We'll all be rooned!

For my 2021 St Patrick's Day post I am thinking about my Irish Catholic ancestors who lived in the Australian bush and sharing a poem by John O'Brien.  John O'Brien was the pseudonym for Catholic priest, Patrick Joseph Hartigan.

O'Brien's poems have a special meaning for me as my Grandmother, Mary Tierney, gave me when I was quite young a book of O'Brien's poems, Around the Boree Log, that she had owned. I treasure this book today as I have fond memories of reading these poems with Nanna Curry. I especially loved performing the poem I have chosen for today as I enjoyed putting emphasis on the  word "rooned" that is repeated throughout.

For people living in the bush as my Irish ancestors did the social aspect of Sunday Mass was most important. It gave them a chance to talk about the effects of Australia's harsh elements on their farming activities. I can imagine my ancestors gathered on Sundays in Dungog, Cobar, Cowra, Canowindra, Burraga and Bathurst taking part in conversations similar to those related in this poem.

You can hear a recitation of the poem, Said Hanrahan, from a recording on Youtube

The poem was first published in The Catholic Press (Sydney, NSW : 1895 - 1942), 31 July, p. 19. which is available here on Trove: http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article106072280. It was republished throughout the 1920s in many Australian newspapers and was published in O'Brien's collection Around the Boree Log in 1921. 

Following are all 21 verses of the poem.

SAID HANRAHAN by John O'Brien

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
  One frosty Sunday morn.


The congregation stood about,
  Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
  As it had done for years.


"It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke;
  "Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
  Has seasons been so bad."


"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,
  With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
  And chewed a piece of bark.


And so around the chorus ran
  "It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "Before the year is out."


"The crops are done; ye'll have your work
  To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke
  They're singin' out for rain.


"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
  "And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head,
  And gazed around the sky.


"There won't be grass, in any case,
  Enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place
  As I came down to Mass."


"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
  And cleared his throat to speak -
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "If rain don't come this week."


A heavy silence seemed to steal
  On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
  And chewed a piece of bark.


"We want an inch of rain, we do,"
  O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two
  To put the danger past.


"If we don't get three inches, man,
  Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "Before the year is out."


In God's good time down came the rain;
  And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
  It drummed a homely tune.


And through the night it pattered still,
  And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
  Kept talking to themselves.


It pelted, pelted all day long,
  A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
  Way out to Back-o'-Bourke.


And every creek a banker ran,
  And dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "If this rain doesn't stop."


And stop it did, in God's good time;
  And spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime
  Of green and pink and gold.


And days went by on dancing feet,
  With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
  Nid-nodding o'er the fence.


And, oh, the smiles on every face,
  As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place
  Went riding down to Mass.


While round the church in clothes genteel
  Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
  And chewed his piece of bark.


"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
  There will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "Before the year is out."

From Around the Boree Log and Other Verses, 1921

Trove Tuesday - Family History

Found while I was lost in Trove.

1899 'FAMILY HISTORY.', The Mercury (Hobart, Tas. : 1860 - 1954), 29 March, p. 2. (The Mercury Supplement), viewed 10 Mar 2019, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article9444617

Where have all the Bloggers gone?

In the light of the recent posts on the demise of Geneablogging I am reposting one of my posts from 2015.

Of the Geneabloggers in the photo all but two are still blogging in 2017.

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Where have all the Bloggers gone?

The number of blog posts that appear in my RSS feed each week has been slowly diminishing.  Some of my geneablogging mates have disappeared from the scene and some are blogging less frequently. I miss you all and hope that you'll return to blogging real soon.

Some Geneablogging Mates 2012

Apologies to Peter, Paul and Mary  for the following:

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Lost in cyberspace, everyone?
Oh, we miss our blogging friends?
Oh, when will you ever blog?

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Researching, every hour?
Oh, we miss our blogging friends?
Oh, when will you ever blog?

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Lost in archives, everywhere?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn? 

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Gone to graveyards, everyone?
Oh, when will they ever blog?
Oh, when will they ever blog? 

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
We miss you, everyone.
Oh, we miss our blogging friends?
Oh, when will you ever blog?

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Please come back, everyone.
Oh, we miss our blogging friends?
Oh, when will you ever blog?

Trove Tuesday - Not what I expected!

I thought I'd visit Trove to see what I could find out something about the street on which I live. I expected articles about potholes, maintenance and perhaps some history. If you read to the bottom of this post you'll see how I was surprised.

I discovered that our road was opened in 1895  and there were great celebrations in the local area.

"Hornsby-Galston Road.

THE OPENING FESTIVITIES.

Saturday last was a gala day at Galston, the well-known prolific fruit-growing centre, situated about six miles from Hornsby, the occasion being the opening, of a new road between the two places by the Minister for Works. Mr. Young left the Redfem Railway Station at 9 a.m., and was joined at Hornsby by Messrs. Garrard (Minister for Education and Industry), and Mr. E. M. Clarke, M.L.A. The members of the local progress committee, con- sisting of Messrs. A. Higgins, W. Higgins, T. Salmon, Geo. Higgins, J. Fitzgerald, and M. Haydon, seized the opportunity to interview the Minister with respect to local requirements, notably the imperative necessity for an overway bridge across the main and North Shore railway lines, some-what nearer the railway station than the one at present in existence, and the removal of a large quantity of decaying rubbish that had been shot close to the engine shed. The Minister for Railways having promised to bring both matters under the notice of the commis- sioners, the party adjourned to the local hotel for refreshments prior to leaving over the new road to Galston.

The road winds along through pretty scenery rising to a height of 400 feet, which is the highest point, and from whence a splendid view of the hill and dale, with the Blue Mountains as an imposing background, is to be obtained. On arrival at Berowra Creek, near the end of the new road, luncheon was par- taken of Mr. H. Hudson occupied the chair, and among other residents of the district were Messrs. B. Crossland, C.Lovely, J. W. Wilkins, and J. Ungler. 

After the usual loyal toasts were disposed of the chairman proposed the health of the Ministry and Parliament, and ex- pressed his conviction that the present Government were doing their best to ad-vance the interests of the colony, and that the Parliament was as honest a one as they could have. The Minister for Works, in re- plying to the toast, said the Government had perfect faith in the future of the colony, and regretted the pes-simistic views of public affairs that were taken by a large number of people. If they had confidence in themselves and in their resources, they would soon belanded on the high road to prosperity. The Government as freetraders recognisedthe duty of helping the producers to get their goods to market, to promote easytransit, to lessen the cost of living and bring the markets of the world within as easy reach as possible of the producers. The opening of that road was a step in that direction, and it would prove an advantage and a convenience to a dis trict which, he understood, contained some of the finest soil in the country. TheMinister for Education having also briefly returned thanks, Mr. G. M. Clark replied on behalf of the Parliament. Prosperity to the district was proposed by Mr. D. Davis and responded to by Messrs. Ungher, Hutchinson, and A. Higgins, and the healths of Mr. W. Smith, divisional engineer, and Mr. Hope (the officers whosuperintended the construction of the road), the press, and the chairman were also honored. 

The party, after inspecting several orchards in the vicinity, returned to town by way of Parramatta. The cost of the road was £4800, and in its construc-tion 40,000 cubic yards of rock were excavated, the work being partly by the " butty gang" system, and partly by con- tract at a cost of 4½d to 7d per cubic yard. The work has been very substantially executed, and includes numerous retaining walls, small bridges, and culverts. The distance saved to the fruitgrowers in getting their produce to the railway is about fourteen miles, and that shouldmake a considerable difference in their profits."

1895 'Hornsby-Galston Road.', Evening News (Sydney, NSW : 1869 - 1931), 4 March, p. 7, viewed 23 October, 2015, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article108074916

The first post that appeared in my results list was not at all what I expected. It was a poem about Galston Road. Today vehicles on the road can be noisy but if one wanders away from the road one can experience the natural delights described in these verses. I enjoy this environment each day and as I sit at my desk I can hear the magpies and  see those "tall dreaming gums against the sky"

1919 'GALSTON ROAD.', Sydney Mail (NSW : 1912 - 1938), 29 January, p. 28, viewed 23 October, 2015, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article159657390

A further search of Trove for Gladys Pattison returned a healthy list of links to poems published in various newspapers between 1918 and 1928.

Trees along Galston Road

Where have all the Bloggers gone?

The number of blog posts that appear in my RSS feed each week has been slowly diminishing.  Some of my geneablogging mates have disappeared from the scene and some are blogging less frequently. I miss you all and hope that you'll return to blogging real soon.

Some Geneablogging Mates 2012

Apologies to Peter, Paul and Mary  for the following:

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Lost in cyberspace, everyone?
Oh, we miss our blogging friends?
Oh, when will you ever blog?

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Researching, every hour?
Oh, we miss our blogging friends?
Oh, when will you ever blog?

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Lost in archives, everywhere?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn? 

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Gone to graveyards, everyone?
Oh, when will they ever blog?
Oh, when will they ever blog? 

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
We miss you, everyone.
Oh, we miss our blogging friends?
Oh, when will you ever blog?

Where have all the bloggers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the bloggers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Please come back, everyone.
Oh, we miss our blogging friends?
Oh, when will you ever blog?

Trove Tuesday - Family History

For my post this week I am sharing a short poem titled "Family History" from 1899.

1899 'FAMILY HISTORY.', The Mercury (Hobart, Tas. : 1860 - 1954), 29 March, p. 2 Supplement: The Mercury Supplement, viewed 26 October, 2015, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article9444617

Reminiscing - New Shoes

A little rhyme from my childhood just came into my head.

New shoes, new shoes,
Red and pink and blue shoes,
Tell me which would you choose
If they let us buy.

And why, you ask, was I thinking about shoe selection today?

Because a little two year old lady in my life had her wish for a pair of sparkly shoes granted.

I put some of those words into Google to see if I could find the poem online and I discovered that I only knew the first verse of the poem by Frida Wolfe that I found at http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/doc/629/354.html

"Choosing Shoes"

by Frida Wolfe

New shoes, new shoes,
Red and pink and blue shoes.
Tell me, what would you choose,
If they'd let us buy?

Buckle shoes, bow shoes,
Pretty pointy-toe shoes,
Strappy, cappy low shoes;
Let's have some to try.

Bright shoes, white shoes,
Dandy-dance-by-night shoes,
Perhaps-a-little-tight shoes,
Like some? So would I.

BUT
Flat shoes, fat shoes,
Stump-along-like-that shoes,
Wipe-them-on-the-mat shoes,
That's the sort they'll buy.

Third Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge

Bill West has challenged genealogists from all around the world to:

1. Find a poem by a local poet, famous or obscure, from the region
one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a
legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local
animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written!
Or if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video
of someone performing the song.

2. Post the poem or song to your blog (remembering to cite the source
where you found it.)

3.Tell us how the subject of the poem or song relates to your ancestor's
home or life.


I immediately thought of the great Australian ballad writers Henry Lawson and Banjo Patterson for this challenge but thinking about my Irish catholic ancestors who lived in the bush I elected to share a poem by  John O'Brien.  John O'Brien was the pseudonym for Catholic priest, Patrick Joseph Hartigan.


O'Brien's poems have a special meaning for me as my Grandmother, Mary Tierney, gave me a book of his poems that she owned when I was quite young. I treasure this book today. I have fond memories of reading these poems with her. I especially loved performing the poem I have chosen as I loved putting emphasis on the  word "rooned" that is repeated throughout it.

For people living in the bush as my Irish ancestors did the social aspect of Sunday Mass was most important. It gave them a chance to talk about the effects of Australia's harsh elements on their farming activities. I can imagine my ancestors gathered on Sundays in Dungog, Cobar, Cowra and Canowindra taking part in conversations similar to that related in this poem.

SAID HANRAHAN by John O'Brien

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
  One frosty Sunday morn.


The congregation stood about,
  Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
  As it had done for years.


"It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke;
  "Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
  Has seasons been so bad."


"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,
  With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
  And chewed a piece of bark.


And so around the chorus ran
  "It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "Before the year is out."


"The crops are done; ye'll have your work
  To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke
  They're singin' out for rain.


"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
  "And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head,
  And gazed around the sky.


"There won't be grass, in any case,
  Enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place
  As I came down to Mass."


"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
  And cleared his throat to speak -
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "If rain don't come this week."


A heavy silence seemed to steal
  On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
  And chewed a piece of bark.


"We want an inch of rain, we do,"
  O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two
  To put the danger past.


"If we don't get three inches, man,
  Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "Before the year is out."


In God's good time down came the rain;
  And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
  It drummed a homely tune.


And through the night it pattered still,
  And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
  Kept talking to themselves.


It pelted, pelted all day long,
  A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
  Way out to Back-o'-Bourke.


And every creek a banker ran,
  And dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "If this rain doesn't stop."


And stop it did, in God's good time;
  And spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime
  Of green and pink and gold.


And days went by on dancing feet,
  With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
  Nid-nodding o'er the fence.


And, oh, the smiles on every face,
  As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place
  Went riding down to Mass.


While round the church in clothes genteel
  Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
  And chewed his piece of bark.


"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
  There will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
  "Before the year is out."

From Around the Boree Log and Other Verses, 1921

I Read by Richard Peck

As well as reading lots of genealogy blogs I read many from other fields of endeavour. On his Blue Skunk blog Doug Johnson shared this poem in a post today. I met Doug on his Australian tour a few years ago and follow his blog as a way of keeping in touch.

The poem touched a chord with me and I just had to share it.

I Read by Richard Peck
I read because one
 life isn’t enough, and 
in the pages of a book I can be anybody;I read because the 
words that build 
the story become mine, 
to build my life;
I read not for happy
 endings but for new
 beginnings; I’m just
 beginning myself, and 
I wouldn’t mind a map;

I read because I have
 friends who don’t, and
 young though they are,
 they’re beginning to
 run out of material;

I read because every
 journey begins at 
the library, and it’s
 time for me to start 
packing;

I read because one
 of these days I’m going
 to get out of this
 town, and I’m going to
 go everywhere and meet
 everyone, and I want
 to be ready.”

–Richard Peck, author
, Zihuatanejo, Mexico, 
1990

A bit of a fizzer - World Poetry Day 21st March - Genealogy Poetry

In my earlier post I asked genealogists to share a poem for World Poetry Day, 21 March and to let me know where it is so that I can compile a list of links.

Sadly fellow genealogists did not share my enthusiasm for World Poetry Day. I am most grateful to my virtual pals Shelley and Liz who supplied poems... I appreciate your ongoing support for my efforts. Thanks too to the person at State Records who wrote a delightful haiku.

If any other contributions come in I will add them to this post and Tweet aboout it.


Geniaus' Haiku can be found at http://geniaus.blogspot.com/2011/03/post-genealogy-poem-for-world-poetry.html



Geniaus alter-ego, Genimates, has posted A Prayer for Genealogists at http://genimates.blogspot.com/2011/03/world-poetry-day.html




State Records NSW has, in a Twitter post, shared a Haiku with an archival flavour:

An historic find, 
Treasure! All covered in dust 
Makes Archivist sneeze
 


Shelley from TwigsofYore has posted her new poem on her blog

Liz Pidgeon - known as @infolass and @genielass on Twitter emailed her contribution to me:

I Am My Own Grandpa

by Moe Jaffe and Dwight Latham

Many, many years ago

when I was twenty-three,

I got married to a widow

who was a pretty as could be.

This widow had a grown-up daughter

who had hair of red.

My father fell in love with her,

and soon the two were wed.

This made my dad my son-in-law

and changed my very life.

My daughter was my mother,

for she was my father's wife.

To complicate the matters worse,

although it brought me joy,

I soon became the father

of a bouncing baby boy.

My little baby then became

a brother-in-law to dad.

And so became my uncle,

though it made me very sad.

For if he was my uncle,

then that also made him brother

To the widow's grown up daughter who,

of course, was my step-mother

Father's wife then had a son,

who kept them on the run.

And he became my grandson,

for he was my daughter's son.

My wife is now my mother's mother

and it makes me blue,

Because, although she is my wife,

she is my grandma too.

If my wife is my grandmother,

then I am her grandchild

And every time I think of it,

it simply drives me wild.

For now I have become

the strangest case you ever saw,

As the husband of my grandmother,

I am my own grandpa!

There are some nice genealogy poems here
http://www.ancestryprinting.com/poems.html

Regards, Liz Pidgeon