'To Ireland in an Instant'
'I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.' W.B. Yeats
Generations of emigrants cherish mental pictures of the land of their birth. A tattered old photograph or a few half-remembered lines from a poem or a song can
be enough to evoke what Wordsworth called 'sensations sweet, felt in the blood, and felt along the heart'.
The photographs on this page should help to bring those vague images into sharper focus.
We hope you enjoy them.
Home Thoughts From Abroad
'Oh hand in hand let us return to the dear land of our birth, the bays, the bogs, the moors, the glens, the lakes, the rivers, the streams, the brooks, the mists, the-er-fens, the-er-glens, by tonight's mail train.' Samuel Beckett, 'Murphy', 1938.
'Lonely on Highgate Hill outside St. Joseph's Church I rushed to buy my 'Dundalk Democrat' and reading it was back in my native fields.' Patrick Kavanagh
'A month ago, I was lying on the side of a hill, looking at one of the loveliest landscapes in Ireland. I was just back from a short reading tour in America, where I had earned more in a month than a term's teaching at home would bring. But at no point in my journey, even crossing a sunlit campus after my morning's stint was done, or relaxing in some heated pool, was I as happy as that May day, on the slopes of Slieve Gullion.
Everything seemed to share that prehistoric timelessness; the stream that ran down the edge of the mountain path, the sheep that scattered as one climbed to the dark glitter of the Hag's lake ...' John Montague
Ballymacdermot Court Cairn - within sight of Slieve Gullion
A court cairn is a pre-historic burial mound which has several chambers leading off from a central corridor. Ballymacdermot court cairn has three chambers behind a forecourt. Each chamber is separated by a sill stone and two upright jambs. It would at one time have been covered over with stones, rubble and earth. In front of the arch was a small courtyard believed to have been used for funerary ceremonies.
Burial Mound Every stone retains its memories
Of hands that gripped and heaved,
Of beads of perspiration,
Of whispered secrets,
And gossipy conversation.
Laughter echoing laughter,
Tears replacing tears,
Brows furrowing out
The immemorial mystery.
In budding hedgerows,
Other blackbirds sang;
In lustful loanins,
Other lovers laughed.
And the earth went round,
And others were born,
Gave birth,
And passed on.
Ballymacdermot
Ballymacdermot -
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history. And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Five fields below,
Sketched upon the landscape,
A timeless figure
Whistles cryptic orders to a crouching collie,
And reluctant sheep are conjured
Through an insect-buzzing hedge.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
A brush-stroke farm-hand
With twirling blackthorn stick
Persuades a herd of loitering cattle home.
Two nodding horses,
One bay, the other roan,
Meditate alone beside a five barred gate.
A robin, dab of flame, alights
Upon a lichened granite stone,
Grabs his prey and,
Glancing upwards,
Is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Eileen bends to scoop
Her last stoup of water
From the immemorial well.
A distant dog is barking
Out of habit.
And three thousand miles away
Upon a crowded quay
Another emigrant sheds
A fleeting homeward tear.
Along the hawthorn blossoming loanin
The cobwebbed windows and rusted hinges
Of a long abandoned homestead
Hint at the vanished life within
Where gnawing hunger failed to kill
The native smile,
That soon took root in other soil.
Amongst the heather, gorse and bracken
Of Ballymacdermot mountain
An unseen presence ponders
And is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
______________________
In the photograph below, the mountains visible in the distance on the left are the Mournes sweeping down to the shores of Carlingford Lough. The mountain in the distance on the right is Slieve Foy which overlooks the historic village of Carlingford.
Lines from 'Field Day' by W.R. Rodgers
'The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards
Assignments Plus - Home
Hundreds of Cheap Flights Updated Daily - Click here!
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.' W.B. Yeats
Generations of emigrants cherish mental pictures of the land of their birth. A tattered old photograph or a few half-remembered lines from a poem or a song can
be enough to evoke what Wordsworth called 'sensations sweet, felt in the blood, and felt along the heart'.
The photographs on this page should help to bring those vague images into sharper focus.
We hope you enjoy them.
Home Thoughts From Abroad
'Oh hand in hand let us return to the dear land of our birth, the bays, the bogs, the moors, the glens, the lakes, the rivers, the streams, the brooks, the mists, the-er-fens, the-er-glens, by tonight's mail train.' Samuel Beckett, 'Murphy', 1938.
'Lonely on Highgate Hill outside St. Joseph's Church I rushed to buy my 'Dundalk Democrat' and reading it was back in my native fields.' Patrick Kavanagh
'A month ago, I was lying on the side of a hill, looking at one of the loveliest landscapes in Ireland. I was just back from a short reading tour in America, where I had earned more in a month than a term's teaching at home would bring. But at no point in my journey, even crossing a sunlit campus after my morning's stint was done, or relaxing in some heated pool, was I as happy as that May day, on the slopes of Slieve Gullion.
Everything seemed to share that prehistoric timelessness; the stream that ran down the edge of the mountain path, the sheep that scattered as one climbed to the dark glitter of the Hag's lake ...' John Montague
Ballymacdermot Court Cairn - within sight of Slieve Gullion
A court cairn is a pre-historic burial mound which has several chambers leading off from a central corridor. Ballymacdermot court cairn has three chambers behind a forecourt. Each chamber is separated by a sill stone and two upright jambs. It would at one time have been covered over with stones, rubble and earth. In front of the arch was a small courtyard believed to have been used for funerary ceremonies.
Burial Mound Every stone retains its memories
Of hands that gripped and heaved,
Of beads of perspiration,
Of whispered secrets,
And gossipy conversation.
Laughter echoing laughter,
Tears replacing tears,
Brows furrowing out
The immemorial mystery.
In budding hedgerows,
Other blackbirds sang;
In lustful loanins,
Other lovers laughed.
And the earth went round,
And others were born,
Gave birth,
And passed on.
Ballymacdermot
Ballymacdermot -
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history. And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Five fields below,
Sketched upon the landscape,
A timeless figure
Whistles cryptic orders to a crouching collie,
And reluctant sheep are conjured
Through an insect-buzzing hedge.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
A brush-stroke farm-hand
With twirling blackthorn stick
Persuades a herd of loitering cattle home.
Two nodding horses,
One bay, the other roan,
Meditate alone beside a five barred gate.
A robin, dab of flame, alights
Upon a lichened granite stone,
Grabs his prey and,
Glancing upwards,
Is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Eileen bends to scoop
Her last stoup of water
From the immemorial well.
A distant dog is barking
Out of habit.
And three thousand miles away
Upon a crowded quay
Another emigrant sheds
A fleeting homeward tear.
Along the hawthorn blossoming loanin
The cobwebbed windows and rusted hinges
Of a long abandoned homestead
Hint at the vanished life within
Where gnawing hunger failed to kill
The native smile,
That soon took root in other soil.
Amongst the heather, gorse and bracken
Of Ballymacdermot mountain
An unseen presence ponders
And is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
______________________
In the photograph below, the mountains visible in the distance on the left are the Mournes sweeping down to the shores of Carlingford Lough. The mountain in the distance on the right is Slieve Foy which overlooks the historic village of Carlingford.
Lines from 'Field Day' by W.R. Rodgers
'The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards
Assignments Plus - Home
Hundreds of Cheap Flights Updated Daily - Click here!
'Lonely on Highgate Hill outside St. Joseph's Church I rushed to buy my 'Dundalk Democrat' and reading it was back in my native fields.' Patrick Kavanagh
'A month ago, I was lying on the side of a hill, looking at one of the loveliest landscapes in Ireland. I was just back from a short reading tour in America, where I had earned more in a month than a term's teaching at home would bring. But at no point in my journey, even crossing a sunlit campus after my morning's stint was done, or relaxing in some heated pool, was I as happy as that May day, on the slopes of Slieve Gullion.
Everything seemed to share that prehistoric timelessness; the stream that ran down the edge of the mountain path, the sheep that scattered as one climbed to the dark glitter of the Hag's lake ...' John Montague
Ballymacdermot Court Cairn - within sight of Slieve Gullion
A court cairn is a pre-historic burial mound which has several chambers leading off from a central corridor. Ballymacdermot court cairn has three chambers behind a forecourt. Each chamber is separated by a sill stone and two upright jambs. It would at one time have been covered over with stones, rubble and earth. In front of the arch was a small courtyard believed to have been used for funerary ceremonies.
Burial Mound Every stone retains its memories
Of hands that gripped and heaved,
Of beads of perspiration,
Of whispered secrets,
And gossipy conversation.
Laughter echoing laughter,
Tears replacing tears,
Brows furrowing out
The immemorial mystery.
In budding hedgerows,
Other blackbirds sang;
In lustful loanins,
Other lovers laughed.
And the earth went round,
And others were born,
Gave birth,
And passed on.
Ballymacdermot
Ballymacdermot -
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history. And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Five fields below,
Sketched upon the landscape,
A timeless figure
Whistles cryptic orders to a crouching collie,
And reluctant sheep are conjured
Through an insect-buzzing hedge.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
A brush-stroke farm-hand
With twirling blackthorn stick
Persuades a herd of loitering cattle home.
Two nodding horses,
One bay, the other roan,
Meditate alone beside a five barred gate.
A robin, dab of flame, alights
Upon a lichened granite stone,
Grabs his prey and,
Glancing upwards,
Is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Eileen bends to scoop
Her last stoup of water
From the immemorial well.
A distant dog is barking
Out of habit.
And three thousand miles away
Upon a crowded quay
Another emigrant sheds
A fleeting homeward tear.
Along the hawthorn blossoming loanin
The cobwebbed windows and rusted hinges
Of a long abandoned homestead
Hint at the vanished life within
Where gnawing hunger failed to kill
The native smile,
That soon took root in other soil.
Amongst the heather, gorse and bracken
Of Ballymacdermot mountain
An unseen presence ponders
And is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
______________________
In the photograph below, the mountains visible in the distance on the left are the Mournes sweeping down to the shores of Carlingford Lough. The mountain in the distance on the right is Slieve Foy which overlooks the historic village of Carlingford.
Lines from 'Field Day' by W.R. Rodgers
'The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards
Assignments Plus - Home
Hundreds of Cheap Flights Updated Daily - Click here!
Ballymacdermot Court Cairn - within sight of Slieve Gullion
A court cairn is a pre-historic burial mound which has several chambers leading off from a central corridor. Ballymacdermot court cairn has three chambers behind a forecourt. Each chamber is separated by a sill stone and two upright jambs. It would at one time have been covered over with stones, rubble and earth. In front of the arch was a small courtyard believed to have been used for funerary ceremonies.
Burial Mound Every stone retains its memories
Of hands that gripped and heaved,
Of beads of perspiration,
Of whispered secrets,
And gossipy conversation.
Laughter echoing laughter,
Tears replacing tears,
Brows furrowing out
The immemorial mystery.
In budding hedgerows,
Other blackbirds sang;
In lustful loanins,
Other lovers laughed.
And the earth went round,
And others were born,
Gave birth,
And passed on.
Ballymacdermot
Ballymacdermot -
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history. And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Five fields below,
Sketched upon the landscape,
A timeless figure
Whistles cryptic orders to a crouching collie,
And reluctant sheep are conjured
Through an insect-buzzing hedge.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
A brush-stroke farm-hand
With twirling blackthorn stick
Persuades a herd of loitering cattle home.
Two nodding horses,
One bay, the other roan,
Meditate alone beside a five barred gate.
A robin, dab of flame, alights
Upon a lichened granite stone,
Grabs his prey and,
Glancing upwards,
Is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Eileen bends to scoop
Her last stoup of water
From the immemorial well.
A distant dog is barking
Out of habit.
And three thousand miles away
Upon a crowded quay
Another emigrant sheds
A fleeting homeward tear.
Along the hawthorn blossoming loanin
The cobwebbed windows and rusted hinges
Of a long abandoned homestead
Hint at the vanished life within
Where gnawing hunger failed to kill
The native smile,
That soon took root in other soil.
Amongst the heather, gorse and bracken
Of Ballymacdermot mountain
An unseen presence ponders
And is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
______________________
In the photograph below, the mountains visible in the distance on the left are the Mournes sweeping down to the shores of Carlingford Lough. The mountain in the distance on the right is Slieve Foy which overlooks the historic village of Carlingford.
Lines from 'Field Day' by W.R. Rodgers
'The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards
Assignments Plus - Home
Hundreds of Cheap Flights Updated Daily - Click here!
Burial Mound Every stone retains its memories
Of hands that gripped and heaved,
Of beads of perspiration,
Of whispered secrets,
And gossipy conversation.
Laughter echoing laughter,
Tears replacing tears,
Brows furrowing out
The immemorial mystery.
In budding hedgerows,
Other blackbirds sang;
In lustful loanins,
Other lovers laughed.
And the earth went round,
And others were born,
Gave birth,
And passed on.
Ballymacdermot
Ballymacdermot -
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history. And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Five fields below,
Sketched upon the landscape,
A timeless figure
Whistles cryptic orders to a crouching collie,
And reluctant sheep are conjured
Through an insect-buzzing hedge.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
A brush-stroke farm-hand
With twirling blackthorn stick
Persuades a herd of loitering cattle home.
Two nodding horses,
One bay, the other roan,
Meditate alone beside a five barred gate.
A robin, dab of flame, alights
Upon a lichened granite stone,
Grabs his prey and,
Glancing upwards,
Is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Eileen bends to scoop
Her last stoup of water
From the immemorial well.
A distant dog is barking
Out of habit.
And three thousand miles away
Upon a crowded quay
Another emigrant sheds
A fleeting homeward tear.
Along the hawthorn blossoming loanin
The cobwebbed windows and rusted hinges
Of a long abandoned homestead
Hint at the vanished life within
Where gnawing hunger failed to kill
The native smile,
That soon took root in other soil.
Amongst the heather, gorse and bracken
Of Ballymacdermot mountain
An unseen presence ponders
And is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
______________________
In the photograph below, the mountains visible in the distance on the left are the Mournes sweeping down to the shores of Carlingford Lough. The mountain in the distance on the right is Slieve Foy which overlooks the historic village of Carlingford.
Lines from 'Field Day' by W.R. Rodgers
'The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards
Assignments Plus - Home
Hundreds of Cheap Flights Updated Daily - Click here!
Every stone retains its memories
Of hands that gripped and heaved,
Of beads of perspiration,
Of whispered secrets,
And gossipy conversation.
Laughter echoing laughter,
Tears replacing tears,
Brows furrowing out
The immemorial mystery.
In budding hedgerows,
Other blackbirds sang;
In lustful loanins,
Other lovers laughed.
And the earth went round,
And others were born,
Gave birth,
And passed on.
Ballymacdermot
Ballymacdermot -
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history. And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Five fields below,
Sketched upon the landscape,
A timeless figure
Whistles cryptic orders to a crouching collie,
And reluctant sheep are conjured
Through an insect-buzzing hedge.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
A brush-stroke farm-hand
With twirling blackthorn stick
Persuades a herd of loitering cattle home.
Two nodding horses,
One bay, the other roan,
Meditate alone beside a five barred gate.
A robin, dab of flame, alights
Upon a lichened granite stone,
Grabs his prey and,
Glancing upwards,
Is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Eileen bends to scoop
Her last stoup of water
From the immemorial well.
A distant dog is barking
Out of habit.
And three thousand miles away
Upon a crowded quay
Another emigrant sheds
A fleeting homeward tear.
Along the hawthorn blossoming loanin
The cobwebbed windows and rusted hinges
Of a long abandoned homestead
Hint at the vanished life within
Where gnawing hunger failed to kill
The native smile,
That soon took root in other soil.
Amongst the heather, gorse and bracken
Of Ballymacdermot mountain
An unseen presence ponders
And is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
______________________
In the photograph below, the mountains visible in the distance on the left are the Mournes sweeping down to the shores of Carlingford Lough. The mountain in the distance on the right is Slieve Foy which overlooks the historic village of Carlingford.
Lines from 'Field Day' by W.R. Rodgers
'The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards
Assignments Plus - Home
Hundreds of Cheap Flights Updated Daily - Click here!
Of hands that gripped and heaved,
Of beads of perspiration,
Of whispered secrets,
And gossipy conversation.
Laughter echoing laughter,
Tears replacing tears,
Brows furrowing out
The immemorial mystery.
In budding hedgerows,
Other blackbirds sang;
In lustful loanins,
Other lovers laughed.
And the earth went round,
And others were born,
Gave birth,
And passed on.
Ballymacdermot -
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history. And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Five fields below,
Sketched upon the landscape,
A timeless figure
Whistles cryptic orders to a crouching collie,
And reluctant sheep are conjured
Through an insect-buzzing hedge.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
A brush-stroke farm-hand
With twirling blackthorn stick
Persuades a herd of loitering cattle home.
Two nodding horses,
One bay, the other roan,
Meditate alone beside a five barred gate.
A robin, dab of flame, alights
Upon a lichened granite stone,
Grabs his prey and,
Glancing upwards,
Is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Eileen bends to scoop
Her last stoup of water
From the immemorial well.
A distant dog is barking
Out of habit.
And three thousand miles away
Upon a crowded quay
Another emigrant sheds
A fleeting homeward tear.
Along the hawthorn blossoming loanin
The cobwebbed windows and rusted hinges
Of a long abandoned homestead
Hint at the vanished life within
Where gnawing hunger failed to kill
The native smile,
That soon took root in other soil.
Amongst the heather, gorse and bracken
Of Ballymacdermot mountain
An unseen presence ponders
And is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
______________________
In the photograph below, the mountains visible in the distance on the left are the Mournes sweeping down to the shores of Carlingford Lough. The mountain in the distance on the right is Slieve Foy which overlooks the historic village of Carlingford.
Lines from 'Field Day' by W.R. Rodgers
'The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards
Assignments Plus - Home
Hundreds of Cheap Flights Updated Daily - Click here!
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Five fields below,
Sketched upon the landscape,
A timeless figure
Whistles cryptic orders to a crouching collie,
And reluctant sheep are conjured
Through an insect-buzzing hedge.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
A brush-stroke farm-hand
With twirling blackthorn stick
Persuades a herd of loitering cattle home.
Two nodding horses,
One bay, the other roan,
Meditate alone beside a five barred gate.
A robin, dab of flame, alights
Upon a lichened granite stone,
Grabs his prey and,
Glancing upwards,
Is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
Eileen bends to scoop
Her last stoup of water
From the immemorial well.
A distant dog is barking
Out of habit.
And three thousand miles away
Upon a crowded quay
Another emigrant sheds
A fleeting homeward tear.
Along the hawthorn blossoming loanin
The cobwebbed windows and rusted hinges
Of a long abandoned homestead
Hint at the vanished life within
Where gnawing hunger failed to kill
The native smile,
That soon took root in other soil.
Amongst the heather, gorse and bracken
Of Ballymacdermot mountain
An unseen presence ponders
And is gone.
And high upon the ancient burial hill,
Deep in the forest still,
The blackbird sings his melancholy song -
For it was always thus.
______________________
In the photograph below, the mountains visible in the distance on the left are the Mournes sweeping down to the shores of Carlingford Lough. The mountain in the distance on the right is Slieve Foy which overlooks the historic village of Carlingford.
Lines from 'Field Day' by W.R. Rodgers
'The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards
Assignments Plus - Home
Hundreds of Cheap Flights Updated Daily - Click here!
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
'And then I will cry my heart out,' he said.
It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying
In Donegal?
I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.'
For details, just email the word 'Information' to assignmentsplus1@aol.com
Best Car Hire Company 2005
The Guardian/Observer Travel Awards