Poems for All Occasions (2 page)

Into Boston and New York,

Came Irish youth from Erin’s Isle,

Walked the streets from dawn to dusk,

Trying so hard to earn a dime.

Resentment in some jealous hearts,

Anti Catholic in heart and mind,

Called our Irish boys and colleens,

“Popish Paddies” so unkind.

A weekly paper issued,

By the Rev. Georgie Bour ne,

Promoting Reformation,,

Catholicism spurned.

Secret societies formed,

By these local Protestant brethren,

They ambushed Irish immigrants,

Their menial homes they burned.

The year was eighteen thirty four,

In Charlestown, Massachusetts,

When they burned the Convent and the church

A deed so foul and stupid.

The Civil War brought problems new,

The Irish stood together,

They worked in farms as helping hands,

And rose to high positions.

Around the Lake of Michigan,

They proved their worth and genius,

Ator neys, judges became with pride

Still loyal to their Irish breeding.

The Celtic Clan worked with pride and might,

Building roads, railroads and mansions,

The Irish Colleens with gentle smiles,

Became America’s cherished Nannies.

The years rolled on, they settled down,

Into loyal American Citizens,

Their offspring too, like fowers in bloom,

Adorned the towns and cities.

The Mass rocks in our lonely glens,

Like gems, they bring remembrance,

Of bygone days, when our kin, they dared,

‘Gainst tyrants ‘ swords descending.

The humble priest, in robes, addressed,

His folks, all there assembled,

And down the glen came red coated men,

They hanged the priest with vengeance.

To day, we all are free to thrive,

And attend our Mass in freedom,

No Mass rocks, hanging ropes and spies

To kill our priests and religion.

So let us cherish what we‘ve got,

From ancestors brave and brilliant,

They taught us to be good and true,

To our land and to our religion.

After tea ,on the kitchen floor,

We grabbed a chair and knelt,

Our elbows on the chair’s hard wood,

At our lady’s picture glanced.

The repetition of each soft prayer,,

Was soothing to the ear,

Sometimes, perhaps monotonous,

But each face was full of cheer.

Our Mum prayed for each one near and far,

For those long passed away,

This lovely blessed Rosary,

Kept us safe at work and play.

She prayed for all our emigrants,

In Australia and U.S.A.,

For all who helped this land of ours,

My God! how she could pray.

The “trimmings” of her Rosary,

Lasted an hour each night,

As we knelt upon the flag stones,

Unaware of war or strife.

To day how many say their prayers?

With Rosary beads in hands,

Greed for money, vice and worldly gains,

Have engrossed the brains of man.

They taught their Children to kneel in prayer,

Saying daily “speak to God”,

Just tell Him all your troubles and woe,

While on this earth you trod.

The little Irish mother worked

so hard each day,

She cooked and washed,

Had no machines

Or never went away.

Each night, they knelt

‘Round the bright turf –fire,

Rosary beads entwined in hands,

And spoke to the God.

Who created them,

Each child a gift so grand.

Her love grew as she watched them grow

One day, they left their home

To cross the broad Atlantic shore

The western world to roam.

“I’ll love them till my last lone breath”

Those were the words, she said.

“And then from Heaven,

I’ll watch each one,

Until their final rest.”.

Ah! Great were Irish mothers

The great old Mother Machree,

They strove to rear good offspring,

They smiled through joy and grief.

(Mass read in country homes, attended by all the neighbours)

Ever since the Penal days,

House stations were the norm,

In country areas, Mass was read,

For neighbours, the house adorned.

The altar was the kitchen table,

Bedecked by Gran’s lace cloth,

Two candles stood on coloured jars,

Some flowers the children brought.

Before the Mass, each one knelt down,

Beside the parlour fire,

Confessing all their sins to him,

The priest, much loved, admired.

The dues, they paid, a few small coins,

To support their Church and Priest.

They prayed for friends and neighbours,

And for those across the sea.

Then when the Mass was over,

They chatted and sang with glee,

The priest and Old Sacristan

Sat down for Mother’s tea.

Then blessing all,t he Priest bade “Goodbye”

Respectfully did leave,

The dancing and the “craic” began

Till morning’s first bright gleam.

(In olden days in Ireland, most of the cottages were thatched by talented men, known as thatchers.)

Did you ever see a thatcher

Bend the scallop, with expert eye?

He’d tap them down quite firmly,

Then make the final tie.

Placing them across the rafters,

Then gaze on them with pride

Indeed thatching in those by gone days

Was an art for men, not boys.

Away above the rooftop

He’d work from morn till dark,

Humming a good old rebel song,

The ladder at his back.

Ah! those lovely neat old cottages,

Have disappeared of late,

With their white washed walls and chimneys,

Golden thatch instead of slate.

They sheltered Ireland’s families,

From gales and winds and storms,

The thatchers too have passed away,

And the Sheaves of yellow corn.

In nineteen 05, outside of Kilgarvan,

A village so neat, in Kerry’s green vale.

Was born a man, who won praise, fame and glory

His name was Mike Quill, a true son of the Gael.

Mike founded a union to enhance all the workers,

He became President popular of Transport Union

so great,

He made New York City’s traffic immobile ,

This man caused a stir in the bold U.S.A.

He came from a clan, who were Irish, Republican,

Loved his home Gortluchra, six miles from Kenmare,

Quite often, he flew in a plane o’er his homeland,

People shouted “Fáilte Abhaile” Mike Quill

full of dare.”

(Fáilte abhaile means”Welcome home”; pronounced faulta awale)

Heroes too numerous to mention,

Meagher’s Irish brigade,

Won notable praise in battle,

America proud of their fame.

General Lee, Meagher’s opponent,

These are the words that he said;

“Never were men so brave that day,

They ennobled their race and their clan.”

The “Times” from London stated,

“Ne’er at Fontenoy or Waterloo,

Was more courage displayed, by men of the Gael

Than at Marye’s Height in 1862.

The school teacher,John O’Sullivan,

Who hailed from Limerick fair,

Gave America four of its finest,

Governors, general, attorney.

In the Civil War in U.S.A ,

Philip Sheridan from Cavan town,

Proved to be a general great

Won fame and wide renown.

The list is long and treasured,

From New York to Paciffic shores.

Their names will live forever

For bravery always adored.

Ballymoe near the Galway border,

Reared a staunch outstanding son,

His name was Edward Flanagan

Great renown, for deeds he won.

In Omaha, Nebraska,

Trojan work for homeless boys,

In them he saw no evil,

Building up their ego with pride.

He established Boystown projects,

To help young chaps at risk,

‘Twas many the lad he saved, secured,

From slavery and early deaths.

Trades and small time industry,

Set up to employ these boys,

Like the late Saint John Bosco,

Fr. Ed. all odds defied.

The year was nineteen forty eight,

When suddenly he died,

Close by the walls of Old Berlin,

Europe’s war orphans cried.

He relished his beloved Ballymoe,

The place which gave him birth,

His name will live at home and abroad.

Father Flanagan, we’ll ne’er forget.

Eamon De Valera,

Born of an Irish Mother,

A Spanish father.

Loved by millions,

Hated by few.

Talented Statesman.

Manhattan sunlight,

His first view,

Into a world, he knew

One day he would

Come back to home.

Home in his beloved Erin.

Proud Commandant

In 1916 Rising;

his death sentence,

by Crown Forces,

commuted, because

British authorities

Unsure of his nationality.

Scared they were of the

Land of his birth,

Noble, loyal America,

Second home to the Irish Race.

Dev,elected Sinn Fein MP,

For East Clare in 1917.

But greater things in line;

June 25th, 1959, elected

President of the Emerald Isle.

Dev, tall, Irish to the core,

Spoke his Gaelic with guttural style.

Gentle giant, seldom smiled,

Scared his British rivals,

Until his final departure,

He bid us all adieu,

At the gallant age of 92.

May he rest in peace

Till we meet once again,

With the saints of Ireland

Patrick, Brid, and Colmcille.

The year was ’47, our wireless on a mat,

Lay neath the kitchen window ,around it we all sat.

Eight of us and Dad and Mum, with neighbours chocker block,

Listening to the gallant game from the Polo Grounds New York.

Our hearts, they beat for Kerry, but Cavan won with dare,

I can almost hear the wild applause and beloved Micheál O’Heihir,

Great, outstanding were our boys, how proud, indeed, were we,

Jim Brosnan, Dowling and Keohane, Gega and Dan O’Keefe.

As far as I can recollect, the Ref. was named “O’Neill”

But Cavan too, had mighty men, how they could kick and leap.

Duignan, Tighe,O’Donoghue, and the great man called “John Joe”

Gunner Brady, Stafford brave, Gannon and many more.

Though I was only a small wee girl ,to me they were the best,

Radio Eireann brought into our homes excitement, joy and jest,

To me that wee black radio was the greatest gift from God

My heart it beat so fast and throbbed, what a brilliant game it was.

World famous as “Non Pareil”

Was born as Jack Kelly in 1892.

But made his mark in the boxing world

Fresh and fearless through and through.

With a brain so clear, he fought with ease

From 1886 to ’91,

Ed McDonald’s dreams in smiderreens

Jack floored them one by one.

Jack Boyland came from Flushing Bay.

Three and twenty rounds of sweat,

Which poured in drops from both their brows

Our Jack Dempsey won all bets.

Then came the French Canadian.

La Blanche, the Boston Marine,

Who held a formidable record,

And deemed mighty hard to beat.

But Jack sent forth a powerful punch,

La Blanche lay on his back,

He rolled about and groaned so loud,

For Jack he was no match.

Johnny Regan great was next in line,

On the shores of Long Island fought,

Thirty two rounds with class, the tide came in fast

Regan unconscious, distraught.

The very last time, Jack was inside the ropes,

An exhibition he sparred with pride,

June,’95 ‘gainst John L. Sullivan,

Five months later Jack Dempsey died.

‘Twas November the first, All Saints’ Day,

In the year of Our Lord ‘95,

the cursed disease, known as T.B.

Forever closed Jack Dempsey’s eyes.

(’95 referred to was 1895)

I
rish men of physical strength,

Won great fame and renown,

World records were smashed by them,

Opponents lay on the ground.

First to mind, comes O’Sullivan Don,

The “Galway Wonder “ was he,

With jaws and teeth, great chains he’s meet,

Whirling them in circles neat.

Tipperary man Art McCabe,

Born in eighteen O2,

Stood 6 foot 3, weighed 16 stone,

Victory easily did woo.

He defeated America’s mighty man,

Ben Tennan, stout and tall,

Lifted a platform, heavy as lead,

On it twelve men in all.

Let’s not forget the Kerryman,