Fort Shannon, Ballylongford
Jim Halpin has been in touch. He is undertaking a project to research Fort Shannon, Ballylongford. Jim is particularly interested in the families and friends of the soldiers. He would appreciate if anyone has stories to share of how the soldiers integrated with the local community, marrying local girls and taking part in local clubs and sports. Jim is concentrating on the valuable contribution to local life in Ballylongford made by the soldiers at the fort. If you have photos or stories send them to me and I’ll make sure Jim gets them.
Fleadh Cheoil na hEireann in Listowel
There are a few familiar faces in the crowd in this old newspaper cutting
A Klondyke Millionaire with a Listowel connection
New Zealand Tablet, 11 February 1898
Mr Patrick Galvin, one of Klondyke’s millionaires, has arrived in Listowel, whence he emigrated over twenty years ago to America, and where he experienced varying fortunes until he struck for Klondyke, where he became immensely rich. He refused £200,000 for some land he owns there and sold one of his claims for £20,000 before starting for Ireland. His account of the journey from the new gold country is most interesting. Mr Galvin, who was accompanied by his wife, travelled by the Dalton trail and had to tramp 374 miles, and Mrs Galvin had to walk 150 miles during the journey. When starting from Klondyke they had eleven pack horses, and at the journey’s end they had but four. The provisions too, ran scarce, and they had to subsist on flour and water for a considerable time.
I was at a Wedding
My niece, Christine and her new husband held their wedding reception in Blackwater Castle.
This is me with my lovely niece on her big day.
This is a highlight of my Kanturk family weddings, Jerome Ryan singing Kanturk, my Home Town and whoever of the Kanturk crowd are nearby “helping” him out with the chorus.
A blog follower found this in an old NZ newspaper and I shared it with you.
Bartholomew Dowling, the writer of “Life’s Wreck,” was born at Listowel. County Kerry, about the year 1822. While still a child his parents emigrated to Canada, where his father died. Later the mother and children returned and settled in County Limerick, He wrote several poems for the Nation after its foundation. In 1848 he proceeded to California, where, after spending some time as a miner, he lived on a farm at Crucita Valley. In 1858 he was appointed editor of the San Francisco Monitor. In 1863 he met with an accident while driving, and soon afterwards died from its effects in St. Mary’s Hospital, San Francisco. Dowling’s best, and best known poem is probably “The Irish brigade at Fontenoy.”
I mentioned that I couldn’t find the poem and then ….
Another blog follower found it. Here it is in all its blood curdling war mongering glory;
BATTLE OF FONTENOY
by: Bartholomew Dowling (1823-1863)
our camp-fires rose a murmur
At the dawning of the day,
And the tread of many footsteps
Spoke the advent of the fray;
And as we took our places,
Few and stern were our words,
While some were tightening horse-girths,
And some were girding swords.
The trumpet-blast has sounded
Our footmen to array–
The willing steed has bounded,
Impatient for the fray–
The green flag is unfolded,
While rose the cry of joy–
“Heaven speed dear Ireland’s banner
To-day at Fontenoy!”
We looked upon that banner,
And the memory arose
Of our homes and perish’d kindred
Where the Lee or Shannon flows;
We look’d upon that banner,
And we swore to God on high,
To smite to-day the Saxon’s might–
To conquer or to die.
Loud swells the charging trumpet–
‘Tis a voice from our own land–
God of battles! God of vengeance!
Guide to-day the patriot’s brand;
There are stains to wash away,
There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.
Plunge deep the fiery rowels
In a thousand reeking flanks–
Down, chivalry of Ireland,
Down on the British ranks!
Now shall their serried columns
Beneath our sabres reel–
Through the ranks, then, with the war-horse–
Through their bosoms with the steel.
With one shout for good King Louis,
And the fair land of the vine,
Like the wrathful Alpine tempest,
We swept upon their line–
Then rang along the battle-field
Triumphant our hurrah,
And we smote them down, still cheering,
“Erin, shanthagal go bragh.”
As prized as is the blessing
From an aged father’s lip–
As welcome as the haven
To the tempest-driven ship–
As dear as to the lover
The smile of gentle maid–
Is this day of long-sought vengeance
To the swords of the Brigade.
See their shatter’d forces flying,
A broken, routed line–
See, England, what brave laurels
For your brow to-day we twine.
Oh, thrice bless’d the hour that witness’d
The Briton turn to flee
From the chivalry of Erin
And France’s “fleur de lis.”
As we lay beside our camp-fires,
When the sun had pass’d away,
And thought upon our brethren
Who had perished in the fray,
We prayed to God to grant us,
And then we’d die with joy,
One day upon our own dear land
Like this of Fontenoy.
|“Battle of Fontenoy” is reprinted from Historic Poems and Ballads. Ed. Rupert S. Holland. Philadelphia: George W. Jacobs & Co., 1912.|