ok Bob, it seems you can post a picture via a web url link. what I did was find a pic that i wanted to post from online.... then I pasted it.. highlighted it and then selected the Img button.


hope that helps you in the future!!!

:cool: :cool: :cool: :cool: :cool:

By request

All for Me Blog a parody of All for Me Grog by me

And its All for me Blog me jolly jolly Blog
all for MySpace and Livejournal
well I spend all me time always typing online
Across the Cyberseas I will wonder

Where is me Mac me Noggin noggin mac
so I can type my online journal
well the mouse is worn out
the keyboards kicked about
and the monitor is out for major repair

And its All for me Blog me jolly jolly Blog
all for MySpace and Livejournal
well I spend all me time always typing online
Across the Cyberseas I will wonder

Where is MySpace My noggin noggin space
where the people they read my journal
so my friends can read aloud
what I've typed in I am proud
and then I'll repost it on Livejournal

And its All for me Blog me jolly jolly Blog
all for MySpace and Livejournal
well I spend all me time always typing online
Across the Cyberseas I will wonder

Where is me life, me social social life
It's all gone so I can post a journal
my friends they don't call me
for I haven't bathed you see
but I think that I'll post about it tomorrow

And its All for me Blog me jolly jolly Blog
all for MySpace and Livejournal
well I spend all me time always typing online
Across the Cyberseas I will wonder

hope you get a good laugh

:D

that was great!!!!!!

The Uglier Foot

There was a tailor in Ballyvourney a long time ago. He had very big ankles, and the nickname the people had on him was “Tadhg of the Ankles” . At that time, tradesmen traveled from house to house, and the people used to gather in for sport and fun with them.
One night Tadhg was sewing away, sitting on the table, and he had one of his legs stretched out from him. The woman of the house was sitting at the head of the table, between Tadhg and the fire. She noticed Tadhg’s big ankle.
“Upon my conscience, that’s an ugly foot,” said she. One or two people laughed at this.
“Upon my conscience,” said Tadhg, “there’s a still uglier foot than it in the house.”
The woman of the house must have had badly shaped feet herself, and she thought that Tadhg was hinting at her.
“There isn’t an uglier foot than it in the whole world, “ said she
“Would you lay a bet on that?” asked Tadhg “I would said she. “I’ll bet you a quart of whiskey that there’s an uglier foot than it is in this house,” said Tadhg. “ I’ll take that bet,” said the woman.
At that, Tadhg pulled his other foot from under him. “Now ,” said he, “which is the uglier, the first foot or the second one?” “Upon my word, the second is a lot uglier,” said the woman. “Very well,” said Tadhg. “Send out for a quart of whiskey for me.” “I will, indeed,” said the woman.

I love it when you make me laugh!!!

I love it when you make me laugh!!!

ok, this is a longer one.. but that's ok!!!

Jack - O - Lantern

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a man named Jack.

Jack was a handsome man, big and strong, equal in prowess both in battle and in bed. He had many friends, and many a young lass pined after him.

It so happened once, when Jack was in the midst of a battle, laying low the foes of his tribe, that he suddenly saw a wondrous vision. A woman, beautiful beyond his wildest dreams, dark of hair and eye, and with skin as pale as virgin snow, riding a flaming chariot, spear in hand, and a raven on each shoulder.

As the chariot drew close, the woman spoke to Jack.

"Come with me," she said, "for I love Thee, and would have Thee with me for all time."

But Jack was frightened, for he recognized the woman for what She was. "I don't want to go with Thee," he answered in a shaking voice, "I know Thee - Thou art the Morrighan, the Chooser of the Slain, and I am not ready to die."

Bright sparked the eyes of the Goddess in pride and anger, and She wheeled her chariot and was gone from Jack's vision.

But as he stood there, frozen in awe, an enemy warrior struck him a great sword blow across the face. Jack did not die from his wound, but his face was forever ruined, and the lasses that pined after him before, now ran from him in fear. And so Jack did not marry.

Time passed. Jack learned the art of a harper, and became known across the land for his beautiful melodies, for though he could not sing, his hands were skilled and gentle on the strings, and his lilting tunes brought both joy and sadness to the heart.

It so happened once, that when Jack was travelling, he stopped at an Inn on the crossroads. He was served his dinner by a beautiful middle-aged woman, full of figure, with dark, all-knowing eyes, and raven tresses braided in a crown around her pale face.

When Jack got into his wagon, and was ready to travel on, this same woman, wearing a dark cloak, stepped from the shadow of a nearest tree.

"Do not travel further, Jack," she said in a husky voice, "Come with me instead, for I love Thee, and I would have Thee with me for all time."

But Jack was frightened, for he recognized the woman for what She was. "I don't want to go with Thee," he answered in a shaking voice, "I know Thee - Thou art the Morrighan, the Fantom Queen, and I am not ready to die."

Bright sparked the eyes of the Goddess in pride and anger, and She whirled around, her dark cloak flaring around her like the wing of a raven, and disappeared into the shadow.

Jack continued on, but not half a mile along the road his horses spooked and ran wild, his wagon overturned, and he was gravely wounded when he fell out and was caught under the wheel. He did not die, but he lost his arm, and could play his harp no more after that.

Time passed. Though Jack was never again a warrior or a harper, his family, his kin, cared kindly for him. But everyone grows old, and in time, his brothers got old, and his sisters got old, and the younger generation no longer cared for him as well as his own siblings.

It so happened once, that right after his last brother's death, Jack was crossing a small river at a ford. It was late Autumn, and he paused on the bank to take off his shoes and socks, and roll up his breaches before wading into the almost-freezing water. Then, when he looked up again, he noticed something strange. Where the bank he was on was still red and gold with Autumn leaves, the other bank was white with snow, which lay in a thick blanket, as if it had been there for weeks. Amidst the snows, behind the dark shapes of old, gnarled trees, he saw a village, half-hidden in the mist. Warm, golden light shined from the windows of the houses that seemed familiar and welcoming to him. In front of one the houses he thought he saw his dead brother wave and fade into the gathering gloom. He also noticed an old woman on the other side, crouched by the water, and covered in dark, shapeless rags. She seemed to be washing something in the river, and her arms were red up to the elbows, and where she touched the water, the river ran red as blood. To his horror, Jack noticed that what she was washing looked very much like his own best embroidered tunic that he was wearing for his brother's funeral. The old woman looked up, and her face was as white as snow and deeply lined, with grey wisps of hair framing it like a halo, and deeply sunken black eyes that seemed like the pits of the night.

"Cross the river, and come to me, Jack," she said in a harsh, raspy voice, "for I love Thee, and I would have Thee with me for all time."

But Jack was frightened, for he recognized the woman for what She was. "I don't want to go with Thee," he answered in a shaking voice, "I know Thee - Thou art the Morrigan, the Hag, the Washer at the Ford, and I am not ready to die."

Suddenly, where before there was an old woman, The Great Queen stood in all Her Otherworldly majesty, the dark rags magically transforming into the dark wings of a raven.

"Thou art a fool, Jack!" She raged, as her black tresses flew wildly around Her face, and her eyes flamed like stars at midnight. "Thrice thy time came, and thrice I offered thee my love, for I had chosen thee as a wife would choose a husband. Thou could have been a young warrior at my side. Thou could have woven songs of splendor at my feast. Thou could have lived with me in peace and with thy family about thee. And thrice you rejected me out of fear. Now I reject thee. Never more shall I come to thee. Never more shall I call to thee. But by my curse thou shalt live for as long as this candle burns."

She reached across the river - it seemed easy now, for She was more then human - and placed a candle on the ground at Jack's feet. Then she was gone, snow and the misty village disappearing with Her, leaving nothing but an Autumn forest behind.

At first, Jack was terrified. The candle was small - surely it would burn down and die within minutes, and Jack along with it. But as minutes passed, he felt great relief, for not a drop of wax rolled down the side of the candle, and it did not seem to be burning down at all.

Carefully guarding the flame of the candle, Jack went home.

Time passed. Year after year, rolling in unending cycles. Everyone whom Jack had known as a young man had long since passed away. No one was left who even knew who he was, and in his small village he was just treated as a crazy old man, a burden on everyone, and a helper to none, for while he lived on and on, he also got older and older, and weaker and weaker, and even his mind started giving out after awhile. After a very long time, all he knew was that he had to keep his candle burning, lest he die.

His house fell into ruin, his field went untended, and all that would grow there were some turnips that his neighbors planted for him out of kindness. One night, a lightening bolt struck his house, and it burned down. Jack then took one of the turnips from his field, carved it into a lantern, and put his candle there, so that it would be protected from the rain.

He left his village and started wondering about with his lantern, looking and calling to friends and family long gone. His body grew older and older, until even his flesh disappeared, leaving only a spirit without physical substance. He hardly even noticed, for even as a spirit he still could not pass to the Other World, wondering this one with his lantern, a sad and lonely ghost, forever cursed from his fate by his fear.

And that is why turnip lanterns - now pumpkin lanterns - are called Jack-o-lanterns, and that is why we light them on Samhain - to remember Jack and his great fear, and to light the way for all the lost souls wondering about in the darkness looking for the passage to the Otherworld.

I hope you enjoyed!!

Very Good!!!!!

I have news for you; the stag bells, winder snows, summer has gone.
Wind high and cold, the sun low, short its course, the sea running high.
Deep red the bracken, its shape is lost; the wild goose has raised its accustomed cry.
Cold has seized the bird’s wings; season of ice, this is my news.

that was lovely!

The Golden Screw


Once upon a time, a young lad was born without a belly button. In its place was a golden screw. All the doctors told his mother that there was nothing they could do. Like it or not, he was stuck with it.

All the years of growing up was real tough on him, as all who saw the screw made fun of him. He avoided ever leaving his house and thus, never made any friends.

One day, a mysterious stranger saw his belly and told him of a swami in Tibet that could get rid of the screw for him. He was thrilled. The next day he took all of his life's savings and bought a ticket to Nepal.

After several days of climbing up steep cliffs, he came upon a giant monastery. The swami knew exactly why he had come. He was told to sleep in the highest tower of the monastery and the following day when he awoke, the screw would have been removed.

The man immediately went to the room and fell asleep. During the night while he slept, a purple fog floated in an open window, bearing in its mist, a golden screwdriver. In just moments, the screw-driver removed the screw and disappeared out the window.

The next morning when the boy woke, he saw the golden screw laying on the pillow next to him. Reaching down, he felt his navel, and there was no screw there!

Jubilant, he leaped out of bed, and his butt fell off.

The moral to this is "don't screw around with things you don't understand -- you could lose your @ss".

Author unknown

ok, Time for another seasonal story:

The Yule Faeries - A Winter Solstice Story

(author unknown)

A group of little Faeries huddled in their home deep under the roots of a giant oak tree. They were safe and snug in their tiny underground cave lined with dandelion fluff, bird feathers, and dried moss.

Outside, the wind blew cold and the snow fell softly down to cover the ground. "I saw the Sun King today," the faerie named Rose said as she pulled her mossy cloak tighter about her. "He looked so old and tired as
he walked off through the forest. What is wrong with him? The great oak said he's dying" answered Daffodil. Dying? Oh, what will we do now?" Little Meadow Grass started to cry "If the sun King dies, our little plant friends will not grow. The Birds will not come and sing again.Everything will be winter for ever!" Lilac, Dandelion and Elder Blossom tried to comfort their friend, but they were all very sad. As
they huddled together, there was a knock on the tiny door.

"Open up, Faeries," called out a loud voice. "Why are you hiding instead of joining us in our Solstice celebration?" Rose opened the door and the little gnome Brown Knobby pushed inside, shaking the glistening snowflakes off his brown coat and hat.

"We are too sad to celebrate," Daffodil said wiping her eyes, "the Sun King is dying, haven't you heard?"

"He is dead you silly Faeries." Brown Knobby's round dark eyes sparkled with laughter. "now hurry, or we'll be late for the celebration!"

"How can you be happy and laughing?!" Elder Blossom stamped her little foot and frowned at the gnome. "If the Sun King IS dead, it will be winter always. We will never see the Sun again!"

"Silly little child-Faeries." Brown Knobby grabbed Dandelion by the hand and pulled her to her feet. "There is a secret to the Winter Solstice. Don't you want to know what it is?"

The Faeries looked at him in surprise. "Secret?" they all said. "What secret? We are only new little Faeries, you silly gnome. We've never been to a Solstice celebration before."

"Come and see. Come and see. Get your capes and come with me." Brown Knobby danced and jigged around the room. "Hurry, Hurry, don't be slow! To the sacred oak grove through the snow!"

He danced out of the door and disappeared.

"What did that gnome mean?" Rose asked as she gathered up her cloak of dried rose petals held together with cobwebs and lined with goose down.

"I don't know, but the Lady lives in the sacred grove." Meadow Grass pulled on her hat.

"Perhaps if we go to see the Goddess, She can explain what Brown Knobby was talking about".

The Faeries left their snug little home and trudged off through the snow toward the sacred oak grove. The forest was dark with only the light of the Moon shining down through the thick fir branches and bare limbs of maple and hawthorn. It was very difficult for them to get through the snow because they were very, very small. As they waded through the wet snow and shivered in the cold wind, they met a fox.

"Where are you going, Faeries?" the fox asked.

"To the sacred grove," they answered, they were cold and shivering.

"Climb on my back and I will take you there swiftly."

The fox knelt down so the Faeries could climb up. Then he raced off through the dark.

"Listen!" Lilac said as they neared the grove of sacred trees. "Someone is singing happy songs. A LOT of someones."

The beautiful music carried over the cold, still, moonlit air. It was the most beautiful music the Faeries had ever heard. The fox carried the Faeries right to the edge of the stone altar in the center of the grove,
then knelt down.

"Look!" said Elder Blossom as they slid to the snow covered ground. "There is the Maiden and the Mother and the OLD Wise One, And many other Little People."

"They are all smiling and happy," said Lilac as she looked around at all the creatures.

"All the animals are here too," whispered Dandelion. "why are they all looking at the Mother?"

The Faeries moved closer to the three Ladies seated on the altar stone. The Mother held a bundle close in Her arms, smiling down at it. The Maiden reached down and took the Faeries gently in her Hands. She held them close to the Mother so they could see what She held.

"A Baby!" the Faeries cried. " A new little Baby! Look how he glows!"

"He is the newborn Sun King," said the Maiden smiling.

"But Brown Knobby and the old oak tree said the Sun King was dead," the Faeries answered her. "How can this little baby be the Sun King?"

"That is the secret of the Winter Solstice." The Old Wise One touched the baby's cheek with her wrinkled hand. "Every year the Sun King must come to the sacred grove during the darkest days of winter where he dies. I take his spirit to the Mother who gives him new life again. This is the way for

all creatures, not just the Sun King."

" You mean everything lives and dies and lives again? the Faeries looked down in wonder at the baby Sun King, nestled in the arms of the Mother.

" Yes Little Ones," answered the Old Wise One. "There is never an end to life. This is the great mystical secret of the Winter Solstice."

The Faeries laughed because they were so happy.

"I think the little Sun King should have gifts," said Rose. "I will show him where the wild roses bloom in the early summer."

"And, I will teach him to call the birds and listen to the songs of the wind," exclaimed Dandelion.

"When he is older and stronger, " said the Mother, "then the flowers will bloom at his touch, the birds will return to sing their songs, and the air will be warm from his breath, and winter will be gone for a time. Then the Sun King will run and play with you in the forest."

The little Faeries sang to the Baby Sun King, songs of the coming spring, the sweet smelling flowers, the bumbling bees, and all the secrets of the forest. And all the creatures within the sacred grove sang with them. Then the fox took them back to their snug home under the roots of the giant oak tree where they dreamed wonderful dreams, waiting for the warmth of spring and the fun they would have with the little Sun King.

If it snowed on Christmas Eve, Irish children were told that geese were being plucked in heaven. A new moon was a lucky omen. And cold, frosty weather was welcome, because this meant a mild spring and an absence of illness. On the other hand, mild weather on Christmas Eve was cause for concern because, according to the old Irish proverb, "A green Christmas makes a fat churchyard."

Regardless of the weather on the day before or on the day itself, the weeks preceding Christmas were spent in great preparation.

In the old days, the menfolk would be responsible for cleaning everything outside of the house and the women everything else inside of it. All of the structures would receive a fresh coat of whitewash, and linens, furniture, pots and pans would be washed, scoured, scrubbed or polished until they were spotless. It was up to the children to scout the countryside for appropriate decorations to be cut and brought home on Christmas Eve. Holly was especially prized because of its bright red berries and so were long tendrils of ivy and boughs of laurel which could be made into garlands. Mistletoe was rare in Ireland, but a child lucky enough to live near Limerick or in South Co. Wicklow, might have been able to add this ancient symbol of good fortune and fertility to the gathering of the greens.

Long ago, and also in the house in which I was raised, 'bringing home the Christmas' was a day filled with excitement. In times past, several members of a family would go to the nearest town for the Margadh Mor or Christmas Market. People from the country brought butter, eggs, poultry, vegetables and other farm produce to sell, and from the money they made, they purchased special, once-a-year items such as candy and toys for the children, new clothing, and ingredients for the Christmas dinner. In addition to selling their wares, this was also the day they brought gifts to relatives and friends who lived in the town. These were reciprocated in kind with gifts of 'town goods' and children lucky enough to accompany their parents were rewarded with coins slipped into their hands or pockets. The shopkeepers were also filled with generosity; they gave 'Christmas boxes' to their customers, each gift proportionate to the business they'd received that year. And in the pubs, all was merry and bright. Since then, many of the old customs have faded into antiquity, but I do remember my brothers and I eagerly waiting for dad on the day he was to bring home the Christmas.

Sure enough, and even though, as mum said, "he'd had a few on him," he arrived just before our bedtime. Even our mother had a look of eager anticipation on her face as he opened the big sack. There was always a large slab of bacon - that was to go with the goose for Christmas dinner ; there were Kit Kat bars for us to eat immediately; a big turnip he'd carve out later for the Christ candle; sprigs of holly, a bunch of mistletoe, and, best of all, a box of Christmas crackers; these weren't edibles - they were bright foil-wrapped slender cylinders which we pulled during our Christmas dinner. There'd be this loud pop and inside would be a toy and a paper hat.

Oh, what a luxury! We didn't always have crackers*, but when we did, it was a great sign of good times. And every year, no matter what, there was always something wrapped up for our mother. As much as we begged and badgered, she'd always smile and say, "I think I'll save this one for later on." Dad would get this silly look on his face and it was just like the kissy-face part at the Saturday morning picture show.

Nowadays, especially in cities like Dublin, Christmas has become almost as commercial and glittery as just about anywhere else. But in the past, it was beautifully simple. The greenery was placed on the mantle, the holly was positioned above the holy pictures and children were put to "work" making chains out of brightly colored paper; these were strung across the ceiling. Not until relatively recently did Irish families put up a Christmas tree; even at that, the ones I remember were no more than two or three feet tall and the only decorations were foil- wrapped chocolate ornaments, paper chains, and something we used to call "lametta" which was similar to American icicles. The tree was always placed in the middle of the sideboard, and, unless Father Christmas left something really big, the gifts were placed on either side. As I recall, we didn't have a manger scene at home, but we did look forward to visiting the big one at our church on Christmas morning. It was always put up on Christmas Eve, but the only things in it were the animals and a crib or creche filled with straw. Magically, on Christmas Day, the baby Jesus was in His crib, Mary and Joseph were on either side of Him, and shepherds with their sheep looked on in adoration.

As with most Irish families, my parents made every effort to have a plentiful supply of fuel for the holiday season. During the 1950s in London, we had coal fires, but in Ireland they burned peat, and in the old days, they'd have a special log for the fire called a bloc na Nollag or Christmas log. It was also customary to provide for poorer neighbors and villagers would pool their resources to make sure everyone had enough food and a warm fire. One tradition that was widespread years ago was the mutton raffle; enough people would contribute to cover the cost of a sheep and then, for several evenings, they would play cards until, by process of elimination, a winner was declared. Generally, the winner would share the prize with family, friends, neighbors and the poor. "Calling the Waites" was also a well-known custom and took place two weeks before Christmas. Musicians would serenade the inhabitants of a town several hours before day-break, calling out, in intervals, the time of the morning and whether the weather was cold, wet, frosty or clear. A similar practice was that of young men and boys going to the tops of small hills, blowing salutes to the season and answering each other from hill to hill. On the morning of Christmas Day, they'd awaken the people with loud salutes and then would often accompany villagers on their way to early Mass, still blowing cheerfully but also helping the elderly and small children over any rough spots in the road.

Back then, the Christmas season in Ireland was filled with mirth, merriment and good will toward men. Much has changed over the years. But, while new customs are replacing the old, (as in eating turkey for dinner and watching Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory on the telly afterwards), an Irish Christmas is still very similar to the old days, with most families staying at home to enjoy the festivities. Since we didn't have television until I was almost a teenager, I well remember my mother tuning in Radio Eireann so we could listen to Irish music and my dad contentedly sipping a Guinness, his feet tapping in time to a jig or reel. I also recall that for tea, mum served Christmas cake - and that reminded me of the following song which I recently found again on one of my Irish forums. In my mind I can still hear my dad singing it or...is that just wishful thinking on my part? In any event, here are the lyrics:

MISS FOGARTY'S CHRISTMAS CAKE

As I sat in my window last evening,
The letterman brought it to me
A little gilt-edged invitation sayin'
"Gilhooley come over to tea"
I knew that the Fogarties sent it.
So I went just for old friendships sake.
The first think they gave me to tackle
Was a slice of Miss Fogarty's cake.

cho: There were plums and prunes and cherries,
There were citrons and raisins and cinnamon, too
There was nutmeg, cloves and berries
And a crust that was nailed on with glue
There were caraway seeds in abundance
Such that work up a fine stomach ache
That could kill a man twice after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty's Christmas cake.

Miss Mulligan wanted to try it,
But really it wasn't no use
For we worked in it over an hour
And we couldn't get none of it loose
Till Murphy came in with a hatchet
And Kelly came in with a saw
That cake was enough be the powers above
For to paralyze any man's jaws

Miss Fogarty proud as a peacock,
Kept smiling and blinking away
Till she flipped over Flanagans brogans
And she spilt the homebrew in her tay
Aye Gilhooley she says you're not eatin,
Try a little bit more for me sake
And no Miss Fogarty says I,
For I've had quite enough of your cake.

Maloney was took with the colic,
O'Donald's a pain in his head
Mc'Naughton lay down on the sofa,
And he swore that he wished he was dead
Miss Bailey went into hysterics
And there she did wriggle and shake
And everyone swore they were poisoned
Just from eating Miss Fogarty's cake!

Resources: The Year in Ireland by Kevin Danaher; song lyrics found for us by Suzy Q on Virtual Ireland (they are everywhere now).

Well I don't often get to do this as I have more songs that need lyrics than I have lyrics written. I started going through a chord progression tonght and was liking the direction it was taking so I started improvising some words and came up with a pretty neat concept. This song is a continuation of The Star of the County Down in a way. We after all never do find out if the fellow marries her or is in reality stalking her.

well read the lyrics and tell me what ya think

The Nut Brown Rose
Music and Lyrics by Matt Hughes

The Clouds are drifting across the moon
It's late at night in Ireland I hope she'll be here soon
For my lady's drifting across the land
It's been long years since I've seen her on the Banks of the Bann

Chorus
Brown are her eyes and brown is her hair
soft is her skin and a smile so fair
I left her many years ago does she remember me
On my knees I will ask her, would you please marry me?

My heart is racing will she come to me
The letter I sent proclaimed my love I hope that she is free
For the years divided what once was strong
I had to leave for Amerikay in my heart it did seem wrong

Chorus

My lady's walking into the glade
My heart sings when I see her as she steps from the shade
My love she's crying as she runs to me
I've missed you so all these long years your bride I will be

despite convention in Irish songs I went for a happy ending.

The Story-Teller at Fault
At the time when the Tuatha De Dannan held the sovereignty of Ireland, there reigned in Leinster a king, who was remarkably fond of hearing stories. Like the other princes and chieftains of the island, he had a favourite story-teller, who held a large estate from his Majesty, on condition of telling him a new story every night of his life, before he went to sleep. Many indeed were the stories he knew, so that he had already reached a good old age without failing even for a single night in his task; and such was the skill he displayed that whatever cares of state or other annoyances might prey upon the monarch's mind, his story-teller was sure to send him to sleep.

One morning the story-teller arose early, and as his custom was, strolled out into his garden turning over in his mind incidents which he might weave into a story for the king at night. But this morning he found himself quite at fault; after pacing his whole demesne, he returned to his house without being able to think of anything new or strange. He found no difficulty in "there was once a king who had three sons" or "one day the king of all Ireland," but further than that he could not get. At length he went in to breakfast, and found his wife much perplexed at his delay.

"Why don't you come to breakfast, my dear?" said she.

"I have no mind to eat anything," replied the story-teller; "long as I have been in the service of the king of Leinster, I never sat down to breakfast without having a new story ready for the evening, but this morning my mind is quite shut up, and I don't know what to do. I might as well lie down and die at once. I'll be disgraced for ever this evening, when the king calls for his story-teller."

Just at this moment the lady looked out of the window.

"Do you see that black thing at the end of the field?" said she.

"I do," replied her husband.

They drew nigh, and saw a miserable looking old man lying on the ground with a wooden leg placed beside him.

"Who are you, my good man?" asked the story-teller.

"Oh, then, 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a poor, old, lame, decrepit, miserable creature, sitting down here to rest awhile."

"An' what are you doing with that box and dice I see in your hand?"

"I am waiting here to see if any one will play a game with me," replied the beggar man.

"Play with you! Why what has a poor old man like you to play for?"

"I have one hundred pieces of gold in this leathern purse," replied the old man.

"You may as well play with him," said the story-teller's wife; "and perhaps you'll have something to tell the king in the evening."

A smooth stone was placed between them, and upon it they cast their throws.

It was but a little while and the story-teller lost every penny of his money.

"Much good may it do you, friend," said he. "What better hap could I look for, fool that I am!"

"Will you play again?" asked the old man.

"Don't be talking, man: you have all my money."

"Haven't you chariot and horses and hounds?"

"Well, what of them!"

"I'll stake all the money I have against thine."

"Nonsense, man! Do you think for all the money in Ireland, I'd run the risk of seeing my lady tramp home on foot?"

"Maybe you'd win," said the bocough.

"Maybe I wouldn't," said the story-teller.

"Play with him, husband," said his wife. "I don't mind walking, if you do, love."

"I never refused you before," said the story-teller, "and I won't do so now."

Down he sat again, and in one throw lost houses, hounds, and chariot.

"Will you play again?" asked the beggar.

"Are you making game of me, man; what else have I to stake?"

"I'll stake all my winnings against your wife," said the old man.

The story-teller turned away in silence, but his wife stopped him.

"Accept his offer," said she. "This is the third time, and who knows what luck you may have? You'll surely win now."

They played again, and the story-teller lost. No sooner had he done so, than to his sorrow and surprise, his wife went and sat down near the ugly old beggar.

"Is that the way you're leaving me?" said the story-teller.

"Sure I was won," said she. "You would not cheat the poor man, would you?"

"Have you any more to stake?" asked the old man.

"You know very well I have not," replied the story-teller.

"I'll stake the whole now, wife and all, against your own self," said the old man.

Again they played, and again the story-teller lost.

"Well! here I am, and what do you want with me?"

"I'll soon let you know," said the old man, and he took from his pocket a long cord and a wand.

"Now," said he to the story-teller, "what kind of animal would you rather be, a deer, a fox, or a hare? You have your choice now, but you may not have it later."

To make a long story short, the story-teller made his choice of a hare; the old man threw the cord round him, struck him with the wand, and lo! a long-eared, frisking hare was skipping and jumping on the green.

But it wasn't for long; who but his wife called the hounds, and set them on him. The hare fled, the dogs followed. Round the field ran a high wall, so that run as he might, he couldn't get out, and mightily diverted were beggar and lady to see him twist and double.

In vain did he take refuge with his wife, she kicked him back again to the hounds, until at length the beggar stopped the hounds, and with a stroke of the wand, panting and breathless, the story-teller stood before them again.

"And how did you like the sport?" said the beggar.

"It might be sport to others," replied the story-teller looking at his wife, "for my part I could well put up with the loss of it."

"Would it be asking too much," he went on to the beggar, "to know who you are at all, or where you come from, or why you take a pleasure in plaguing a poor old man like me?"

"Oh!" replied the stranger, "I'm an odd kind of good-for-little fellow, one day poor, another day rich, but if you wish to know more about me or my habits, come with me and perhaps I may show you more than you would make out if you went alone."

"I'm not my own master to go or stay," said the story-teller, with a sigh.

The stranger put one hand into his wallet and drew out of it before their eyes a well-looking middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as follows:

"By all you heard and saw since I put you into my wallet, take charge of this lady and of the carriage and horses, and have them ready for me whenever I want them."

Scarcely had he said these words when all vanished, and the story- teller found himself at the Foxes' Ford, near the castle of Red Hugh O'Donnell. He could see all but none could see him.

O'Donnell was in his hall, and heaviness of flesh and weariness of spirit were upon him.

"Go out," said he to his doorkeeper, "and see who or what may be coming."

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank, grey beggarman; half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a green wand of holly.

"Save you, O'Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman.

"And you likewise," said O'Donnell. "Whence come you, and what is your craft?"

"I come from the outmost stream of earth, From the glens where the white swans glide, A night in Islay, a night in Man, A night on the cold hillside."

"It's the great traveller you are," said O'Donnell.

"Maybe you've learnt something on the road."

"I am a juggler," said the lank grey beggarman, "and for five pieces of silver you shall see a trick of mine."

"You shall have them," said O'Donnell; and the lank grey beggarman took three small straws and placed them in his hand.

"The middle one," said he, "I'll blow away; the other two I'll leave."

"Thou canst not do it," said one and all.

But the lank grey beggarman put a finger on either outside straw and, whiff, away he blew the middle one.

"'Tis a good trick," said O'Donnell; and he paid him his five pieces of silver.

"For half the money," said one of the chief's lads, "I'll do the same trick."

"Take him at his word, O'Donnell."

The lad put the three straws on his hand, and a finger on either outside straw and he blew; and what happened but that the fist was blown away with the straw.

"Thou art sore, and thou wilt be sorer," said O'Donnell.

"Six more pieces, O'Donnell, and I'll do another trick for thee," said the lank grey beggarman.

"Six shalt thou have."

"Seest thou my two ears! One I'll move but not t'other."

"'Tis easy to see them, they're big enough, but thou canst never move one ear and not the two together."

The lank grey beggarman put his hand to his ear, and he gave it a pull.

O'Donnell laughed and paid him the six pieces.

"Call that a trick," said the fistless lad, "any one can do that," and so saying, he put up his hand, pulled his ear, and what happened was that he pulled away ear and head.

"Sore thou art; and sorer thou'lt be," said O'Donnell.

"Well, O'Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman, "strange are the tricks I've shown thee, but I'll show thee a stranger one yet for the same money."

"Thou hast my word for it," said O'Donnell.

With that the lank grey beggarman took a bag from under his armpit, and from out the bag a ball of silk, and he unwound the ball and he flung it slantwise up into the clear blue heavens, and it became a ladder; then he took a hare and placed it upon the thread, and up it ran; again he took out a red-eared hound, and it swiftly ran up after the hare.

"Now," said the lank grey beggarman; "has any one a mind to run after the dog and on the course?"

"I will," said a lad of O'Donnell's.

"Up with you then," said the juggler; "but I warn you if you let my hare be killed I'll cut off your head when you come down."

The lad ran up the thread and all three soon disappeared. After looking up for a long time, the lank grey beggarman said: "I'm afraid the hound is eating the hare, and that our friend has fallen asleep."

Saying this he began to wind the thread, and down came the lad fast asleep; and down came the red-eared hound and in his mouth the last morsel of the hare.

He struck the lad a stroke with the edge of his sword, and so cast his head off. As for the hound, if he used it no worse, he used it no better.

"It's little I'm pleased, and sore I'm angered," said O'Donnell, "that a hound and a lad should be killed at my court."

"Five pieces of silver twice over for each of them," said the juggler, "and their heads shall be on them as before."

"Thou shalt get that," said O'Donnell.

Five pieces, and again five were paid him, and lo! the lad had his head and the hound his. And though they lived to the uttermost end of time, the hound would never touch a hare again, and the lad took good care to keep his eyes open.

Scarcely had the lank grey beggarman done this when he vanished from out their sight, and no one present could say if he had flown through the air or if the earth had swallowed him up.

He moved as wave tumbling o'er wave As whirlwind following whirlwind, As a furious wintry blast, So swiftly, sprucely, cheerily, Right proudly, And no stop made Until he came To the court of Leinster's King, He gave a cheery light leap O'er top of turret, Of court and city Of Leinster's King.

Heavy was the flesh and weary the spirit of Leinster's king. 'Twas the hour he was wont to hear a story, but send he might right and left, not a jot of tidings about the story-teller could he get.

"Go to the door," said he to his doorkeeper, "and see if a soul is in sight who may tell me something about my story-teller."

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank grey beggarman, half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two old shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a three-stringed harp.

"What canst thou do?" said the doorkeeper.

"I can play," said the lank grey beggarman.

"Never fear," added he to the story-teller, "thou shalt see all, and not a man shall see thee."

When the king heard a harper was outside, he bade him in.

"It is I that have the best harpers in the five-fifths of Ireland," said he, and he signed them to play. They did so, and if they played, the lank grey beggarman listened.

"Heardst thou ever the like?" said the king.

"Did you ever, O king, hear a cat purring over a bowl of broth, or the buzzing of beetles in the twilight, or a shrill tongued old woman scolding your head off?"

"That I have often," said the king.

"More melodious to me," said the lank grey beggarman, "were the worst of these sounds than the sweetest harping of thy harpers."

When the harpers heard this, they drew their swords and rushed at him, but instead of striking him, their blows fell on each other, and soon not a man but was cracking his neighbour's skull and getting his own cracked in turn.

When the king saw this, he thought it hard the harpers weren't content with murdering their music, but must needs murder each other.

"Hang the fellow who began it all," said he; "and if I can't have a story, let me have peace."

Up came the guards, seized the lank grey beggarman, marched him to the gallows and hanged him high and dry. Back they marched to the hall, and who should they see but the lank grey beggarman seated on a bench with his mouth to a flagon of ale.

"Never welcome you in," cried the captain of the guard, "didn't we hang you this minute, and what brings you here?"

"Is it me myself, you mean?"

"Who else?" said the captain.

"May your hand turn into a pig's foot with you when you think of tying the rope; why should you speak of hanging me?"

Back they scurried to the gallows, and there hung the king's favourite brother.

Back they hurried to the king who had fallen fast asleep.

"Please your Majesty," said the captain, "we hanged that strolling vagabond, but here he is back again as well as ever."

"Hang him again," said the king, and off he went to sleep once more.

They did as they were told, but what happened was that they found the king's chief harper hanging where the lank grey beggarman should have been.

The captain of the guard was sorely puzzled.

"Are you wishful to hang me a third time?" said the lank grey beggarman.

"Go where you will," said the captain, "and as fast as you please if you'll only go far enough. It's trouble enough you've given us already."

"Now you're reasonable," said the beggarman; "and since you've given up trying to hang a stranger because he finds fault with your music, I don't mind telling you that if you go back to the gallows you'll find your friends sitting on the sward none the worse for what has happened."

As he said these words he vanished; and the story-teller found himself on the spot where they first met, and where his wife still was with the carriage and horses.

"Now," said the lank grey beggarman, "I'll torment you no longer. There's your carriage and your horses, and your money and your wife; do what you please with them."

"For my carriage and my houses and my hounds," said the story- teller, "I thank you; but my wife and my money you may keep."

"No," said the other. "I want neither, and as for your wife, don't think ill of her for what she did, she couldn't help it."

"Not help it! Not help kicking me into the mouth of my own hounds! Not help casting me off for the sake of a beggarly old--"

"I'm not as beggarly or as old as ye think. I am Angus of the Bruff; many a good turn you've done me with the King of Leinster. This morning my magic told me the difficulty you were in, and I made up my mind to get you out of it. As for your wife there, the power that changed your body changed her mind. Forget and forgive as man and wife should do, and now you have a story for the King of Leinster when he calls for one;" and with that he disappeared.

It's true enough he now had a story fit for a king. From first to last he told all that had befallen him; so long and loud laughed the king that he couldn't go to sleep at all. And he told the story- teller never to trouble for fresh stories, but every night as long as be lived he listened again and he laughed afresh at the tale of the lank grey beggarman.

Bravo!!! Another well enjoyed tale!!!!

May Day
A landmark day as the first day of Summer. It was a gale day when land tenancy began or ended or when a half-year's rent was due. It was a day for change and marketing of ones skills by taking a tool symbolic of one's occupation to the fair. The cattle sheltered in the Winter and Spring were taken to the Summer pastures or: "Buaile".The fields scheduled for harvesting were carefully protected and cleared of stones. Turf cutting begins.

May day is a day for the housewife to demonstrate her skill at making the food last over the Winter and Spring. A formal meal was made with the good food which was left.

May Day was also a day for watching the weather which will help predict the end of frost and success for the summer months. One should not dig whitewash or bathe or sail on May Day.

Summer was welcomed in many ways: A May bush ws set up,flowers (especially yellow ones) were gathered into small bouquets which were hung up in the house-these must be picked before dawn of May Day. Horses bridles were also decorated with flowers. Generally flowers were tied to everything-cows, churns etc... as protective elements. In some areas branches of newly leafed trees were collected. The Sycamore being a favorite "May bough" in Cork. While the flowers were beautiful the main reason for their cutting and distribution was to ward off evil and bring good. The May Bush was extremely important in this regard in many parts. It was set up by the family on May Eve in front of the house door and was decorated carefuly with flowers and the colored egg shells carefully saved since Easter. Ribbons were also aded together with bits of candles. These candles were lit and a dance was held in honor of the Blessed Virgin Maryat dusk at May day eve.Children going door to door would chant:

"Long life and a pretty wife, and a candle for the May bush"

-of course they were looking for money as well!

Bonfires were also lit and sports competitions lead to the worst fighting of the year. May bushes became in some areas May poles. Stealing the bushes also was a source of great fighting and led to some famous rhymes:

"We'll wallab a mosey down Meadstreet in tune
Ri rigdi ri ri dum dee,
And not leave a weaver alive on de Combe
Buyt rip up his tripe-bag, and burn his loom!
Ri rigidi dum dee!"

The custom of young newly married couples giving new and decorated hurling balls:"May Balls" to the young men of the town also lead to great festivities and often violence as drink money was also given out with the balls.

Of many charms and omens for May Day the collection of May dew was the most well known. This was carefully decanted and collected to use as a medicine and for beauty. The man who washed his hands in the May dew would be good with knots and nets. There are many things you should not do on May day one of which is to pick up anything left in the roadway.

Very cool Bob :)

Well I know I mentioned this song I wrote a ways back about the Deal with Grim

I finally got around to typing it tonight

so here it is

A Deal with Grim, by Matt Hughes

Paddy McCall is at the bar he’s been drinking all night
He stumbles home and on the way he sees a terrible sight
For in front of him Grim Death appears all in his pitch black cloak
Death checks his list and there he sees that this is the bloke
Death says ahh you’re the one I want, you’re the one I came to see
You’re on me list to die this night so please come follow me

Ahh Grim Death our dear paddy says I’m not the one you seek
I’ve a wife at home and family that surely rely on me
If you don’t mind I’m heading home my wife is waiting there
I stayed at the pub too long tonight and haven’t a minute to spare
Well Grim Death he smiles and laughs and says that’s not the way it works
Your time is up young Irishman my duty I will not shirk

Dear death I have heard it said this is not always the case
That at times in the past it has been said you have given up the chase
A challenge I make to you this night a fair one I think
Tho drunk I am I say to you I’ll beat you at the drink
Grim Death laughs at him and says “I’ll tell you of my plan”
I’ve never lost a contest yet, you’re on young Irishman

So it’s back to the pub they go and there they start the test
They are drinking one by one and giving it their best
Pint after pint and shot after shot such drinking I’ve never seen
Deep into the night they go they’re drinking amounts obscene
Til Paddy says unto Death let’s have one more cask
Death rolls his eyes and passes out, he wasn’t up to the task

At last Grim Death awakes and sees that he has lost
He says unto Paddy McCall tomorrow I’ll pay the cost
You’ve won your life I’ve lost the best you are now free to go
So go on home to your wife and tell her of our show
Oh hell he says to your man I completely forgot
Me wife is home waiting there If I’m lucky I won’t be shot

So he heads home to his wife wondering what tale to tell
He decides to tell the truth of how he almost went to hell
He gets home and tells his tale to his incredulous wife
She says to him don’t tell me lies don’t make up this strife
You’re on the couch tonight me boy you’ve continued your streak
Just come late one more time and you’ll be there for a week

hee hee. so, is the next verse where he comes and begs death to take him???

New song

Thanks to Bob for providing the name!

The Yarnspinner, Words and Music by Matt Hughes

A Man walked into the town the folk they gathered round
He says a strong thirst I have I’ve traveled up and down
So take me into your pub and I will tell you tales
Of days gone by, times to come and what’s beyond the veil

Pre-Chorus
With a Stove Pipe hat a ragged beard a strange man he did appear
I’ve been long days on the road through wind and rain I’ve made it here

Chorus
I’ll tell you tales and histories of your native home
Then it’s back to the road wherever I may roam

Verse 2
The Yarnspinner then sits down and he tells a tale
The folk they sit quietly and fall under his spell
Awakening of images seen within their minds
A True master of his craft he takes them back in time

Pre-Chorus, Chorus

Verse 3
He ends his tale they all wake as if from a dream
They look around in wander at the sights that they have seen
They stand and applaud and raise a mighty cheer
He then says sit my friends I’ll tell another tale

Pre-Chorus, Chorus

Verse 4
A young man approaches and says I am your man
I’d like to learn of your craft and travel cross the land
Well young man I say to you do you have the gift?
To stir the minds and the blood their hearts to uplift?

You like?