HISTORY & POETRY
Edited Friday, January 11, 2002 05:54 PM
PARISH HISTORY ..... Local Townlands ..... River Feale
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POETRY
If anyone has any local poems, recitations, rhymes, interesting stories or songs pertaining to Abbeyfeale or adjoining townlands, please either post or e-mail them on to us and we will put them on to the web. Please give details of authorship if available
FLORRY`S BARBER SHOP
By Johnny Walsh (Bard of Sliabh Luachra)
Anecdotes softly reverberate of the salmon and the eel
In Florry`s magical barber shop in The Square in Abbeyfeale.
Folklore and rich tradition are once again alive,
Of the plays and works of John B Keane, including brilliant Sive.
Dan Paddy Andy of matchmaking fame, is restored again to life.
Tales of yore rekindled of sorrow and of strife.
Moss Colbert finds a new love of life as Florry cuts his hair;
Talking of the great John Joe as he gazes at The Square.
"Sure life was brilliant at that time; a little bit of heaven,
As The Kingdom beat the Cavan men in the year of `47.
I remember the Athletic Grounds, I was referee.
With Jacques and Dick of The Railway, we were a formidable three."
Mike Flanagan from Brosna recounts deeds from the past.
Memories and sentiments that for him will always last.
Travelling the countryside with merriment and glee,
Brosna`s veterinary gentleman epitomised hospitality.
Recalling county finals that oft`times caused a stir.
The sing-song and the pageantry of "The Harness" and "Jack Flor."
Peter Healy broods philosophically of many a happy trip.
"I`ll be the happiest man in Ireland when I replace my hip.
I`m off to Croke Park this year. I`m saving up my dough.
I think that Paudie`s mighty men will win two in a row."
Paddy softly smokes his pipe as he walks in the door.
Reminiscing of fond recollections as laughter begins to soar.
"Did you back the one I told you, Flor, or is it really true
That yourself and Paddy Cahill went to the point-to-point in Avondhu?"
Florry smiles happily as he trims another head.
"Sure, you`d think we were in Tir na nOg, resurrected from the dead."
Dick Prendiville talks of music, saying "It was a mighty sight,
Playing polkas and quicksteps with Moss & The Boys at night."
Memories regurgitate of an era now gone past.
Calf fairs in the morning, the anvil and the last.
The blacksmith in his smithy forge, the jobbers in The Square.
Pigs crubeens and duck eggs, pork steak that was so rare.
The poaching and the salmon, the gurgling mountain stream.
Around Christmas time, the treasured hallowed bottle of poteen.
Fr Casey still rules The Square from his monument on high.
A landmark in the Fealeside town as time rolls softly by.
I`m sure if he could come back, one minute for to drop.
The first place he`d love to savour would be Florry`s Barber Shop.
DEAREST HOME ON THE BANKS OF THE FEALE
Dearest home of my youth, oh how painful, it is to be parted from thee.
There are others who loved you as I do, and do seek for a home o`er the sea.
But no matter where e`er I may wander, my thoughts I will never conceal.
I will always think of you the fonder, dearest home on the Banks of the Feale.
On the cliff by the side of that river, a hundred feet over the strand,
They erected a number of tombstones, where the ruins of the Old Abbey stand.
Where oft our departed forefathers, from the Sassanach Foe had to steal,
To hear Holy Mass on a Sunday, in the churchyard at sweet Abbeyfeale.
And when I`m in the land of the stranger, away far away o`er the foam.
If in safety I wander, or danger, my thoughts will fly back to my home.
And when life`s weary journey is ended, I know that contented I`ll feel,
To be laid in the ruins of that Abbey, in the churchyard in sweet Abbeyfeale.
IN SHAME LOVE, IN SHAME ......Sean McCarthy
She was born on the edge of Sandes Bog, in the same house where I first saw the light of day. She was gentle and kind, with eyes that would charm a lark off a high tree. At a very early age she fell in love, and she loved well but not wisely. She bore her lover a baby, but, by the time her baby was born, her lover lay asleep in a foreign field. A victim of a war that was supposed to end all wars.This was a time when fatherless children were not treated too kindly in this land. She died of shame, leaving the baby behind. The priest in Listowel, may God forgive him, refused to let her body lie in the church overnight. But the people of Listowel rallied round and soon put that to rights. The streets of the town were jammed for her funeral the next day. Her child did not suffer for want of love. She is loved, and will be loved, while there is one of her kin alive. The episode with the priest was like a sour ball of hate in my heart in the years that followed. I could not forget or forgive. Then one summer`s eve I talked to my old school master in Listowel town. He gave me some good advice. I went back to Dublin and wrote "In Shame Love, In Shame." It took some of the hate away, and each day the hate grows less. The story had to be told. Hate should not be allowed to fester. Kerry people, and especially Listowel people, take care of their own. They rose like avenging angels to right a wrong. Peggy sleeps peacefully in her lonely place. R.I.P. Peggy was my sister.
They whisper their stories, and they glance with the eye.
They look over my shoulder when I pass them by.
My father and mother, they treat me the same.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame love, in shame.
Oh cling to me tight love, take hold of my hand.
The road it is long love, and harsh is the land.
That`s the cross we must carry, for having no name.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame love, in shame.
I had wings on my feet and of love I had dreamed.
The moon and the stars, how friendly they seemed.
The touch of his hand in the soft summer rain.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame love, in shame.
Oh! Once in the starlight, when he held me close,
Down by the green meadow, where grew the wild rose.
The wind sang of love, oh, how soft it`s refrain!
But the nightingale cries now in shame love, in shame.
Now hush little darling, we soon will be there.
A blanket of love will surround you with care.
No vile tongues will whisper. You will never feel pain.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame love, in shame.
The meek will inherit. I have heard this decree.
And suffer small children to come unto me.
The sins of the father, on your head will be lain.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame love, in shame.
How mute are the birds now, my bonny young boy.
How deep is the river, how silent your cry.
The waters baptise you. We will both bear a name.
Hear the nightingale sing there`s no shame, there`s no shame.
COME HOME TO ABBEYFEALE .......Sean McCarthy
The golden corn is high my love, where wild winds whisper free.
But I must take the lonely road that leads down to the sea.
You sleep upon the towering Hill, where twilight shadows steal,
And hear the wild wind whispering; "Come home to Abbeyfeale."
The New York lights are shining love. Her streets are cold and grey.
A man must leave the dying hours, to greet the new born day.
My memory roams wild and free, as I await an alien dawn.
Of Mary B who walked with me to greet the summer morn.
Is the harvest moon still shining bright upon The Feale`s gold stream?
Do stars o`er Meenahaela light up the meadows green?
Do maidens glide the riverside and dance the four-hand reel?
And do lovers stray Dromtrasna way, near my town of Abbeyfeale?
Do you remember Mary B when cold-eyed strangers came?
They came down from the bleeding hills to play their murdering game.
But side by side, with burning pride, we faced their alien steel.
And we raised the flag of freedom high, o`er my town of Abbeyfeale.
Where are they now, that gallant band that fought with awesome skill?
Brave Larry Ellen Harnett, Bomber Foley from The Hill.
Jimmy Joy and Jimeen Collins, I can but name a few.
They made their stand, that freedom grand might hail the morning dew.
Oh, I remember, Mary B, the times when hope ran high.
We walked the lanes with twisted names, the lovelight in our eye.
To marry in the winter time. The church bell`s lovely peal.
And now you lie, `neath a lonely sky, near my town of Abbeyfeale.
The New York dawn is here my love. Her streets are cold and grey.
My feet are on this city street, but my dreams are far away.
Soon I`ll fly the starlit sky, and when twilight shadows steal,
Then you`ll walk with me in my memory, near my town of Abbeyfeale.
REQUIEM FOR A RIVER .........Garry McMahon
There once was a river that flowed fair and free,
With waters of crystal from source to the sea.
Where I fished the wild salmon, the white trout and the eel.
But no more, for they`ve poisoned my own River Feale
From Tour to The Cashen I have waded your streams.
Caressed by your waters, you haunted my dreams.
But your beauty is tarnished, your fate is full sealed
Like an old maiden harlot, a soiled River Feale.
I`ve watched you meander to the green Shannon Shore.
Past the ruins of castles where, in days of yore,
Our fathers protected you with swords of bright steel.
Now our own have despoiled you, my sweet River Feale.
Where the kingfisher flashed like a rainbow on fire,
With the heron and coot and the gadding mayfly.
Her death-dance proclaiming what cannot be revealed,
That pollution has killed you, my own River Feale.
Will my son see the rings of a June evening rise?
Or cast a dry fly `neath the warm summer skies?
Or watch the browne otter through the dark water steal?
No! They`ve stolen his birthright from the banks of The Feale.
Come all you polluters, pay heed to my song.
Your effluent discharge has killed for too long.
Give back to the people with rod and with reel,
The waters God gave us. A clean River Feale.
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If anyone has any further information concerning the history of Abbeyfeale and surrounding areas, we would be delighted to hear from you. We are also interested in any old or rare photographs.
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