -

They sung their land, the Saxon's slave,

In Saxon tongue -

Oh! bring me here that Gaelic dear

Which cursed the Saxon foe

When thou didst charm my raptured ear,

Mo Chraoibhín Cnó

And none but God's good angels near

Mo Chraoibhín Cnó

(Halfway between Youghal and Cappoquin)

Michael Kavanagh

Of all the rivers which son or daughter

Of Adam prizes the world within,

The branch of beauty you bear, Blackwater,

From Youghal Harbour to Cappoquin.

For nowhere else do the dancing billows,

In slanting sunbeams so softly shine,

As where they stream through the fringing willows.

Leath Slí idir Eochaill is Ceapach Chuinn.

Where the limpid flood to the southward sweeping,

For a backward glance at loved Knockmealdown,

Lies crowned with oak-leaves

Like wood nymphs sleeping,

In mirrored beauty my native town.

God, guard the hearts that those grey roofs cover,

Whose fervent pulses respond to mine,

When in raptured visions I fondly hover

Leath Slí idir Eochaill is Ceapach Chuinn

The Fairy music seems floating o'er us,

As larks pour down their melodious floods,

While all around, spring the thrilling chorus,

Of Irish songsters in Irish woods.

The vesper bell in the Abbey ringing,

Sounds faintly sweet at the day's decline,

And in the moonlight the boatman singing,

Leath Slí idir Eochaill is Ceapach Chuinn

I sadly awake from those dreams Elysian,

To find the vision dissolved in air

And Gods bequest to the clann Milesian

Usurped by foreigners planted there.

That Erins children, the loving hearted,

Should seek new homes o'er the Ocean's brine,

To sigh for life, from the friends they parted,

Leath Slí idir Eochaill is Ceapach Chuinn.

Máire Bean Uí Bray

(Maire, woman with Bray)

It is a sad poem, all her old companions are either dead or living away from home, her last remaining link to the past is Knocknafallia. Her mountain home.

Thá sléibhte le feiscint in gach diesceart in Éireann

Ard agus íseal ag síneadh on a chéile,

Ní hiad san athá me a áireamh cé gur breá iad a tagairt,

Ach an cnoc seo thá lámh liom, Cnoc Álainn Na Faille.

Sé súid is fearr liom mar a thógadh mé im leanbh

's mar a chaiteas-sa m'óige a 'cur eolis ar theanga,

Mo ghaolta 's mo shinnsir mo mhuintir 's mo charaid,

A thógadh roimh-ré liom a fhéarchnoc Na faille.

Thá na féar glas a' fás ann is bláth buí air aiteann

Thá sruth a' rioth lán leis ag crónán len a ghaise

Thá draíocht ar a bharr chuireann fán ar lucht ealach,

Nuair a bhíonn an ghrian ar na bánta a Chnoic Álainn na Faille.

Bhí radharc deas ar an móin uait ar an dtonn is ar an Rinn

An Abha Mhor síos go hEochaill is í ag góilt thar Cheapach Chuinn.

Ar thaobh Thiobraid Árann on mBáinseach dtín Chathair

Le feiscint ód' bharr-se a Cnoic Álainn Na Faille

( Great River of the Deise)

Séan Ó'Caoim

A tribute to, or a celebration of the sights and sounds of the Munster Blackwater

A Abha Mhór na nDéise nach gléinach an radharc thú

Ag gluaiseacht go réidh gheal thar shléibhte's trí choillte;

Gan torann gan fuaim in do gluaiseacht mhín ghleoite;

Is tú ag triall ar an bhfarrige in aice le hEochaill.

A Abha Mhór na nDéise, nach réidh e do chúrsa,

Ó Fearr Maí Féinne go dtí 'n taobh eile Gheoibhse;

Bánta mín, réidh' ar gach taobh duit go húrghlas.

Cíb's bruimh-fhéar agus craobhcha ort a'lúbadh.

A Abha Mhór na nDéise, nach líonmhar do stórsa-

Do shaibreas éisc - na céadta thar cóimhreamh;

An bradán go haerach cois taobh poirt a beoladh;

Is preabarnaigh méith-bhreac fé dhéin na gcuilleoga.

A Abha Mhór na nDéise, inis scéalta ar taois dúinn,

An gein tú ó'n tréan mhuir nó srae bheag ó'n díle;

Ón uaimh úd ag scéitheadh' ar shléibhte Chiarraí dhuit,

Nó go ndeochann tu an tSáile a fháisceann len a croí thú.

A Abha Mhór na nDéise, inis scéal ar na noimh ud.

Do bheannaigh do réim-se le bréithre's le ghíomhartha;

Mochoda naofa is na céadta eile taobh leis;

Ag beannú ar gach taobh díot an cré ina luíonn siad.

A Abha Mhór na nDéise, inis scéal ar na laoich sin.

A throid ar gach taobh díot in aghaid éigin is coímheascair

Prionsaí na nDéise, fir thréana gus taoisig

'S na Gearrailtigh shéimhe bhí réimeach seal taobh leat.

Nuair a luíonn an ghréin is teinn na héanlaith cun suainis,

Agus soilse geal gléineacha na réaltanna anuas ort.

An ghaoth bhog ag séideadh a gaethe fionnfhuarais,

Se guth binn na Gaelinne a bhreagann chun suain thu.

Michéal deLondra, no Séan Ó'Laoi

[Níl 'm cinnte anois]

Maidin Samhna sul a dheirigh Phoebus

agus mise in' aonar ag súil na Súidhe

Cois abhainn Araglen mar a ritheann méibhrich

A's an bradán glé gil le fáil sa buionn.

Shuigh me síos ar feadh séal ag éisteacht

Le guth na n'ean a bhi ag smíunt ceol

Geach nóit a gcuiridis a dtuiscint dá chéile

Ba bhinne ná an téad e ná an bhial ba nua.

Ba ghairid gur labhair an ceann ab aosta

Des na léinibh leis a mhuintir óg

Is gairid uainn an lá go mbeidh a bharr le hÉire

agus clanna Gael faoi rachmas mór.

Do labhair an cuach as an géag ab aoirde

Is fíor do bhearsa is is binn do ghlór

Agus tugaim cúntas chugaibh os na húdair léanta

Go bi sin téarma ba ghairid duinn.

A Tribute to Séan macDhíarmuida

Monsignor Pádraig deBrún

Pádraig deBrún was born on the 13th October 1889.

His father was Maurice Browne of Cappoquin and his Mother Kate Fitzgerald of Grangemockler. His Sister Margaret, became the wife of Séan McEntee and their daughter, Máire Mhac an tSaoi became one of the leading writers of poetry in the Irish language

Yet from the dead speaks one with calm pale brow,

Posessed a heart of fire - I see his face,

And startled whisper Sean McDermot's name -

As when I held him in a last embrace,

His voice comes to me now,

Upbraiding me for toying with despair,

And words compassionate mere waste of breath.

For one one who never wavered unto death,

He passed to wait for me in God's clear air.

And through this idle tribute of our tears

We pay to those who fell, we know 'tis vain;

For they have died with proud unflinching gaze,

Glad that in death they wiped away the stain

Of servitude that marked us in the ways

Of past disgraceful years,

And linked our time to ages long ago,

And chiefs who never to false altars bowed,

Whom gifts had never won nor threats had cowed.

EMMET and TONE, SARSFIELD and OWEN ROE.