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

Christmas Wishes from an Old Girl

I previously posted this poem sent to me by an old mate "Carolyn" in 2010.  As I have several new readers I am posting it again as a Christmas Greeting to you all.

Merry Christmas To You.

If I were ol' Santa, you know what I'd do
I'd dump silly gifts that are given to you
And deliver some things just inside your front door
Things you have lost, but treasured before.

I'd give you back all your maidenly vigor,
And to go along with it, a neat tiny figure.
Then restore the old colour that once graced your hair
Before rinses and bleaches took residence there.

I'd bring back the shape with which you were gifted
So things now suspended need not be uplifted.
I'd draw in your tummy and smooth down your back
Till you'd be a dream in those tight fitting slacks.

I'd remove all your wrinkles and leave only one chin
So you wouldn't spend hours rubbing grease on your skin.
You'd never have flashes or queer dizzy spells,
And you wouldn't hear noises like ringing of bells.

No sore aching feet and no corns on your toes,
No searching for spectacles when they're right on your nose.
Not a shot would you take in your arm, hip or tummy,
From a doctor who thinks you're a nervous old granny.

You'd never have a headache, so no pills would you take.
And no heating pad needed since your muscles won't ache.
Yes, if I were Santa, you'd never look stupid,
You'd be a cute little chick with the romance of Cupid.

I'd give a lift to your heart when those wolves start to whistle,
And the joys of your heart would be light as a thistle.
But alas! I'm not Santa. I'm just simply me,
The matronliest of matrons you ever did see.

I wish I could tell you all the symptoms I've got,
But I'm due at my doctor's for an oestrogen shot.
Even though we've grown older, this wish is sincere,
Merry Christmas to you and a Happy New Year.

Trove Tuesday - A Flight in Genealogy

It's a genealogy poem that I offer up for my Trove Tuesday post this week.

1927 'A FLIGHT IN GENEALOGY.', Windsor and Richmond Gazette (NSW : 1888 - 1954), 9 December, p. 14, viewed 1 September, 2014, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article85956077

Now We are Six

"Now We Are Six"

When I was one,
I had just begun.
When I was two,
I was nearly new.
When I was three,
I was hardly me.
When I was four,
I was not much more.
When I was five,
I was just alive.
But now I am six,
I'm as clever as clever.
So I think I'll be six
now and forever.

 Author: A.A. Milne

Although I am definitely not "as clever as clever" I immediately thought of this poem from my childhood when I received blogiversary wishes from my Genimates on Facebook and at Geneabloggers this morning.

As I am much older than this blog I certainly realise that I have so much more to learn  I thank you, my readers and friends in cyberspace for following and reading my posts. Your comments on my blogs and the posts you share through your blogs are leading me on the path towards cleverness.

A Pauper's Funeral

I spied this poem about a Pauper's Funeral on a visit to The Florence Nightingale Museum in London earlier this year. BTW it was a great little museum just around the corner from The London Eye and across the bridge from The Houses of Parliament.

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

Lest we forget

For the fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon (1869–1943)

Source :http://www.awm.gov.au/commemoration/customs/poems.asp 

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

Christmas poem for other 'old' girls

Yesterday I received some Christmas Cheer in the form of a poem sent along by an old friend. 

Although it is off topic for this blog I thought that the sentiments expressed in the poem would resonate with many of my readers who I suspect, like me, have a few miles on the clock.  

Thanks, Carolyn, for the poem.

Merry Christmas To You.

If I were ol' Santa, you know what I'd do
I'd dump silly gifts that are given to you
And deliver some things just inside your front door
Things you have lost, but treasured before.

I'd give you back all your maidenly vigor,
And to go along with it, a neat tiny figure.
Then restore the old colour that once graced your hair
Before rinses and bleaches took residence there.

I'd bring back the shape with which you were gifted
So things now suspended need not be uplifted.
I'd draw in your tummy and smooth down your back
Till you'd be a dream in those tight fitting slacks.

I'd remove all your wrinkles and leave only one chin
So you wouldn't spend hours rubbing grease on your skin.
You'd never have flashes or queer dizzy spells,
And you wouldn't hear noises like ringing of bells.

No sore aching feet and no corns on your toes,
No searching for spectacles when they're right on your nose.
Not a shot would you take in your arm, hip or tummy,
From a doctor who thinks you're a nervous old granny.

You'd never have a headache, so no pills would you take.
And no heating pad needed since your muscles won't ache.
Yes, if I were Santa, you'd never look stupid,
You'd be a cute little chick with the romance of Cupid.

I'd give a lift to your heart when those wolves start to whistle,
And the joys of your heart would be light as a thistle.
But alas! I'm not Santa. I'm just simply me,
The matronliest of matrons you ever did see.

I wish I could tell you all the symptoms I've got,
But I'm due at my doctor's for an oestrogen shot.
Even though we've grown older, this wish is sincere,
Merry Christmas to you and a Happy New Year.

Strangers in a box

I found this file on my computer. As I don't know where it came from I cannot provide an attribution.

Strangers in a box

Come, look with me inside this drawer,
In this box I’ve often seen,
At the pictures, black and white,
Faces proud, still, serene.
I wish I knew the people,
These strangers in the box,
There names and all their memories
Are lost among my socks.
I wonder what their lives were like,
How did they spend their days?
What about their special times?
I’ll never know their ways.
If only someone had taken the time
To tell who, what, where or when,
These face of my heritage
Would come to life again.
Could this become the fate
Of the pictures we take today?
The faces and the memories
Someday to be passed away?
Make time to save your stories,
Seize the opportunity when it knocks,
Or someday you and yours could be
The strangers in the box.
Anonymous

As a family historian I wish that I could unravel some of the stories behind the unnamed, undated photos in our family's photo collection.

Dear Ancestor

I found this poem on Cyndy's Genealogy Pages, a TNG site

Dear Ancestor Your tombstone stands among the rest neglected and alone. The name and date are chiselled out on polished, marbeled stone. It reaches out to all who care. It is too late to mourn. You did not know that I exist. You died and I was born. Yet each of us are cells of you in flesh, in blood, in bone. Our heart contracts and beats a pulse entirely not our own. Dear Ancestor, the place you filled one hundred years ago. Spreads out among the ones you left who would have loved you so. I wonder as you lived and loved, I wonder if you knew That someday I would find this spot and come to visit you. Author Unknown

Quandary

I found this poem on an Australian Family Site, Relatively Known, and thought I would share it:

Quandary
Many many years ago
When I was twenty three,
I got married to a widow
Who was 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.

-- Anonymous

Australia Day - January 26th

My ancestors who made the journey from The British Isles to the great southern land in the 19th century probably dreamed, like Dorothea Mackellar, of "field and coppice". We, their ancestors, rejoice in our life in "the sunburnt country" and thank those ancestors for making a treacherous journey by sea to the "wide brown land". We love "the lucky country".

I thank The Wallerawang Branch Library Blog for giving me the idea of posting Mackellar's classic ode to my blog for Australia Day.


My Country By Dorothea Mackellar (1885-1968, written in 1904) The love of field and coppice,Of green and shaded lanes.Of ordered woods and gardensIs running in your veins,Strong love of grey-blue distanceBrown streams and soft dim skiesI know but cannot share it,My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,A land of sweeping plains,Of ragged mountain ranges,Of droughts and flooding rains.I love her far horizons,I love her jewel-sea,Her beauty and her terror -The wide brown land for me!
A stark white ring-barked forestAll tragic to the moon,The sapphire-misted mountains,The hot gold hush of noon.Green tangle of the brushes,Where lithe lianas coil,And orchids deck the tree-topsAnd ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!Her pitiless blue sky,When sick at heart, around us,We see the cattle die -But then the grey clouds gather,And we can bless againThe drumming of an army,The steady, soaking rain.
Core of my heart, my country!Land of the Rainbow Gold,For flood and fire and famine,She pays us back threefold -Over the thirsty paddocks,Watch, after many days,The filmy veil of greennessThat thickens as we gaze. An opal-hearted country,A wilful, lavish land -All you who have not loved her,You will not understand -Though earth holds many splendours,Wherever I may die,I know to what brown countryMy homing thoughts will fly.

Grandmas Apron Poem | Treasure Maps Genealogy

Grandmas Apron Poem | Treasure Maps Genealogy

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Magic Cards for Genealogists

The Magic Card
Aileen Fisher

I have a card that lets me go
to any country that I choose--
to Sweden, Spain, or Mexico--
and doesn't cost a cent to use.
A card? You're talking through your hat!
Where could you get a card like that?
It is a magic kind of pass
that opens up a hundred doors,
like stepping through a looking-glass
to realms of queens and emperors.
A card? I'm curious as a cat.
Where could I get a card like that?
To guess the secret isn't hard ...
Don't keep us both on tenterhooks!
What simple little magic card
will open up the world of books?
A library card!

This was published in "Book Week", Nov. 14-18, 1988, p. 50. Theme: "Wish Upon A Star"

As I was using my Library cards from The National Library of Australia and The State Library of NSW today I remembered this poem from my teaching days a career or two ago.

My two little plastic cards have opened up a world of online books for me today from the comfort of my kitchen table. Using the library's online subscriptions I have searched current and old newspapers for snippets about relatives, found details of family members in Who's Who in Australia and read articles on genealogy in online journals. For the more unusual surnames in my family tree I simply search resources for that name and see what comes up. For those with more common names I do more specific searches coupling surnames with the places where people reside. Using "Tierney" and "Dungog" I have found many articles that mention my gggrandfather, Denis Tierney. I have discovered that he was a member of the rifle club and starter for the local race club as well as being very active in community affairs.

I urge all genealogists to visit the sites of their State and National Libraries and take out a membership that will give them a Magic Card to open up a world of digital resources..

Seasons' Greetings

I send Best Wishes from Australia for the Festive Season to fellow family history sleuths and anyone else who happens upon this blog. On Christmas Day in Sydney we hope to be enjoying mild sunny weather with a temperature of 25-27 c.

Blog posts on Geniaus will be minimal as, at this special time of year, Geniaus will be concentrating on the living members of her family and with them creating family history for future generations.


May some of the items in this poem from Genealogy Humour appear under your tree.



THE TWELVE DAYS OF A GENEALOGY CHRISTMAS

On the Twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love gave to me,
Twelve census searches,
Eleven Printer ribbons,
Ten e-mail contacts,
Nine headstone rubbings,
Eight birth and death dates,
Seven town clerks sighing,
Six second cousins,
Five coats of arms,
Four GEDCOM files,
Three old wills,
Two CD-ROMS
And a branch in my family tree.