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Have you ever heard the story of how Ireland got it's name?

I'll tell you, so you'll understand from where old Ireland came.

No wonder that we're proud of that dear land across the sea,

For here's the way me dear old mother told the tale to me.

Shure, a little bit of Heaven fell from out of the sky one day,

And nestled on the ocean in a spot so far away;

And when the Angels found it,

Shure it looked so sweet and fair.

They said, "Suppose we leave it, for it looks so peaceful there."

So they sprinkled it with star dust just to make the shamrocks grow;

'Tis the only place you'll find them no matter where you go;

Then they dotted it with silver to make it's lakes so grand,

And when they had if finished, shure they called it Ireland.

'Tis a dear old land of fairies and of wondrous wishing wells;

And nowhere else on God's green earth have they such lakes and dells!

No wonder that the Angles loved it's shamrock bordered shore.

'Tis a little bit of Heaven and I love it more and more.



BATTLE OF KINSALE, Christmas 1601 (County Cork)

But, in spite of the pleas of the Palesmen, Mountjoy refused to budge from Kinsale, and eventually O'Neill and O'Donnell had to march their armies from Ulster down almost the full length of Ireland, across hundreds of miles of mud and bog in the middle of November. The long march was celebrated by the poet Aubrey De Vere : -


O'er many a river bridged with ice,

O'er many a vale with snow-drifts dumb,

Past quaking fen and precipice

The princes of the North are come.

Lo! those are they who year by year

Roll'd back the tide of England's war;

Rejoice Kinsale, thy help is near,

That wondrous winter march is o'er.



by MacLeag

where, Kincora! is Brian the Great?
And where is the beauty that 
once was thine?
Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate
the feasts in thy halls, and drank the red wine,
  Where, O Kincora?

where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords?
Oh, whither, thou Hospitable! 
are they gone?
Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the Golden Swords?
where are the warriors Brian led on?
  Where, O Kincora?

where is Murrough, the descendant of kings=97
The defeater of a 
hundred=97the daringly brave=97
Who set but slight store by jewels 
and rings=97
Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave?
 Where, O Kincora?

And where is Donogh, King Brian=92s worthy 
And where is Conaing, the Beautiful Chief?
And Kian, and 
Core? Alas! they are gone=97
They have left me this night alone 
with my grief!
  Left me, Kincora!

And where are the chiefs 
with whom Brian went forth,
The ne=92er-vanquished son of Evin 
the Brave,
The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,
the hosts of Baskinn, from the western wave?
  Where, O Kincora?

where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds?
And where is Kian, 
who was son of Molloy?
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of 
whose deeds
In the red battlefield no time can destroy?
O Kincora?

And where is that youth of majestic height,
The faith-keeping 
Prince of the Scots?=97Even he,
As wide as his fame was, as great 
as was his might,
Was tributary, O Kincora, to thee!
  Thee, O 

They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,
Who plundered 
no churches, and broke no trust,
Tis weary for me to be living 
on earth
When they, O Kincora, lie low in the dust!
  Low, O Kincora!

never again will Princes appear,
To rival the Dalcassians of the 
Cleaving Swords!
I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,
the east or the west, such heroes and lords!
  Never, O Kincora!

dear are the images my memory calls up
Of Brian Boru!=97how he 
never would miss
To give me at the banquet the first bright cup!
why did he heap on me honor like this?
  Why, O Kincora?

I am 
MacLiag, and my home is on the Lake;
Thither often, to that palace 
whose beauty is fled,
Came Brian to ask me, and I went for his 
Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead
O Kincora!