Ella Young

Just a quick note… I have been assembling this for a couple of days, and have had remarkable ill luck finding images etc., so I have had to wing it a bit, and bring in one of my favourite Victorians: Albert Joseph Moore. I hope you like his work.
This edition revolves around Ella Young, friend of Maude Gonne, and William Butler Yeats, and later Ansel Adams and others of his colony. Ella was a true radical, Anglo-Irish who sided with the uprising, and went to jail for it. One of the great relayers/tellers of the Irish Myth Cycle, she is much beloved by those who know her work and poetry.
Hope you have a good Thanksgiving!
Bright Blessings,



On The Menu:

The Links

Palya Bea Quintett – 1

The Quotes

The Luck-Child – Ella Young

Ella Young Poetry

Ella Young Bio

Palya Bea – Transylvania

The Artwork – Albert Moore

Albert Joseph Moore (4 September 1841 – 25 September 1893) was an English painter, known for his depictions of langorous female figures set against the luxury and decadence of the classical world.
He was born in York in 1841, the youngest of the fourteen children of the artist William Moore of York who in the first half of the 19th century enjoyed a considerable reputation in the North of England as a painter of portraits and landscape.
In his childhood Albert Moore showed an extraordinary love of art, and as he was encouraged in his tastes by his father and brothers, two of whom afterwards became famous as artists — John Collingham Moore and Henry Moore, and he was able to begin the active exercise of his profession at an unusually early age.
His first exhibited works were two drawings which he sent to the Royal Academy in 1857. A year later he became a student in the Royal Academy schools; but after working in them for a few months only he decided that he would be more profitably occupied in independent practice. During the period that extended from 1858 to 1870, though he produced and exhibited many pictures and drawings, he gave up much of his time to decorative work of various kinds, and painted, in 1863, a series of wall decorations at Coombe Abbey, the seat of the Earl of Craven; in 1865 and 1866 some elaborate compositions: The Last Supper and The Feeding of the Five Thousand on the chancel walls of the church of St. Alban’s, Rochdale; and in 1868 A Greek Play, an important panel in tempera for the proscenium of the Queen’s Theatre in Long Acre.
His first large canvas, Elijah’s Sacrifice, was completed during a stay of some five months in Rome at the beginning of 1863, and appeared at the Academy in 1865. A still larger picture, The Shunamite relating the Glories of King Solomon to her Maidens, was exhibited in 1866, and with it two smaller works, Apricots and Pomegranates. In these Albert Moore asserted plainly the particular technical conviction that for the rest of his life governed the whole of his practice, and with them he first took his place definitely among the most original of British painters.

The Links:
Life Beyond…

Organ Donor Consciousness

Buddhas skull found in Nanjing

The World’s Unsung Hero?


Palya Bea Quintett – 1


The Quotes:

George Bernard Shaw | “Democracy is a device that ensures we shall be governed no better than we deserve.”

Laurence J. Peter | “Competence, like truth, beauty and contact lenses, is in the eye of the beholder.”

Jean-Luc Picard | “Things are only impossible until they’re not.”

Gertrude Stein | “In the United States there is more space where nobody is than where anybody is. That is what makes America what it is.”

Eric Hoffer | “The opposite of the religious fanatic is not the fanatical atheist but the gentle cynic who cares not whether there is a god or not.”

Jane Wagner | “Reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it.”

Oscar Wilde | “Why was I born with such contemporaries?”

Evan Esar | “Character is what you have left when you’ve lost everything you can lose.”

Cullen Hightower | “Those who agree with us may not be right, but we admire their astuteness.”

Casey Stengel | “The key to being a good manager is keeping the people who hate me away from those who are still undecided.”

Oscar Levant | “There’s a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line.”

The Luck-Child – Ella Young
Aidan, Osric, and Teigue, were the cow-herds of Eterscel, the High King of Ireland. Aidan was old and gentle, Osric was young and fierce, Teigue was an omadhaun–a fool–they watched the cattle of the king and chased the wild beasts from them. At night they slept in little wicker huts on the edge of the forest.
One day as Teigue was gathering dry sticks for his fire he saw a very young child lying wrapped in a mantle at the foot of a pine tree. He went over to the child and it smiled in his face. He left off gathering sticks and sat down beside it. Osric came to see what was keeping Teigue.
“A fool’s errand is long a-doing,” he said. “What are you loitering here for, when the meat is waiting for the fire and the fire is waiting for the sticks? “
“I have here,” said Teigue, “what is better than meat, a gift from the Hidden People.”
Osric looked at the child.
“We have little use for a nine-months’ infant,” he said.
The child smiled at him.
“Where could we keep it? ” he asked Teigue. ” I will make a house for it,” said Teigue, “a little house in the middle of the forest, that no one can find but myself.”
“‘Tis a pity the child should perish in the forest,” said Osric. ” Of a truth the house must be built.”
Aidan came. He lifted the child in his arms and looked at the mantle wrapped about it. The mantle was thickly embroidered with gold flowers.
“This is the child of some queen,” he said. “One day great folk will come seeking her.”
“I will not let the great folk take her away,” said Teigue. “She is my Luck-Child. She is Osric’s Luck-Child too, and we are going to make a house for her, and she will bring us good luck every day of our lives.”
“She is my Luck-Child too,” said Aidan. “We three will make a secret house in the forest, and there we will keep her from prying eyes.”
They sought out a place, a hidden green spot in the forest. They made a house, and there they nurtured the child in secret. Year by year she throve and grew with them. Teigue brought her berries and taught her to play on a little reed flute. When she made music on it the wild creatures of the woods came about her. She played with the spotted fawns, and the king of the wolves crouched before her and licked her hands. Osric made a bow for her, and taught her how to shoot with arrows, but she had no wish
to kill any beast, for all the forest-creatures were her friends. Aidan told her stories. He told her how the sun changed into a White Hound at night, and Lugh the Long-Handed put a silver chain on it and led it away to his Secret Palace, and it crouched at his feet till the morning, when he loosed it and let it run through the sky again. He told her how Brigit counted the stars so that no littlest one got lost, and how she hurried them away in the morning before Lugh’s great hound came out to frighten them. He said that Brigit came in the very early mornings to gather herbs of healing, for it was she who gave the secret of healing to wise physicians, and it was she gave power and virtue to every herb that grows. He said that once the High King’s Poet had seen Brigit and had made a song about her and called her ‘The Pure Perpetual Ashless Fire of the Gael.’
The Luck-Child loved to hear Aidan’s Stories. She loved them even when she had grown quite tall and wise and was no longer a child.
Teigue was sorry that she grew up so quickly. He sat down one day and began to lament and cry Ochone! about it.
“Why are you lamenting and crying Ochone?” said Osric.
“Because my Luck-Child has grown up and the Hidden People will see that she is no longer a child. They will take her and make her a queen amongst them, and she will never come back to us. Ochone! Ochone!”
“If the chiefs and warriors of King Eterscel do not see her,” said Osric, ” she is safe enough: and if they do come to take her I will not let her go without a fight.”
Aidan heard them talking.
“Do not speak of trouble or sorrow when you speak of the Luck-Child,” he said. “One day she will come to her own, and then she will give each of us his heart’s wish.”
“I will wish for a robe all embroidered with gold,” said Teigue. “What will you wish for, Osric?”
“For a shield and spear and the right to go into battle with warriors.”
“What will you wish for, Aidan?
“I will wish, O Teigue, to sit in the one dun with the Luck-Child, and hear the poets praising her.
“I will go and tell the Luck-Child our wishes,” said Teigue, “so that she may know when she comes to her own.”
He ran to the little hut in the forest, and the Luck-Child came out to meet him. She laughed to hear of the wishes, and said she would have a wish herself in the day of good fortune, and it would be to have Teigue, Osric, and Aidan, always with her. She took a little reed flute and began to play on it.
“Listen now,” she said to Teigue, “and I will play you music I heard last night when the wind swept down from the hills.”
Teigue sat under a pine tree and listened.
A great white hound came through the wood, and when it saw Teigue it stood and bayed. The hound had a gold collar set with three crystal stones.
“O my Luck-Child,” said Teigue, “a king will come after this hound. Go quickly where he can get no sight of you.”
She had the will to go, but the hound bayed about her feet and would not let her move. A clear voice called the hound, and through the trees came the High King of Ireland: there was no one with him but his foster-brother.
The king had the swiftness and slenderness of youth on him. ‘Tis he that was called the Candle of Beauty in Tara of the Kings–and nowhere on the yellow-crested ridge of the world could his equal be found for hardiness and high-heartedness and honey-sweet wisdom of speech.
His foster-brother had a thick twist of red gold in his hair, and he was the son of a proud northern king. The Luck-Child seemed to both of them a great wonder.
“What maiden is this? ” said the king, and stood looking at her.
“She is my Luck-Child, O King,” said Teigue. “She is no child of thine!” said the king’s foster-brother.
“She is a child of the Hidden People,” said Teigue, “and she has brought me luck every day since I found her.”
“Tell me,” said the king, “how you found her.”
“I found her under a pine tree, a nine-months’ child wrapped in a mantle all sewn over with little golden flowers. She is my Luck-Bringer since that day.”
“She is mine to-day!” said the king. “O Luck-Child,” he said, “will you come and live in my palace and bring me good fortune? It is you will be the High Queen of Ireland, and you will never have to ask a thing the second time.”
“Will you give Teigue a gold-embroidered robe and let him stay always with me?”
“I will do that,” said the king.
“Will you give Osric a sword and let him go into battle like a warrior? “
“Who is Osric?”
“It was Osric who built the house for me and taught me to shoot with arrows and speared salmon in the rivers for me. I will not go with you without Osric.”
“I will give Osric what you ask,” said the king, “let him come to me.”
“I will bring him,” said Teigue, and he ran to find Osric and Aidan.
“O Foster-Brother,” said the king, “it is well we lost our way in the woods, for now I have found the q
ueen the druids promised me. ‘Good luck,’ said they, ‘will come to King Eterscel when he weds a queen of unknown lineage.’ It is this maiden who will bring me luck.”
He took the Luck-Child by the hand, and they went through the wood with the hound following them.
Soon they met Teigue, Osric, and Aidan, coming together. The Luck-Child ran to them and brought them to the king.
“Here is Osric,” she said, “and Aidan who told me stories.”
“I will give Osric one of my own war-chariots and his choice of weapons,” said the king. “What am I to give to Aidan?”
“Is there a carved seat in your palace where lie can sit and listen to your poet who made the song about Brigit?”
“There are many carved seats in my palace, and he shall sit in one,” said Eterscel. “All the three shall sit in seats of honour, for they will be the Foster-Fathers of the High Queen of Ireland.”
He turned to the three cow-herds.
“On the day ye built the little hut in the forest for your nurseling ye built truth into the word of my druids, and now I will build honour into your fortune. Ye shall rank with chiefs and the sons of chiefs. Ye shall drink mead in feast-halls of your own, and while I live ye shall have my goodwill and protection.”
“May honour and glory be with you for ever, O King,” said Aidan. “In a good hour you have come to us.”
“We are all going to the palace,” said the Luck-Child. “Teigue, where is your flute?”
“It is in the little hut,” said Teigue. ” I will go back for it.”
“Nay,” said the king, “there are flutes enough in the palace! I will give you one of silver, set with jewels.”
The Luck-Child clapped her hands for joy.
“I love you,” she said to the king. “Come, let us go!”
She took Teigue by the one hand and the king by the other, and they all went to the palace. Every one wondered at the Luck-Child, for since the days of Queen Ethaun, who came out of Fairyland, no one so beautiful was seen in Ireland. The king called her Ethaun, and all the people said that in choosing her he had done well.
There was feasting and gladness on the day they swore troth to each other, and Teigue said the sun got up an hour earlier in the morning and stayed an hour later in the sky that night for gladness.


Ella Young Poetry:
The Red Sunrise
(Moraig’s Song*)

O, it’s dark the land is, and it’s dark my heart is,

But the red sun rises when the hour is come.

O, the red sun rises, and the dead rise; I can see them,

And my own boy and Conn, who won the battles,

And the lads who lost.

They have bright swords with them that clash the battle welcome.

A welcome to the red sun that rises with our luck.
*In Irish mythology Moraig (variously Morrigu / Morrigan) was a goddess of war.


Over the wave-patterned sea-floor,

Over the long sunburnt ridge of the world,

I bid the winds seek you.

I bid them cry to you

Night and morning

A name you loved once;

I bid them bring to you

Dreams, and strange imaginings, and sleep.


ONE night the beauty of the stars

Made magic for me white and still,

I climbed the road above the hill
The road no waking footstep mars.
I met my Lady in the wood
The black pine wood above the hill,

Dream-fair her beauty, white and still ;
I knelt as one before the Rood.
White Dream that makes my life a war

Of wild desires and baffled will

Once more my soul with beauty fill
Rise through the darkness, O my Star.

I BUILT for you a house of joy,
A dun close-walled and warm within ;
Strong-fossed without, lest foe destroy

Or creeping sorrow entrance win.
The wind that wails about the world
Came with you through the open door
My joy-dun into ruin hurled

Lay desolate for evermore.
I built for you a house of dream

Fair as the pearly light of morn ;
Its pillars caught an opal gleam
From skies where night was never born.
The wind that blows the stars to flame

Blew through my house and left it bare :
The beauty vanished when it came,

The columns melted into air.
The next house that I build for you
I’ll build with stars and moon-fire white :
Vaster than those the wind swept through,

Its halls, star-paved, shall front the night.
Mayhap you’ll come and wander there

When all the winds are laid to rest,

i o
And find its sun-bright beauty fair

Beyond the glow in East or West,
Mayhap its radiant fire must fade
Before the wind that wakes the dawn,
The light from Heaven’s heart out-rayed

When suns and moons are all withdrawn.
The wind that beats the stars to dust

May sweep my star-built courts away :
Let my dun fall if fall it must

Its glory lasted for a day.
I care not how I lose anew,
Or round the wreck what winds may wail-

Since God’s own dun was built for you,
You are not houseless, though I fail.

WHEN the dawn-radiance flushes pearly skies

With faintest rose, and the dawn-beauty fills

The earth with life, you come across the hills

Of gold and ivory where the dawn-wind dies.

O pale you are, and sweet, and in your eyes

The shadow of a dream that daylight kills,

Woven while you lingered by the crystal rills

Between the apple-trees of Paradise.

You gather as you pass with quiet hands

The dawn-white blossoms, ere their beauty
cease :
The frail, pale blossoms that we see unclose

One moment, when our hearts have drawn
the peace

Of twilight round them and the enchanted

Glimmer before us, amethyst and rose.

Ella Young Bio

Ella Young was born in County Antrim. She grew up in Dublin where she studied Law and Political Science at the Royal University. She joined the Theosophy Society and later the Hermetic Society which included W.B. Yeats and Æ [George Russell] among its members. After University Young went to live in the West of Ireland where she studied Irish. In 1906 she published her first volume of poetry entitled Poems and in 1909 her first volume of folk tales The Coming of Lugh which was followed by Celtic Wonder Tales (1910).
Young joined Sinn Féin in 1912 and in 1914, while sharing a flat with Maud Gonne, she became a founder member of Cumann na mBan. Young was active in Cumann na mBan during the Easter Rising and the War of Independence when she smuggled guns for the republicans. Young was opposed to the Anglo-Irish Treaty and fought on the republican side during the Irish Civil War. She was imprisoned by the Free State in Mountjoy Gaol and in the North Dublin Union Internment Camp. On her release Young emigrated to America where she became a lecturer in the University of California. In 1929 Young published a series of short stories based on the Fenian Cycle of Irish mythology entitled The Tangle-Coated Horse. Young published many volumes of short stories for children, the best remembered of which is The Unicorn with Silver Shoes (1932). Her memoirs Flowering Dusk were published in 1945. Young’s poem The Red Sunrise was first published in Red Hand Magazine Vol.1 No.1 September, 1920.

Palya Bea – Transylvania


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