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Jer McCarthy

He transported cattle for farmers to and from the marts in Kanturk, Macroom and Millstreet
A well liked fellow and known far and wide
And up and down the narrow roads of Muskerry and Duhallow
He often journeyed through that scenic countryside.

He worked so hard for to earn his honest living
For trucking cattle never is an easy job
On dark and wet and slippery roads in depths of Winter
There are far easier ways for to earn one's living bob.

Still Jer McCarthy seemed to like the job he worked at
As he was a people person you might say
He gave good service to the local farmers
And I hope he is alive and well today.

I wonder is he still transporting cattle?
For he's well past retirement age by now
And life as we grow older doesn't get easier
And all of us to father time must bow.

I know that I am looked on as old fashioned
For I am one still rooted in the past
I still recall the years when I was younger
But on looking back the time just went so fast.

At times I feel that I feel over nostalgic
When my eyes mist over with nostalgic tears
As I recall kind souls like Jer McCarthy
And the role models of my younger years

Many people feel that the future only matter
And their younger years they often don't recall
But when I recall my boyhood in Duhallow
I'm remembering my happiest days of all.

And when I remember one like Jer McCarthy
Who worked so hard for to earn his living pay
I feel somehow that the past is worth recalling
And I hope he's still alive and well today

poem by Francis Duggan
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William Leary

William Leary is one of the famed Learys of Millstreet a Cork and Duhallow legend of the Gaelic Football game
He played football for Cork and his Club Millstreet and is now in the Duhallow sporting Hall of Fame
He once scored two goals in a Munster Final in Killarney a feat that is still talked of today
In his Gaelic Football career a remembered highlight though many great games the great one did play.

William Leary in his prime a dashing forward one of the great footballers of Millstreet
He proved a headache for opposing defenders with his ball skills he was so quick on his feet
And off of the field of play a successful business person beyond Millstreet known and liked far and wide
To his family and his many friends around Duhallow his many achievements are a sense of pride.

William Leary is now in his early seventies it has been some time since he has played football
One of the great Gaelic Footballers of Millstreet as those who watched him play can well recall
It has been four decades and a few years and that is looking back in time
When he cheered Millstreet hearts with his marvellous ball skills he was a speedy fellow in his prime.

Good to see him with his wife and family on the Millstreet web site on his induction into Duhallow's Hall of Fame
With honour he wore the Cork and Millstreet Jerseys and with honour he carries the famous Leary name
I watched him play when i was a young fellow and that is going back many years ago
He was a dashing forward in his prime years the one who left speedy defenders looking slow.

poem by Francis Duggan
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On The Passing Of Dan Leary

Dan Leary was a legend of old Millstreet but he'll never more be seen in Millstreet Town
Or in the Townpark on a Summer's evening With a pair of greyhounds walking up and down
He was a sterling corner back in his prime a stalwart of Millstreet Gaelic Football
Fearless and hard but fair he never shirked a challenge as those who played against him do recall.

For many years he was a Millstreet butcher the Learys of the West End were well known
And Dan the Millstreet schoolboys of the fifties did look up to we were so proud he was one of our own
In Cork County Championship Games in Coachford and in Macroom Dan Leary at his best was often seen
One of his Club's greatest defensive players it was with pride he wore the Millstreet green.

It was with sadness I read of his passing in the flesh one that we never more will see
But for as long as I have the power to remember he surely will live in my memory
He was so down to earth and unassuming and to his friends he always remained true
'Tis not because he's dead I sing his praises in words I only give the man his due.

Dan Leary a legend of Duhallow Gaelic Football now with the dead of Millstreet Parish lay
'Tis sad to think we never more will see him but good memories of him with us bound to stay
The best forwards in Cork Gaelic Football against him always found it hard to score
It was with pride he wore the green of Millstreet and may he rest in peace forever more.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Mick Cashman

In the Cork County Senior Football Championship Final of 1957 I still recall the day
The last time I see Mick Cashman for his home club Millstreet Play
At the Cork Athletic grounds that day the Duhallow men were beat
The City Club St Finbarrs proved too good for Millstreet.

The Barrs fans celebrated the victory was sweet
But Mick Cashman played a great game he was gallant in defeat
In the biggest day in Cork County for the game of Gaelic Football
And though Millstreet lost to go that far they did well overall.

Mick Cashman was ordained a priest and for New Zealand he was bound
Far from Millstreet in Duhallow and Tullig his home ground
In the green and gold of Millstreet he was never seen again
But what was a loss to Ireland was surely New Zealand's gain.

Mick Cashman was a gentleman and of him 'twould be fair to say
That to help out other people he went out of his way
A Parish Priest in New Zealand where he was known far and wide
And his success in his adopted Country to Millstreet a sense of pride.

He is buried in New Zealand far south and far away
From Tullig above Millstreet Town where he first saw light of day
Last saw him in a Cork County Final for Millstreet playing Gaelic Football
A good memory till my own end that I surely will recall.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Georgics

GEORGIC I

What makes the cornfield smile; beneath what star
Maecenas, it is meet to turn the sod
Or marry elm with vine; how tend the steer;
What pains for cattle-keeping, or what proof
Of patient trial serves for thrifty bees;-
Such are my themes.
O universal lights
Most glorious! ye that lead the gliding year
Along the sky, Liber and Ceres mild,
If by your bounty holpen earth once changed
Chaonian acorn for the plump wheat-ear,
And mingled with the grape, your new-found gift,
The draughts of Achelous; and ye Fauns
To rustics ever kind, come foot it, Fauns
And Dryad-maids together; your gifts I sing.
And thou, for whose delight the war-horse first
Sprang from earth's womb at thy great trident's stroke,
Neptune; and haunter of the groves, for whom
Three hundred snow-white heifers browse the brakes,
The fertile brakes of Ceos; and clothed in power,
Thy native forest and Lycean lawns,
Pan, shepherd-god, forsaking, as the love
Of thine own Maenalus constrains thee, hear
And help, O lord of Tegea! And thou, too,
Minerva, from whose hand the olive sprung;
And boy-discoverer of the curved plough;
And, bearing a young cypress root-uptorn,
Silvanus, and Gods all and Goddesses,
Who make the fields your care, both ye who nurse
The tender unsown increase, and from heaven
Shed on man's sowing the riches of your rain:
And thou, even thou, of whom we know not yet
What mansion of the skies shall hold thee soon,
Whether to watch o'er cities be thy will,
Great Caesar, and to take the earth in charge,
That so the mighty world may welcome thee
Lord of her increase, master of her times,
Binding thy mother's myrtle round thy brow,
Or as the boundless ocean's God thou come,
Sole dread of seamen, till far Thule bow
Before thee, and Tethys win thee to her son
With all her waves for dower; or as a star
Lend thy fresh beams our lagging months to cheer,
Where 'twixt the Maid and those pursuing Claws
A space is opening; see! red Scorpio's self
His arms draws in, yea, and hath left thee more
Than thy full meed of heaven: be what thou wilt-
For neither Tartarus hopes to call thee king,

[...] Read more

poem by Virgil
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The Great Hunger

I
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men
Loved the light and the queen
Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself
Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe'en?
We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain,
Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles
Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way.
A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.
Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins.
What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better
Than his mud-gloved fingers probe in this insensitive hair.
'Move forward the basket and balance it steady
In this hollow. Pull down the shafts of that cart, Joe,
And straddle the horse,' Maguire calls.
'The wind's over Brannagan's, now that means rain.
Graip up some withered stalks and see that no potato falls
Over the tail-board going down the ruckety pass -
And that's a job we'll have to do in December,

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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When People Ask Me Where I Come From

I am just a peasant fellow without pretension to renown
But in some ways I feel lucky I was raised near Millstreet Town
And if anybody ask me where are you from anyway?
I tell them I come from Millstreet from a place called Claraghatlea.

Claraghatlea that sounds a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them a Town in North Cork inland distant from the sea
In green and fertile Duhallow with high mountains all around
Where you can view the finest scenery when you climb the higher ground.

Of Millstreet you paint a good picture but how do it compare to here?
We only read of wet Ireland where the skies are seldom clear
Not much point in pretty scenery if the weather's seldom fine
Give me Queensland and warm weather, golden beaches and sunshine.

With them I don't try to argue each to their own point of view
And what they read of Irish weather in some ways is partly true
But I have often been to Queensland and thought the climate hot and dry
And even in cooler Victoria risk of skin cancer is high.

When people ask me where I come from my heritage I don't deny
I tell them I come from Millstreet twelve thousand miles north as plane fly
Winter months were wet and frosty and in Spring some heavy showers
But from May onwards so much beauty, fields and gardens full of flowers.

It is Spring now in Victoria and today is such a pleasant day
And the grey shrike thrush is whistling in the wood across the way
it is almost perfect weather a high of twenty degrees
And the nestling birds are chirping in their nests high on the trees.

Wish today could last forever but wishing cannot make it be
In the Summer temperatures soar to a high of forty three
And this a cool part of Australia further north it's hot all year
And to some parts rain is a stranger and the drought can hit severe.

When people ask me where I come from west of Millstreet Town I say
In green and fertile Duhallow in a place called Claraghatlea
This Claraghatlea sounds such a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them by Clara mountain inland distant from the sea.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Tannhauser

The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering
Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours,
At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight,
Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard,
Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed
With apprehension and rare utterance
Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise
Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light,
And large repose, the peaceful valley lay,
In the late splendor of the afternoon,
And level sunbeams lit the serious face
Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west,
Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs,
Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms,
That in the distance loomed as soft and fair
And purple as their shadows on the grass.
The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air,
Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in,
Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light.
The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home,
In the near meadow, reverently knelt,
And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast,
Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heard
The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight,
Unmindful of the sacred hour announced,
Disdainful or unconscious, held his course.
'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight,
Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!'
He murmured bitterly beneath his breath.
'Were I a pagan, riding to contend
For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal,
What fire of inspiration, would I sing
The praises of the gods! How may my lyre
Glorify these whose very life I doubt?
The world is governed by one cruel God,
Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ,
Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold,
They give us for a heaven of living gods,
Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song;
A creed of suffering and despair, walled in
On every side by brazen boundaries,
That limit the soul's vision and her hope
To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven.
Yea, I am lost already,-even now
Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts.
O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?'
He raised his wan face to the faded skies,
Now shadowing into twilight; no response
Came from their sunless heights; no miracle,
As in the ancient days of answering gods.

[...] Read more

poem by Emma Lazarus
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Easy Skanking

Easy skanking (skankin it easy);
Easy skanking (skankin it slow);
Easy skanking (skankin it easy);
Easy skanking (skankin it slow).
Excuse me while I light my spliff; (spliff)
Good god, I gotta take a lift: (lift)
From reality I just cant drift; (drift)
Thats why I am staying with this riff. (riff)
Take it easy (easy skankin);
Lord, I take it easy! (easy skankin);
Take it easy (easy skankin);
Got to take it easy (easy skankin).
See: were takin it easy (ooh-wah-da da-da)
We taking it slow, (ooh-wah-da da-da)
Takin it easy (easy);
Got to take it slow (slow-slow)
So take it easy (easy skankin - da-da-da-da-da-da)
Wo-oh, take it easy (easy skankin)
Take it easy (easy skankin - da-da-da-da-da-da)
Take it easy. (easy skankin)
Excuse me while I light my spliff; (spliff)
Oh, god, I gotta take a lift: (lift)
From reality I just cant drift; (drift)
Thats why I am staying with this riff. (riff)
Take it easy (takin it easy);
Got to take it easy (takin it slow);
Take it easy (takin it easy);
Skanky, take it easy (takin it slow).
Tell you what:
Herb for my wine; (ooh-wa-da-da-da)
Honey for my strong drink; (ooh-wa-da-da-da)
Herb for my wine; (ooh-wa-da-da-da)
Honey for my strong drink.
I shake it easy (takin it easy);
Skanky, take it easy (skankin it slow);
Take it (takin it easy) easy;
Take it (skankin it slow) easy;
Take it easy (takin it easy);
Oh-oh-ooh! (skankin it slow);
Little bit easier (takin it easy);
Skanky, take it easy (skankin it slow).
Take it easy! take it easy! take it easy! /fadeout/

song performed by Bob Marley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Whistling In The Dark

A woman came up to me and said
Id like to poison your mind
With wrong ideas that appeal to you
Though I am not unkind
She looked at me, I looked at something
Written across her scalp
And these are the words that it faintly said
As I tried to call for help:
Theres only one thing that I know how to do well
And Ive often been told that you only can do
What you know how to do well
And thats be you,
Be what youre like,
Be like yourself,
And so Im having a wonderful time
But Id rather be whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Theres only one thing that I like
And that is whistling in the dark
A man came up to me and said
Id like to change your mind
By hitting it with a rock, he said,
Though I am not unkind.
We laughed at his little joke
And then I happily walked away
And hit my head on the wall of the jail
Where the two of us live today.
Theres only one thing that I know how to do well
And Ive often been told that you only can do
What you know how to do well
And thats be you,
Be what youre like,
Be like yourself,
And so Im having a wonderful time
But Id rather be whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Theres only one thing that I like
And that is whistling in the dark
Theres only one thing that I know how to do well
And Ive often been told that you only can do
What you know how to do well
And thats be you,

[...] Read more

song performed by They Might Be Giants
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Millstreet's Ageing Heroes

I never was a Millstreet sporting icon or in any field of sport knew of renown
But I'm the one who is left to sing the praises of the sporting greats of Millstreet my Hometown
Many of Duhallow's finest sports people are from Millstreet they did the green and gold of their Club proud
In every Public Bar around Duhallow the poets and singers sung their praises loud
Nowadays not many sporting greats in Millstreet in Athletics or Gaelic Football
Of late so very few sporting successes for future generations to recall
Of sporting greats Millstreet had it's golden era but nothing lasts forever as they say
The youth in sports perhaps not interested and the former heroes have grown old and gray
In Gaelic Football as well as in Athletics Millstreet has produced many a famous name
The ageing heroes have grown stiffer and slower they had their time and they enjoyed their fame
We can only remember them with fondness lets hear it for the heroes of the past
But life goes on and only Nature is forever and nothing else does ever seem to last
Back there by the old mountains of Duhallow the people like the Seasons come and go
The heroes of past decades getting older the years have left them feeling stiff and slow.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Toots Kelleher From Millstreet

In the late forties and all through the fifties and that's going back in time
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet was in his glorious prime
In the game of Gaelic Football the great man knew great fame
And through the length and breadth of Ireland his was a well known name.

Toots Kelleher from Millstreet was one of Ireland's best
And he never was found wanting when he was put to the test
The poets and song writers they sung his praises loud
And in Duhallow we revered him of him we felt so proud.

For Cork and his Club Millstreet some marvellous games he played
And despite the passing decades the memories do not fade
Of Toots Kelleher from Millstreet fearless in the field of play
A legend in his life time and a legend still today.

Toots Kelleher from Millstreet is at rest forever more
But often in flights of fancy I can hear the mighty roar
Of the Munster final crowd in Killarney when Toots had the football
A memory to cherish and a memory to recall.

Toots Kelleher from Millstreet his praises have been sung
Often watched him play for Millstreet years ago when I was young
Exuberant in victory and gallant in defeat
One who was hero worshipped but never knew conceit.

A Champion Gaelic Footballer we honour him today
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet at peace forever lay
His name will live forever in the history of Gaelic Football
And the Reaper who has claimed him will one day claim us all.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Sean Radley Is To Millstreet

What Pele was to Brazil or Caesar was to Rome
Sean Radley is to Millstreet the place I still call home
And he's not been a warrior or been known for football
But in that Town by Clara hill he's best loved one of all.

Sean Radley is a hero for kindness he has shown
And all around Duhallow by everyone he's known
And about him those who know him have no bad word to say
And to help out other people he go out of his way.

To the Millstreet Museum Society some of his spare time he devote
And about the history of Millstreet some fine articles he's wrote
As a humanitarian and historian Sean Radley earned his fame
And all around Duhallow his is a well known name.

What Caesar was to Italy or Pele was to Brazil
Sean Radley is to Millstreet that Town by Clara hill
And he's not been a warrior or been known for football
But in Millstreet in Duhallow the best loved one of all.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Four Seasons : Autumn

Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost
Nitrous prepared; the various blossom'd Spring
Put in white promise forth; and Summer-suns
Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,
Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.
Onslow! the Muse, ambitious of thy name,
To grace, inspire, and dignify her song,
Would from the public voice thy gentle ear
A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows,
The patriot virtues that distend thy thought,
Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow;
While listening senates hang upon thy tongue,
Devolving through the maze of eloquence
A roll of periods, sweeter than her song.
But she too pants for public virtue, she,
Though weak of power, yet strong in ardent will,
Whene'er her country rushes on her heart,
Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries
To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame.
When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,
And Libra weighs in equal scales the year;
From Heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,
With golden light enliven'd, wide invests
The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise,
Sweet-beam'd, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad, and brown, below
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain:
A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air
Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined field,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily chequer'd heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around,
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.
These are thy blessings, Industry! rough power!
Whom labour still attends, and sweat, and pain;
Yet the kind source of every gentle art,
And all the soft civility of life:
Raiser of human kind! by Nature cast,
Naked, and helpless, out amid the woods
And wilds, to rude inclement elements;
With various seeds of art deep in the mind

[...] Read more

poem by James Thomson
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Farmers Daughter

I could come from miles away
Aint got (aint got, aint got)
No place to stay (place to stay, place to stay)
Glad to (glad to, glad to)
Help you plow your fields (help you plow, help you plow)
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)
Might be (might be, might be)
Just a couple of days (couple of days, couple of days)
Clean up (clean up, clean up)
Rest and on my way (on my way, on my way)
Thank you (thank you, thank you)
And Im must obliged (much obliged, much obliged)
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)
Mmmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mmmmm
Mmmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mmmmm
So long (so long, so long)
Better leave your land (leave your land, leave your land)
Many thanks (many thanks, many thanks)
It was mighty grand (mighty grand, mighty grand)
I do (hope to, hope to)
Hope to see you again (see you again see you again)
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)
Oh oh
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)
Oh oh
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)

song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Farmers Daughter

Written by brian wilson.
I could come from miles away
Aint got (aint got, aint got)
No place to stay (place to stay, place to stay)
Glad to (glad to, glad to)
Help you plow your fields (help you plow, help you plow)
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)
Might be (might be, might be)
Just a couple of days (couple of days, couple of days)
Clean up (clean up, clean up)
Rest and on my way (on my way, on my way)
Thank you (thank you, thank you)
And Im must obliged (much obliged, much obliged)
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)
Mmmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mmmmm
Mmmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mmmmm
So long (so long, so long)
Better leave your land (leave your land, leave your land)
Many thanks (many thanks, many thanks)
It was mighty grand (mighty grand, mighty grand)
I do (hope to, hope to)
Hope to see you again (see you again see you again)
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)
Oh oh
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)
Oh oh
Farmers daughter (farmers daughter, farmers daughter)

song performed by Fleetwood Mac
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Four Seasons : Summer

From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed,
Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth:
He comes attended by the sultry Hours,
And ever fanning breezes, on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
Hence, let me haste into the mid-wood shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom;
And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large,
And sing the glories of the circling year.
Come, Inspiration! from thy hermit-seat,
By mortal seldom found: may Fancy dare,
From thy fix'd serious eye, and raptured glance
Shot on surrounding Heaven, to steal one look
Creative of the Poet, every power
Exalting to an ecstasy of soul.
And thou, my youthful Muse's early friend,
In whom the human graces all unite:
Pure light of mind, and tenderness of heart;
Genius, and wisdom; the gay social sense,
By decency chastised; goodness and wit,
In seldom-meeting harmony combined;
Unblemish'd honour, and an active zeal
For Britain's glory, liberty, and Man:
O Dodington! attend my rural song,
Stoop to my theme, inspirit every line,
And teach me to deserve thy just applause.
With what an awful world-revolving power
Were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along
The illimitable void! thus to remain,
Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft has swept the toiling race of men,
And all their labour'd monuments away,
Firm, unremitting, matchless, in their course;
To the kind-temper'd change of night and day,
And of the seasons ever stealing round,
Minutely faithful: such the All-perfect hand!
That poised, impels, and rules the steady whole.
When now no more the alternate Twins are fired,
And Cancer reddens with the solar blaze,
Short is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek'd-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east:
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,

[...] Read more

poem by James Thomson
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Cormac Dinneen

They wanted him in Kerry to play with their football team
But Cormac he loved Millstreet and he wore their famous green
And he too wore the red Cork jersey with passion and with pride
A legend in his playing days and he was known far and wide.

I watched him play as a veteran when he was past his prime
Way back in the late fifties some forty years in time
Against one ten years younger he more than held his own
A marvellous defender then one of the finest known.

The Millstreet fans they loved him a player they did revere
He never shirked a challenge a stranger to all fear
He never was found wanting when he was put to the test
And in the Cork County colours he played against the best.

When Millstreet's elder gaelic football fans talk of the Millstreet greats they've seen
A player they always mention is the great Cormac Dinneen
To them he was one of Millstreet's best and they still heap upon him praise
For he was one of their heroes in Millstreet's glory days.

And though time catch up on everyone and the years have made him slow
He was a Cork and Millstreet great some fity years ago
And in forty eight when Millstreet won the County he lived up to his name
As one of Ireland's best defenders then in the Gaelic football game.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks

1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass

Under the old trees with rosy fruit.

In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a

basket,

The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.

Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.

Fayne snatched for it and missed;

Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small

Finely cut features in a dance of delight;

Fayne with one sweep flung at his face

All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)

Introduction

In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.

Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.

Prologue

The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain

mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact

that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals

becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,

who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight

in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.

Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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