Scoil Eoin Baiste
(Kilbrin National School)
The Battle Of Knocknanuss 1647
I
love to be back on the winding old road
That runs through the
hills of my childhood abode
Where the vale of Blackwater with
splendour aglow
Unfolds a great carpet of welcome below.
There
in the shadows for life we prepared,
Our troubles confronted, our
small triumphs shared
With parents so loving, so generous and
kind
To nurture and shape the awakening mind.
And Nan by the
window with prospect to view
Kilbrin, Castlemagner and distant
Gortroe.
The heart-lifting landmark, in my secret code,
That
first symbolises my ‘home again’ road
Is the ivy-clad
stone Castlecor famine wall
Conjoining The Grotto to ruined
Greenhall.
Oh the wild surge of freedom returning from school!
And
the magic of toes in a gravelly pool;
By the Cottoner’s
Hill, leafy-vaulted and steep
All the joys of plain childhood
forever will keep.
So pleasing to trace other times we have
known
When morning sun lingers on shingle and stone.
That
last haunted mile, ever burdened with themes
Of storied events
that can pattern dreams,
Is the lamp in the window alluring me
home,
And the youthful temptation that called me to roam.
Buckleys, Corkerys, Kielys and Hayes still reign
The lords of
this constant familiar demesne;
All earnest, as always, with
life’s merry spin
From classroom to crypt on the Height of
Kilbrin
The fledgling in flight from the parental nest
Discovers
right quickly that old friends are best.
Sometimes, when alone
on a wave-rippled shore
Or crowded in dense metropolitan roar,
I
ponder what hazard of failing or flair
Determined my journey from
cradle to there.
Though I‘ve lived in great cities romantic
and grand
And wandered the sights of my own native land.
No
marvel or joy that their grandeur bestowed,
Could compare with my
own Ballygraddy New Road.
The place where we first loved we ever
hold dear,
A harbour secure in life’s wondrous career.
(Denis O’Donoghue)
To stroll again, down Kennely Hill,
with pencil, pen and rule,
and listen to the Blackbird sing,
on the way to Curraghs School.
Yes in Dreamland, I travel back,
as if time stood still,
to my childhood days in Curraghs,
at the old school on the hill.
With the O’Briens, Mullanes and Cliffords,
Fitzes and Aherns too,
among the many school mates,
they are just a few.
The games we played together,
when our hearts were young and light.
May God bless those who taught us,
to learn to read and write.
(Danny Ahern)
It was long ago I parted from my own dear native home.
In searching for a living, far away I had to roam.
Away from friends and neighbours that I often met with when,
My childhood days were cradled on the Height of Old Kilbrin.
On the day that I departed, just before I had to go,
I looked down from the crossroads there to the lovely scene below.
The homely tree-clad houses, and the kindly folk therein,
I wished them all Good Fortune on the Height of Old Kilbrin.
As I gazed across the meadows where I rambled since a boy.
I marked the sunlit places where the sporting hare would lie.
The hollows under furzy banks where the sly fox made his den;
And eluded The Duhallows on the Height of Old Kilbrin.
My memory still brings visions of those youthful days now gone,
Of golden summer evenings and the clashing wild caman.
The raking boul that hugged the road and made the stoneway ring,
And the bell for Benediction on the Height of Old Kilbrin.
Often times, I get so weary of the grey streets and the town;
I go to greet and grassy hills where tumbling streams come down.
And the lonely curlew calling in a dark and leafy glen,
Is a echo of my childhood days on the Height of Old Kilbrin.
Well my journey is nearly over and soon I will go home.
I think about the young ones who are still inclined to roam.
Sweet bird of youth ascending, I hope that you will win,
And find the dreams that you cherished on the Height of Old Kilbrin.
Oh! I love the old road winding, to my native place so high.
My beacon bright, that calls me home, between the fields and sky.
And when my restless body’s stilled, and I go to earth again,
Please God I’ll lay with kindred clay on the Height of Old Kilbrin.
(Denis O’Donoghue)
If a priest preaches over 10 minutes, he's longwinded.
If his sermon is short, he didn't prepare it.
If the parish funds are high, he's a businessman.
If he mentions money, he's money-mad.
If he visits his parishioners, he's nosey.
If he doesn't, he's being snobbish.
If he has fairs and bazaars, he's bleeding the people.
If he doesn't, there isn't any life in the Parish.
If he takes time in confession to help and advise the sinners,
he takes too long.
If he doesn't, he doesn’t care.
If he celebrates liturgy in a quiet voice, he's boring.
If he puts feeling into it, he's an actor.
If he starts Mass on time, his watch is fast.
If he starts late, he's holding up the people.
If he tries to lead the people in music, he's showing off.
If he doesn’t, he doesn’t care what Mass is like.
If he decorates the church, he's wasting money.
If he doesn't, he's letting it run down.
If he's young, he's inexperienced.
If he's old, he ought to retire.
But if he dies...
There may be no one to replace him.
1 Where is he now my school·boy pal? His friendly grin, his wind-blown hair If he and I were not to meet I should not find my play-mate there |
12 The merry jig the lilting reel With zest the fiddler plays his bow As round and round the dancers wheel With measured touch of heel and toe |
2 But we can meet in memory’s shelves The record files of days we knew We see the Master at his desk His stout persuasive rod in view |
13 More precious were the hours we spent When basking by the sunny stream We planned for all the years to be , And dreamed as only boys can dream |
3 The Master’s voice imperious rise Above the hum of school and class We watch the clock upon the wall We count the hours that slowly pass |
14 No quarrel did our friendship mar Together far and wide to roam Strange skies were beckoning from afar To lure us from the skies of home |
4 Foreboding what each task ensue Strange names, strange places on the map Yet, we tremble on a problem sum When reading, where to pause and stop |
15 The pans of boys are built on dreams The fates decreed our separate ways They never were to meet, or merge From April to December days |
5 How treasured were those care-free days Shed ofthe cares of school and home To pass the sunny hours away On bare-foot paths we loved to roam |
16 'Twas his to tend his fathers fields 'Twas mine, in distant lands to roam A lone wild goose whose wings have know No skies more fair, than those of home |
6 By thorny ways, by ferny trails Oh; blessed release no sums to do Our joys and sorrows we could share For April and her sorrows too |
17 How fares he now my April pal His friendly grin his wind-blown hair If he and I were now to meet I should not find my play-mate there |
7 Lif`e’s morning had its sorrows too The years were lean and scant the fare We shared the glooms that filled the school We lived the joys there were to share |
18 The grin is lost in wrinkled age His wind-blown hair a crown of snow How vain to look for April -when— The cold winds of December blow |
8 The Lacca robed in golden gorse The old grey bridge in ivy green The limpid Allow runs below To shimmering pools, in silver share |
19 And my wild wings are weary grown They pine and droop beside the gate Whence all must take the last lone flight And lo; the sands are running late |
9 The pastoral quiet of chequered fields The daisy spangled meadows gay The distant coos of woodland dove The lark poured down his gushing lay |
20 But we can meet in memories shelves Where April fields are green and fair Youths’ phantom haunt, the scenes they loved My April buddy waits me there |
10 Beside shady sycamore On Sundays they came to dance Sat stalwart youths and maids galore With modest mein and shy of glance |
21 We live again our April days We seek the ripening crab and sloe We frolic on the ferry wastes The rabbit trails that come and go |
1 1 A maiden coy beside the stage Reject the pleadings of a swain Half wishing, she may not succeed Half hoping, he may plead again |
22 We plan for all the years to be While basking by the sunny stream We steal from time an April hour And dream, as only age can dream |
(John W. Kelleher)
The Battle Of Knocknanuss 1647
From the walls of Moyallo, Morrogh set forth,
And his henchmen looked fierce as they marched to the North.
"They wait on the Hill where once roamed the fleet fawn
But we’ll meet them tomorrow - and soon after dawn
They’ll be fleeing in disorder" - he laughed in fierce glee,
"With Lord Taaffe in the vanguard by grey Lackaleigh".
Their banners waved proud, and they made a great din
As they marched to the North, led by Lord lnchiquin,
They halted at noon by the sedgy Finnow,
Where the tall Norman Castle stands grim neath the brow
Of the hill whereon nestles the town of the stones,
Ballyclough, through whose woodlands the winter wind moans.
And the peasants in fear from their hovels did flee
And they hid in the forests that cover Rathnee.
"Tis O’Brien of the burnings", they fearfully cried,
For the fame of Black Morrogh has spread far and wide.
They rested an hour; then they marched o’er the bluff,
And they faced to the North, till they reached Garryduff,
Where they camped on the hillside, their fires burning bright,
And they posted strong sentries on guard for the night.
And they saw camp fires blazing on Steep Knocknanuss,
And they knew Lord Taaffe’s soldiers were making a rush
To dig trenches, and working in haste through the night.
For when grey morning dawned they would start the grim fight.
ln England at this time, two factions were fighting,
And over the fair land, the war fires were lighting.
For Charles the faithless fell foul of his Council.
And when wise men advised, he’d have none of their counsel.
So the Commons of England defied their proud master
And Charles the Stuart led his house to disaster.
For Cromwell against him, led Puritan Roundheads,
And on high shameful scaffold, the Stuart lost his proud head.
But Ireland, poor Ireland, was always a shambles,
When the Statesmen of England were playing the gambles.
And Lord Inchiquin was now Cromwell’s proud henchman.
But if paid well enough, he’d be Dutchman or Frenchman.
While Lord Taaffe for the Stuart, his legions was leading
And the Irish, so witless, so brave and unheeding
Were fighting on both sides, and brother slew brother,
One fighting for Cromwell, for Charles, the other.