Category Archives: Irish Poetry

Dungar, Roscrea Graveyard Photographs, Co. Tipperary

Gravestone photographs Dungar Public Cemetery,

Dungar gravestones which begin with the A-K surnames

Roscrea,
Tipperary


Photographs of Dungar gravestones which begin with the A-K surnames
Photographs of Dungar gravestones which begin with L-Q surnames & Memorial Plaque
Photographs of Dungar gravestones which begin with R-W surnames

The surnames which are on the gravestones in Dungar are given as the names of the gravestones. Each stone will have a number on it indicating the number of times that the first surname has been found on any gravestone in this cemetery, e.g. if a stone had the surname Lyons as the first surname on the stone then the stone becomes Lyons 1.  If another stone with the surname Lyons on it is found in a different plot then this becomes Lyons 2.  If there are other surnames on the stone then these surnames come after the number.
The letters a, b or others after a number indicate that there were a number of gravestones on one plot and these all belong together

These photographs of Dungar gravestones were taken between November 2006 and June 2007

We are giving you close up images of the gravestones  in some instances.  All gravestone photographs are reduced in size in order to allow us have copies of all photographs on this site.  We have a full photograph of each stone as well as the close ups.  From-Ireland.net charge 3 Euro to email you a copy of a photograph or set of photographs.

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The Song of Crede, Daughter of Guare

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE.
(Translated from a Tenth Century Poem.)


(the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the Hy Fidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare, with seventeen wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him. He died and was buried in the cemetery of Colman’s Church)

These are the arrows that murder sleep
At every hour in the night’s black deep;
Pangs of Love through the long day ache,
All for the dead Dinertach’s sake.

Great love of a hero from Roiny’s plain
Has pierced me through with immortal pain,
Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch,
A riven bloom on a restless branch.

Never was song like Dinertach’s speech
But holy strains that to Heaven’s gate reach;
A front of flame without boast or pride,
Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid’s side.

A growing girl – I was timid of tongue,
And never trysted with gallants young,
But since I have won into passionate age,
Fierce love-longings my heart engage.

I have every bounty that life could hold,
With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold.
But, fallen away from my haughty folk,
In Irluachair’s field my heart lies broke.

There is chanting in glorious Aidne’s meadow,
Under St. Colman’s Church’s shadow;
A hero flame sinks into the tomb –
Dinertach, alas, my love and my doom!

Chaste Christ! that now at my life’s last breath
I should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death!
At every hour of the night’s black deep,
These are the arrows that murder sleep.

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What is Love?

WHAT IS LOVE? [From the Early Irish.]


A love all-commanding, all-withstanding
Through a year is my love;
A grief darkly hiding, starkly biding
Without let or remove ,
Of strength a sharp straining, past sustaining
Wheresoever I rove,
A force still extending without ending
Before and around and above.

Of Heaven ’tis the brightest amazement,
The blackest abasement of Hell,
A struggle for breath with a spectre,
In nectar a choking to death;
‘Tis a race with Heaven’s lightning and thunder,
Then Champion Feats under Moyle’s water
‘Tis pursuing the cuckoo, the wooing
Of Echo, the Rock’s airy daughter.

Till my red lips turn ashen,
My light limbs grow leaden,
My heart loses motion,
In Death my eyes deaden,
So is my love and my passion,
So is my ceaseless devotion
To her to whom I gave them,
To her who will not have them.

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She-Who-Walks-Among-the-People by Paula Meehan

‘Tell me a story, Granny. Not the one
about the little girl lost in the forest,
not the one about the grandmother who turns
into a big wolf and eats the little girl up.


‘Child of grace, look into the flames.
Long, long ago, not in my granny’s time,
nor in her granny’s before her, but further back
in a world you couldn’t imagine, a bad spell
was cast on the whole island. The people lived
in fear and pain. The land itself was hurting,
as were the animals who shared it with the people.
One tribe fought against the next tribe
and at night their dreams were muddy and grey.
One tribe had many, many tokens
and owned all the land and chariots and most
of the things on the island. Another tribe
had some tokens, just enough for food and shelter.
And some tribes had no tokens at all.
None of them could get any peace or clear dreamings
with the worry about tokens, whether they had
any or not. The tribes who had nothing were
broken in spirit. Nobody cared about them,
and nobody listened to them. A terrible silence
stole over them. words were stones on their tongues.
Their children, charmed by strange potions, bad visions,
grew thin and sickened and faded away to death.
Or turned with the tide from the shores to carry
their learning and vigour like makeshift bundles
to the doors of strangers. Some went mad,
the burden of silence too heavy on their shoulders,
and were locked away in dungeons. They could make
no sense of a world that shifted them to
high towers or dumped them in huge encampments
with no tokens, no hope, no dreams for a future.
A little girl like you wouldn’t be safe walking
in the world for there were many damaged people
who had turned into monsters and forgotten
the human way. They were as sharks in the streets
of the city, ravening wolves in the countryside.

And the silence was heavy on the island
like a rnourning shroud; lies were thick
on the tongues of the rulers. Few were the lawgivers
who cared about justice, few were the doctors
who cared about healing, few were the teachers
who cared about truth. But some there were
and they were as shining warriors among the people.
And one in special who came from the Northwest,
near to the site of the Holy Mountain, where
the Great Sea beats the rock to sand under the sun.
The tunes of that place sparkle like salmon curving
upriver to their dark spawning ground. She
was a slip of a girl with laughter in her eyes and just
about your own age when her heart opened
with pity for the people and pity for the women
in special, for back then the women were slaves
and had to do what the men told them to do.
She studied hard at her books and learned
all there was to learn about the Laws,
and she saw that some Laws were cruel, especially
the Laws for the women. She went to the courts
of the island and fought for the women there
with her marvellous gift of speech. When she got
no satisfaction there she went to the big courts
on the mainland. And she was greatly
beloved by the people and they made her chief
among all the warriors. They had begun
to speak again and break the spell of silence.
They laughed at the liars and took away their Powers.
She’d come and stand among the people and listen.
Wherever they organized and struggled she’d be there
to give them courage and bear witness to their
hard work and service. And though her original
name is lost in the mists of Time and Change
we remember her as She-Who-Walks-Among-The-People.
That was the name the poets and song makers
gave her long ago, not in my granny’s time, nor
in her granny’s before her. but further back
in a world, child of grace, you couldn’t imagine.’

‘And, Granny, did the people live happy ever after?’

‘The people will endure. They are scattered
over the face of the earth like those stars
above you over the face of the heavens.
Our dreams are as clear as water from a good well
and we mind each other. But who knows when
a bad spell will be cast on the island again?
That’s why you must work hard at your books,
in case one day you’ll he needed by the people.
If you aren’t a good girl you’ll go down in the songs as
Girl-Gobbled-By-A-Wolf-She-Thought-Was-Her-Granny!’

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Before the Race

BEFORE THE RACE
ROWED NEAR MARLFIELD, 1862


On the eighth day of July,
Three boats their speed will try
At Marlfield; ’tis nigh,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

The Rover and Clonmel,
The Colleen Bawn as well;
Who’s best, time will tell,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

But the Rover ought to win,
If the crew are worth a pin;
‘Tis on them I’ll stake the tin,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

What kind are the crew?
Oh, they will stand true blue,
As Irishmen should do,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

Meagher is stroke oar;
He led the van before,
And says he’ll win once more,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

Mullin will be there,
O’Connor Dan pulls fair,
And O’Donnell’s strength is rare,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

What have they to fear,
If the course be but kept clear,
For Savage is to steer,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

But if they be left out,
There can be no doubt
But we’ll see a fighting bout,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

The Clonmel crew are proud,
Their talk is rather loud,
But perhaps they may be cowed,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

The Colleen’s hopes are high,
To strive they are not shy,
For the oars they well can ply,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

Let each have but fair play,
And two to one, I say,
The Rover gains the day,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

Right well may they brag,
On their tongue he put no gag,
If they proudly wear the flag,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

When the prize is won,
And fireworks are begun,
Then we’ll see some fun,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

Then Roman candles bright,
We’ll hail with great delight
The heroes of the fight,
Says the Shan van Vaeth.

ANON.
Given by R. S. PELLISIER.

Taken from
“My Clonmel Scrapbook.
County Tipperary.
Famous Trials,
Romances,
Sketches, Stories,
Ballads, &c.”
Compiled & Edited by James White
Second 1000 ; Published E. Downey & Co., Waterford ; 1907 ; No. ISBN

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The Old Friary Bell (at Clonmel) by P. O’H. Peters

THE OLD FRIARY BELL
P. O’H. PETERS.


Written on hearing it at Clonmel a few days ago

Air- “Aileen Mavourneen.”

WHAT mystical music resounds on my ear,
Remarkably tender, melodious and clear;
Proclaiming its mission thro’ valley and dell?
‘Tis the beautiful chime of the old Fri’ry bell.

How softly it floats on the swet-scented air,
Inviting the faithful to service and prayer ;
Saint Mary’s itself couldn’t really excel
The beautiful chime of the old Fri’ry bell.

For many a year has it echoed along
The clear-winding river majestic and strong,
Outliving both Ireton and Cromwell as well,
The beautiful chime of the old Fri’ry bell.

Tho’ seasons unnumbered have silently flown,
Since first I rejoiced in its magical tone;
Yet deeply I’ll cherish, wherever I dwell,
The beautiful chime of the old Fri’ry bell.

Taken from My Clonmel Scrapbook
Compiled & Edited James White
Second 1000 ; Published E. Downey & Co., Waterford ; 1907 ; No. ISBN

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The Defence of Clonmel by D. A. McCArthy

WHEN Oliver Cromwell – whose name is still remembered with horror in Ireland – besieged Clonmel, the garrison of fifteen hundred men, commanded by Hugh Duff O’Neill, and aided by the townspeople, resisted most bravely. At length, finding further struggle against overwhelming odds hopeless, O’Neill decided to evacuate the town ; buy before taking this step, he planned and executed a stroke which for the time being, almost demoralised the enemy and filled them with such a wholesome respect for the prowess of the town’s defenders that, when Clonmel surrendered, its people received favourable terms from Cromwell. General Sir William Butler, KC.B., writing of this event, says: “No opposition appeared until the leading troops entered the breach. The column anticipated an easy victory, but there was terrible slaughter, and they were repulsed. An hour after nightfall O’Neill withdrew his forces, and the town was surrendered.”


“Ho, chosen warriors of the Lord,
Gird up your loins to-day!
Yon breach within, the sons of sin
Stand desp’rately at bay.
Draw, draw your swords, your pieces prime,
Let drum and trumpet swell !
This charge must tout the Papists out”
Cried Cromwell at Clonmel.

E’en at his word the army stirred,
Grim veterans all were they,
Whose swords had flashed, whose cannon crashed
In many a fiery fray.
At Naseby field and Marston Moor
Full well they’d fleshed their spears,
When fast before their charge had fled
The haughty Cavaliers.

The eyes beneath each morion glowed
With strange, fanatic light;
They deemed themselves the saints of God,
His instruments of might.
No doubt this firm conviction vexed,
But fierce, ferocious, calm,
Their war-cry was a Scripture text,
Their battle-song a psalm.

Across the land their march had been
A devastating flood;
Where’er it twined it left behind
A crimson stain of blood.
Not e’en the piteous plea of age
Their fury could disarm,
And vain the wile of childhood’s smile
Their murderous mood to charm.

And now, behold, against Clonmel
They vainly fling their bands!
Battered and bayed but undismayed
The town defiant stands.
Battered and bayed but undismayed
It meets each fresh attack;
With soldiers few and faint but true
It hurls the foemen back.

Hugh Duff O’Neill commands the town,
And marks, with looks that lower,
Cromwellian cannon batter down
His forts from hour to hour.
He marks the famine-stricken few
That hold the crumbling wall,
And knows that vain is all their pain –
Clonmel at last must fall.

The up he speaks unto his chiefs ;
“Ere yet this town we leave,
We’ll make a stand for fatherland
Will cause the foe to grieve.
The breach that yeawns so widely now
Wil serve our purpose well ;
Before we go we’ll make the foe
Remember ‘Rare Clonmel’!”

Within the breach’s ywning mouth
A lane of stone he rears;
He lines the walls on either side
With all his musketeers,
across the end another wall
With cannon furnished fit –
“I have a mind,” quoth he, “they’ll find
This breach the devil’s pit”

The trap is made, but scarcely laid,
When Cromwell’s voice rings out;
With eager cry his troops reply,
In one wild charging shout.
Then, like the thundering wave that roars
Along the sounding beach,
The rushing Roundhead army pours
Its thousands through the breach!

Clonmel, Clonmel, thy fate is sealed!
Thy sun is sunk in gloom!
No strength thy puny arm may wield
Can save thee from thy doom –
The doom that fell on Drogheda
And Wexford town as well –
Slaughter and flame, defeat and shame,
Are thine today, Clonmel!

But see! But see! Who can these be
From out the breach that run ?
What panic-stricken wretches flee
With broken blade and gun?
Can these be Cromwell’s chosen troops,
Erewhile so fierce and fell,
That stagger out, a broken rout,
From dauntless old Clonmel ?

Yes, yes! Thank God for cannoneers,
Who mowed them down in ranks!
Thank God for ready musketeers
Whose volleys swept their flanks!
Thank God for gallant soldiers all,
Who charged and broke and slew
In one brief hour the very flower
Of Cromwell’s canting crew!

Yes, yes! Thank God for Irish hearts,
Unconquerable still !
Of war’s red cost the Roundhead host
To-day have had their fill.
Honour to these who held the town,
And let the future tell
How Irish swords beat back the hordes
Of Cromwell at Clonmel !

Taken from My Clonmel Scrapbook
Compiled & Edited James White
Second 1000 ; Published E. Downey & Co., Waterford ; 1907 ; No. ISBN

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The Wreck of the Gwendoline by C.J. Boland

THE WRECK OF THE GWENDOLINE
C. J. BOLAND.


FROM the day I was nine, the wish was mine
A sailor bold to be ;
I began to pine for the stormy brine,
And a life on the deep blue sea.
And so one day on the old Bridge Quay,
I kissed my blue-eyed Nell,
And I shipped with joy as a cabin-boy
To a boatman of Clonmel.

‘Tis a dreadful shock to leave Poulslough
When the hearts young and bright,
The street called Hawke, and the Grave Walk,
And Duckett Street by night.
My sweet abode on Kerry Road
Is shrined in memory’s cell.
Ah, cruel fate! Good-bye, West Gate,
And Shambles Lane – farewell.

The morn was still; near Hughes’ mill
The Gwendoline was moored.
We laid in grog, and a terrier dog,
And a cargo of oats – insured.
So we poled away at break of day
And waved all friends adieu;
And a loud farewell rang the friary bell
As the brewery hove in view.

At the word “Avast” we manned each mast,
And we cheered for Murphy’s stout,
As the cheer arose, we frightened the crows
On the Waterford bow with the shout.
But the day grew dark, and our bounding barque
Was struck by a sudden squall ;
The captain grew pale in the driving gale,
As we swept by the gashouse wall.

Her timber creaks, and now she leaks;
With a shovel we try to bale,
But not even that, nor the captain’s hat,
Nor an old top-boot avail.
We neared the bank and threw a plank
To the Tipperary shore;
One whirl it gave, then in the wave
It sunk, to rise no more.

I cried “Farewell” to my blue-eyed Nell,
And I brushed away a tear,
But my heart gave a bound as we ran aground
On the wall of Dudley’s weir;
Then we walked ashore, half dead or more,
The dog, and myself, and the tar,
And we shouted” Ahoy” to a creamery boy,
And went home in an ass’s car.

And the captain cried, as we homeward hied,
That his luck for ever was gone,
For a gipsy foretold in the days of old,
He’d be wrecked at “Kilnawan.”
“What harm,” said he, ” if it chanced to be
Where Kilsheelan’s billows foam ?
ut the Board of Trade will me degrade,
For it’s half a mile from home.”

She was stuck in weeds, but some twenty steeds
That were chargers in their day,
They towed her back, on the sternward track,
To her berth beside the quay.
And other boats with Tartary oats,
May sail to Carrick Green,
But never more, by sea or shore,
Will sail the Gwendoline.

Taken from My Clonmel Scrapbook
Compiled & Edited James White
Second 1000 ; Published E. Downey & Co., Waterford ; 1907 ; No. ISBN

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An Irish Airman Foresees His Death by William Butler Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.


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Brown Penny by William Butler Yeats

I whispered, ‘I am too young,’
And then, ‘I am old enough’;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
‘Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.’
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.


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