!18Irish

In 1909, Nora McCann arrived in the United States from County Down and became a member of our family. She was to live with us for over forty years until her death in 1951. At first she was Nanny to my mother and her siblings and later she became a very special grandmother to both my sister and me. My memories of Nora’s nurturing, patience, brogue, humor and great faith have been a constant source of support and comfort my entire life. Her tales of Ireland and her anguish over the pain and suffering of the Irish people because of their never-ending civil war inspired this poem, written on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 1997.

The image of a dinghy at Carrick-e-rede by noted Irish photographer Michael Fastoso ©1993 shows the green, the rocks and the sea that help to make Ireland so very beautiful. The other pictures show the Blarney Tower; an Irish glen and the venerable golf course at Royal County Down; the cliffs of Moher; the road to Durrus; an old stone Chapel and the lakes in Killarney, and finally a sheep pasture sloping to the sea in Cork.

slÁinte honora

                     To reunite, be free of Crown,
                     Old Erin’s Land o’ Kings renown;
                     From Ulster’s North to Dublin Town,
                     West Donegal through County Down,
                     In Irish Blood and Tears, Men drown!

                     Both Yanks and Brits will intervene,
                     Dare Repercussions unforeseen,
                     Aid UDF or Sinn Féin, mean;
                     Their Use of Fear and Pain obscene,
                     Made Violence and Death routine!

                     No Celt of Eire, fair wee Colleen,
                     Kissed Blarney Stones or Fields serene,
                     Ne’er Leprechauns nor Færie Queen,
                     Can mend this Island’s tragic Scene;
                     Though Faith’s so strong, her Wits still keen,
                     E’er Ireland’s torn beyond the Green!

Addendum

In August of 2000, I went to Ireland and was able to track down the place of Nora’s birth. Nora had never returned to visit Ireland. My sister gave me Nora's rosary to be buried, with the following note, in the gardens of the Church where Nora had been baptized.

Downpatrick Cathedral St. Comgall's Roman Catholic Church Nora McCann

St. Patrick's Burial Site Donghadee, Parish of Bangor

                                                               Sweet, constant Smile was always there,
                                            A gentler Style, gave loving Care;
                                            But just few Days in Nora’s Land,
                                            My Lifetime guided by her Hand;
                                            She’s now with God; her Soul has passed;
                                            The Ros’ry’s Home, in Sod, at last!

Addendum Two:

Nora taught me many songs, but I guess my very favorite has to be the "Irish Pig Song".

The Irish Pig Song

                   'Twas an evenin' in November,
                   As I very well remember;
                   I was strollin' down the street in drunken pride,
                   When my knees went all aflutter,
                   So I landed in the gutter,
                   And a pig came up and laid down by my side.
                   As, I lay there in the gutter
                   Thinkin' thoughts I could not utter,
                   When a colleen passin' by was heard to say,
                   'You can tell a man who boozes,
                   By the company he chooses',
                   And with that, the pig got up and walked away!

                   I began to scratch the gravel,
                   While on all me fours, I'd travel,
                   So I rambled down the road, the best I could;
                   When I woke up in the mornin',
                   As the sunrise was a'dawnin',
                   In a Pig Pen, stuck way out there, in the Wood;
                   I just started then I'd stumble,
                   As those sows began to grumble,
                   When I fell into a puddle, where I lay;
                   Though, one by one they farted,
                   As the rotten herd departed,
                   And with that, the pigs got up and walked away!

                   Now it's lately, I've been thinkin'
                   That perhaps I'd quit my drinkin',
                   And leave off the rum and whiskey, beer and grog;
                   For there is no consolation,
                   In this world of aggravation,
                   When you can't have, even friendship with a hog!
                   'Tis a puzzle, to befuddle,
                   While still drunken, in a muddle,
                   In the gutter or a puddle, where I'd lay;
                   'You might say, though sunk in wine,
                   I'm a pearl among the swine',
                   And with that, the pigs got up and walked away!

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