The Games We Played
Author: Seamus Kavanagh
Poet Seamus Kavanagh remembers the games of his boyhood. days on the Carlow - Wicklow border.
Among the rocks near "Miley's"
We had our own "Wild West"
Tom Mix, Roy Rogers And Hop Along,
Were the heroes we love best.
With wooden guns and steady aim,
We hardly ever missed,
As we shot down all the outlaws,
Upon the " Wanted List".
But when the "Leathers Echo"
Sounded near the hall,
The notes of the pied piper,
Had not a sweeter call.
The sheep were the spectators,
The ditch the Hogan Stand,
And Keogh's dog the leader,
As we walked behind the band!
We kicked, we ran, we scored,
We didn't have a care
And each took turns to commentate.
Just like Micheal O Hehir.
We fished for trout in the "Tinker's Brook"
When the Summer stream was low,
While in the drifts of Winter,
We tracked rabbits in the snow.
With piece of stick and bicycle wheel,
We could roam the world o'er,
No hill too high no sea too deep,
That we could not explore.
When the cuckoo called and swallow came,
We searched every tree and bush,
And each of us could tell the nest.
Of blackbird, wren or thrush.
We picked chestnuts in the Autumn
Searched for frogspawn in the Spring
And when the "Frockens" ripened,
It was then we ate our fill!
Among the ferns at " Hide and Seek"
It was the girls against the boys,
We now had grown much older
And outgrown all our toys.
Love it bloomed and hearts were broke,
As we learned how to grow
And you I sought and sometimes found
When did I let you go?
The Keepers of the Flame
(Air: The Bantry Girl’s Lament)
Author: Dave Barron
The Oral Tradition was central to how our Irish Culture was passed from one generation to the next. The stories, songs and poems that illustrated our Way of Life and our Cultural beliefs were repeated at social events, heard, modified and passed from one generation to the next. The local Rambling House sessions were a key element of that Oral Tradition.
Sadly, the OT is now under threat from our modern social media. Our modern culture is shaped by influences that emanate from places, known and unknown, across the world; the values of our ancestors are diluted or dissolved. The moral framework that shaped and supported our Irish way of life is under serious threat.
Now more than ever we need the Culture Framework and those who keep it alive.
The song reflects on that Oral Tradition and its importance. It particularly remembers Eddie MacDonald of Clonmore, County Carlow, who successfully promoted and maintained the Rambling House tradition. Ar dheis Dé go raibh Eddie.
Long, long ago ancestral lore was passed on orally;
The spark to light the Cultural Fire was lit in family
And local neighbours and the clan, all warmed to that same Flame
And so all came to act the same, all Keepers of the Flame.
Ár gcultúr úr, ó ghlúin go glúin, trí Coimeádaí ár scéal.
That Cultural Fire, fanned into flame, became our Irish Way,
So strong it burned Norse and Norman adopted Irish ways;
Seanchaí and Bard, they were the stars who tended to the Flame;
They told the stories of our race, the Keepers of the Flame.
Ár gcultúr úr, ó ghlúin go glúin, trí Coimeádaí ár scéal.
Queen Liza knew the part they played, how Bards maintained the Flame;
Her empire tried to quench our Flame, to their eternal shame;
But by fireside on Rambling Nights our Culture still was safe:
The singers and the Fear an Tigh, all Keepers of the Flame.
Ár gcultúr úr, ó ghlúin go glúin, trí Coimeádaí ár scéal.
How can we keep the Flame today, with new technology?
The button we press will answer all quests, from AI to Zoology;
But AI and facts need more than that: they need a cultural frame:
We need to maintain our Cultural Flame and the Keepers of the Flame.
Ár gcultúr úr, ó ghlúin go glúin, trí Coimeádaí ár scéal.
In old Clonmore lived such a man, McDonald was his name;
He aimed to keep the Fire aflame, not glory and not fame;
There Eddie Mac and his Rambling House all kept the Fire aflame,
Now Eddie’s gone, he’s joined the throng, the Keepers of the Flame.
Yes, Eddie’s passed to Heaven’s host of Keepers of the Flame.
The Old Church in Knockananna
Author: Seamus Kavanagh
Seamus reflects on the centuries of piety that surrounds the old church where he lives
For two hundred years its stood,
Among the Wicklow hills,
The source of people's hopes,
The cure for many ills.
It was built by Fr Blanchfield,
With faith and a hundred pound,
And it is fitting that there he rests,
Inside the church he found.
The church bell was the clarion call,
Never silent through the years,
The harbinger of happiness
Sometimes the source of tears.
In silence now it stands,
But close your eyes and you will hear,
Carried on the wings of time,
Voices raised in prayer.
Along meandering Mass paths
People came to pray,
It was Faith that gave them strength
And helped them on their way.
It was there to offer solace
To the men of " Ninety Eight"
While prayers were said in Easter Week
For those who met their fate.
It survived man's inhumanity,
The grief of two world wars
And on a July evening,
Saw man walk among the stars.
But its doors they remain closed now,
Locking in the memories there,
Of those who knelt throughout the years,
And talked to the Lord in prayer.
Though they are long gone now,
They haven't gone too far,
For they've found rest and sleep in peace,
'Neath a headstone in the yard.
The Village of My Youth
Author: Seamus Kavanagh
Nestling in the Wicklow hills,
Where granite meets the sky,
Is the village of my childhood,
Where I grew up as a boy.
In my mind I still can see it,
The way it used to be,
The landmarks and the people,
That meant the world to me.
I still can hear the bell on Sunday
Calling on the morning air,
An invitation to the village,
To join the Lord in prayer.
Across the hillsides, bogs, and fields,
Masspaths wound their way,
Through 'Knoochra, Kyle, and Shielstown
Rathnagrew and Knocknaskeagh.
The Mass was prayed in Latin,
But was all Greek to me,
And I envied those who "stayed the pace"
With a cap beneath one knee!
When the Mass it was over,
When we said the last Amen,
We prayed beside the headstones,
Of family and friend.
The blacksmith was our hero,
The Cuchulainn of the land,
For he could shoe a horse,
With the touch of a surgeon's hand.
With one hand he swung a sledge
That we failed to lift with two,
Yet each of us knew every step,
In the making of a shoe.
The creaking pumps coughed water,
The day's first and final chore,
And a snake like trail of splashes,
Wound their way was to our front door
We had no Dunnes or Tesco
Telling us how to save,
But to us the village shop,
Was like Aladdin's cave!
There were "bullseyes" and " peggy's leg"
Sweets in every shape of jar,
But the "finances" of our youth,
Could only "rise" to a penny bar
Milk of Magnesia, Syrup of Figs,
Sure I can taste them still!
While Mrs Cullen's powder,
Was a cure for every ill.
There were razor blades, carbolic soap,
Loose tea and paraffin,
And tea chests full of mash
For turkey ,pig , and hen.
You could buy lbs of "farmer's butter"
Get your rashers cut to size,
Cholesterol hadn't been invented,
So the village "lived " on fries!
The pubs they were a mystery,
As we tried to figure out,
What caused the metamorphosis,
Between the going in and coming out!
The laurel hedge at "Miley's"
With fondness I recall
There dates were made , games replayed
While sitting on the wall.
When Winter spread its mantle,
And the nights were cold and stark,
The tilley lamps on wooden poles
Fought their battles with the dark.
On Sunday nights of childhood,
When in bed without a care,
From the hall we heard the music,
As it tip toed through the air.
Now the village of my childhood,
Fills a page in history,
But sometimes when I close my eyes
It's there just like it used to be.
Seamus fondly remembers the village where he grew as well as practices from a lost way of life.
A Walk Along the Border
Author: Martin Power
Those who know the area will appreciate the beauty and tranquility that Martin describes in this poem.
Red, Yellow and Green
Melody: Unknown
Author : Unknown
The song was provided by Maureen Agars
The persona remembers, with fond nostalgia, places and activities of youth.
THE RED, YELLOW AND GREEN
A cock crows, a daffodil grows,
Another dew glazed morn;
A church bell rings, a blackbird sings,
A Carlow emigrant is born.
With footsteps of a child, I leave my home behind,
Nastled in Mount Leinster standing tall.
It’s a sign of the times, my friends I have no choice
But to answer this hope giving call.
CHORUS
Follow me to wear the red yellow and green
Far over the sea.
Follow me and by god make sure you’re seen
Where your heart’s lying somewhere in between
The red, yellow and green.
Bright lights and crowds surround me now:
From Garryhill, a far, far cry,
But one flash in time, the river Burrin is mine
Where I went fishing as a child.
As it flows peacefully through priceless scenery
No foreign sights compare;
It’s a sign of the times, a memory in my mind;
Here I am living on a prayer.
CHORUS
Dear Old Bagenalstown
Author: Christy Kane and Davy Dwyer
Singer: Davy Dwyer
Davy looks forward to returning to his native place, after a life of wandering the woirld
Sweet River Burrin
Author: Danny Browne
Singer: Danny Browne
Danny traces the path and some sights from the burrin's source to its entry into the Barrow.
Carlow The Fairest of All
Author: Luke Morrissey
Singer: Luke Morrissey
Luke takes us for a ramble around the county, praising its virtues
Memories
Author: Julia McDermott
Julia thinks back to her young days in Killeshain, Keelogue and Rossmore. She remembers how her family was driven from their lands in bad times.
Michael Rice presented this poem for the website