Monday, February 12, 2007

Jill Finds...

Irish Visual Art:





Song about a specific place:
Mountains of Mourne
Oh Molly this London's a beautiful sightwhere the people are workin' by day and by night
They don't sow potatoes nor barley nor wheatbut there's gangs of them diggin' for gold in the street
At least when I asked them that's what I was toldso I took up my hand at this diggin' for goldbut for all that I found there I might as well bewhere the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea
I believe that when writing one wish you'd expressedas to how the fine ladies of London are dressed
well if you believe me when asked to the ballfaith, they don't wear no tops to their dresses at all
Oh, I've seen it myself and I tell you in truthI can't tell if they're bound for a ball or a bathdon't go startin' those fashions now
Molly Machreewhere the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea
You remember young Peter O'Laughlin of coursewell now he is here at the head of the force
I saw him one day I was crossing the strandand he stopped the whole street with one wave of his hand
And there we stood talking of days long gonewhile the whole population of London looked on
But for all his great power he's wishin' like meto be back where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea
I saw England’s King from the top of a busstill I don’t know him still he claims to know usand though by the
Saxon’s we once were oppressedstill I cheered God forgive me I cheered with the restand since that he’s visited Erin’s green shorewe’ve been much better friends than we’ve been heretofore
when we get what we want we’re as quiet as can bewhere the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea
There are beautiful girls here-Oh, never you mind
With beautiful shapes nature never designed
And lovely complexions all roses and creambut O'Laughlin remarked with regard to the same
That if at those roses you venture to sipthe colours might all come away on your lip
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
Recipe- Irish Stew:

2 1/2 lb boned mutton
4 large potatoes
2 large onions
3 or 4 medium carrotssprig of parsley
2 cups watersalt and pepper
(serves four)
Cut the meat into good size chunks. Peel the vegetables and slice thickly. Chop the parsley. Choose a pot with a well-fitting lid and put in the ingredients in layers, starting and finishing with potatoes. Pour in the water and season to taste. Cover and put on a very low heat for about 2 1/2 hours until the meat is tender and the potatoes have thickened the liquid. The dish may also be made with lamb, in which case it requires only 1 1/2 hours cooking time.
Irish Song with English Translation:
Planxty Fanny Power (Mrs. Trench) (Bean an Trinsigh)
Is mian liom labhairt ar óig-mhaol shuairc.
Is uaisle geanúla gnaol agus cáil,
Do bhios insa mbaile tá ag cuan Loch Riabhach
Táim buioch nar casadh mé laimh léi.
Is aerach is tréitheach an mhaighdean bhreá scafánta
Grá chroí na héireann an péarla deas galanta
ïOlaidh go tréan is ná déanaigi failli,
Faoi thuairim Fainí nion Dáibhi.
Siúd í an eala tá ag taobh a' chuain
Na sluaite fear dul in éag dá grá
'S í Faini deas geanúll na ndlaoi is na ndual
Fuar bua go minic le haille.
Nár fhága mé an saol ó go mbi mé go ceannasach
A' damhsa go h'aerach is mé ar do bhainis sé
Fógraim an té sin a d'iarrfadh aon spré leat,
A phéarla leanbh na mbán ghlac.
English Translation:
I wish to speak of a gracious young lady,
A loveable lady of beauty and reputation,
Who lives in the town near the bay of Loch Riabhach.
I'm thankful that I had the chance to meet her.
She's lively, airy, - a cultured fine maiden,
The love of all Ireland and a nice cultured pearl.
O drink up now and don't be slack!
To Fanny, the daughter of David.
She is the swan at the edge of the bay,
Crowds of men are dying for her love.
She's nice gentle Fanny of locks and braids,
Who often gets the prize for beauty.
May I not leave this world, if I may be so bold,
Unless I can first cheerfully dance at your wedding feast.
I challenge the one who would ever ask a dowry for you,
O Pearl-Child of white hands

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