Happy Monday…

A nice selection of items today… A Tinker kind of dream state I woke up from. I searched out the photos as it went along, and stumpled upon the University of Liverpool Collection to my joy. I first heard of Gerald Griffin through the interpretations of The Clancy Brothers, and found him referenced by W.B. Yeats…. The Witches Excursion is a bit of fun… and watch out for the Mouse Probem during The Burning Season…
Gotta Hop,
Gwyllm
The Links

Mouse Problem

THE WITCHES’ EXCURSION

Burning Season by Faith & the Muse

The Poetry Of Gerald Griffin

Irish Travellers: Tinkers, Gypsies – From The University of Liverpool Collection

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The Links:

The Mysterious Zar

Shulgin: The Film (Thanks To Lizard Jah!)

The Joy Of Sharing…

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Monty Python – Mouse Problem

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Irish Traveller Carving Wood…

THE WITCHES’ EXCURSION

PATRICK KENNEDY
Shemus Rua (Red James) awakened from his sleep one night by noises in his kitchen. Stealing to the door, he saw half-a-dozen old women sitting round the fire, jesting and laughing, his old housekeeper, Madge, quite frisky and gay, helping her sister crones to cheering glasses of punch. He began to admire the impudence and imprudence of Madge, displayed in the invitation and the riot, but recollected on the instant her officiousness in urging him to take a comfortable posset, which she had brought to his bedside just before he fell asleep. Had he drunk it, he would have been just now deaf to the witches’ glee. He heard and saw them drink his health in such a mocking style as nearly to tempt him to charge them, besom. in hand, but he restrained himself.
The jug being emptied, one of them cried out, “Is it time to be gone?” and at the same moment, putting on a red cap, she added–
“By yarrow and rue,

And my red cap too,

Hie over to England.”
[paragraph continues] Making use of a twig which she held in her hand as a steed, she gracefully soared up the chimney, and was rapidly followed by the rest. But when it came to the house-keeper, Shemus interposed. “By your leave, ma’am,” said he, snatching twig and cap. “Ah, you desateful ould crocodile! If I find you here on my return, there’ll be wigs on the green–
‘By yarrow and rue,

And my red cap too,

Hie over to England’.”
The words were not out of his mouth when he was soaring above the ridge pole, and swiftly ploughing the air. He was careful to speak no word (being somewhat conversant with witch-lore), as the result would be a tumble, and the immediate return of the expedition.
In a very short time they had crossed the Wicklow hills, the Irish Sea, and the Welsh mountains, and were charging, at whirlwind speed, the hall door of a castle. Shemus, only for the company in which he found himself, would have cried out for pardon, expecting to be mummy against the hard oak door in a moment; but, all bewildered, he found himself passing through the keyhole, along a passage, down a flight of steps, and through a cellar-door key-hole before he could form any clear idea of his situation.
Waking to the full consciousness of his position, he found himself sitting on a stillion, plenty of lights glimmering round, and he and his companions, with full tumblers of frothing wine in hand, hob-nobbing and drinking healths as jovially and recklessly as if the liquor was honestly come by, and they were sitting in Shemus’s own kitchen. The red birredh 1 has assimilated Shemus’s nature for the time being to that of his unholy companions. The heady liquors soon got into their brains, and a period of unconsciousness succeeded the ecstasy, the head-ache, the turning round of the barrels, and the “scattered sight” of poor Shemus. He woke up under the impression of being roughly seized, and shaken, and dragged upstairs, and subjected to a disagreeable examination by the lord of the castle, in his state parlour. There was much derision among the whole company, gentle and simple, on hearing Shemus’s explanation, and, as the thing occurred in the dark ages, the unlucky Leinster man was sentenced to be hung as soon as the gallows could be prepared for the occasion.
The poor Hibernian was in the cart proceeding on his last journey, with a label on his back, and another on his breast, announcing him as the remorseless villain who for the last month had been draining the casks in my lord’s vault every night, He was surprised to hear himself addressed by his name, and in his native tongue, by an old woman in the crowd. “Ach, Shemus, alanna! is it going to die you are in a strange place without your cappen d’yarrag?” 1 These words infused hope and courage into the poor victim’s heart. He turned to the lord and humbly asked leave to die in his red cap, which he supposed had dropped from his head in the vault. A servant was sent for the head-piece, and Shemus felt lively hope warming his heart while placing it on his head. On the platform he was graciously allowed to address the spectators, which he proceeded to do in the usual formula composed for the benefit of flying stationers–”Good people all, a warning take by me;” but when he had finished the line, “My parents reared me tenderly,” he unexpectedly added–”By yarrow and rue,” etc., and the disappointed spectators saw him shoot up obliquely through the air in the style of a sky-rocket that had missed its aim. It is said that the lord took the circumstance much to heart, and never afterwards hung a man for twenty-four hours after his offense.

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For Catherine & Andrew: Burning Season by Faith & the Muse

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Travellers & Townies…

Irish Poetry: Gerald Griffin

HY-BRASAIL–THE ISLE OF THE BLEST
On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,

A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;

Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,

And they called it Hy-Brasail, the isle of the blest.

From year unto year on the ocean’s blue rim,

The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim;

The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,

And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!
A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,

In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;

From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,

For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest.

He heard not the voices that called from the shore–

He heard not the rising wind’s menacing roar;

Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day,

And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away!
Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle,

O’er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile;

Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore

Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before;

Lone evening came down on the wanderer’s track,

And to Ara again he looked timidly back;

Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,

Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!
Rash dreamer, return! O, ye winds of the main,

Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.

Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,

To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.

The warning of reason was spoken in vain;

He never revisited Ara again!

Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,

And he died on the waters, away, far away!

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I Love My Love In The Morning
I love my love in the morning,

For she is like morn is fair –

Her blushing cheek, its crimson streak,

It clouds her golden hair.

Her glance, its beam, so soft and kind;

Her tears, its dewy showers;

And her voice, the tender whispering wind

That stirs the early bowers.
I love my love in the morning,

I love my love at noon,

For she is bright as the lord of light,

Yet mild as autumn’s moon:

Her beauty is my bosom’s sun,

Her faith my fostering shade,

And I will love my darlin one,

Till even the sun shall fade.
I love my love in the morning,

I love my love at even;

Her smile’s soft play is like the ray

That lights the western heaven:

I loved her when the sun was high,

I loved her when he rose;

But best of all when evening’s sight

Was murmuring at its close.

Eileen Aroon
(Not From The UoI collection…)

When, like the early rose,

Eileen aroon!

Beauty in childhood blows,

Eileen aroon!

When, like a diadem,

Buds blush around the stem,

Which is the fairest gem?

Eileen aroon!
Is it the laughing eye,

Eileen aroon!

Is it the timid sigh,

Eileen aroon!

Is it the tender tone,

Soft as the stringed harp’s moan?

Oh! it is Truth alone.

Eileen aroon!
When, like the rising day,

Eileen aroon!

Love sends his early ray,

Eileen aroon!

What makes his dawning glow

Changeless through joy or woe?

Only the constant know—

Eileen aroon!
I know a valley fair,

Eileen aroon!

I knew a cottage there,

Eileen aroon!

Far in that valley shade

I knew a gentle maid,

Flower of a hazel glade,

Eileen aroon!
Who in the song so sweet?

Eileen aroon!

Who in the dance so fleet?

Eileen aroon!

Dear were her charms to me,

Dearer her laughter free,

Dearest her constancy,

Eileen aroon!
Were she no longer true,

Eileen aroon!

What should her lover do?

Eileen aroon!

Fly with his broken chain

Far o’er the sounding main,

Never to love again,

Eileen aroon!
Youth must with time decay,

Eileen aroon!

Beauty must fade away,

Eileen aroon!

Castles are sacked in war,

Chieftains are scattered far,

Truth is a fixed star,

Eileen aroon!

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Gerald Griffin (born in 1803 in Limerick, Ireland) was an Irish novelist, poet and playwright.
The son of a brewer, he went to London in 1823 and became a reporter for one of the daily papers, and later turned to writing fiction. In 1838 he burned all of his unpublished manuscripts and joined the Catholic religious order “Congregation of Christian Brothers” in Cork, and died at their monastery, June 12, 1840.
Gerald Griffin has a street named after him in Limerick City, Ireland
Reading Type Of Wagon…