A television item presented by John Keenan inspired this poem,
He was a former Beirut hostage. It tells the true and tragic story of a group of
Native Irishmen who were facing starvation during the Potato famine of
The 1840s.
BLOWINGS
Derelict church which once was busy,
Where babies were baptised and people died,
And people sang, despite their sorrow
Because they knew not they would eat tomorrow.
But this is not today in war struck desperation,
Although don’t they need us still?
This is far nearer home
The only distance is time.
People came from all around to Louisburgh,
Just another Ireland town.
But no relief was given them
Despite there need against the Tatty rot.
Go that way they were told,
11 miles along the snow track
To Delphi Lodge,
To seek assistance from the great commissioners.
So they set off along the famine road,
They knew they would not all arrive.
Their only company was the babbling brook
And the bird that always sees all.
Along by Croagh Patrick, a pilgrim mountain
Where now the potato ridges, like the ribs
Of a dinosaur, lay still against the ground,
A failed field with a failed folk.
At the foot of this holy mountain
Is the Black Lake, this was the resting-place for many who tried the walk.
But were these the lucky ones, and were they happy to die
To at last be free from hurt and pain.
At Delphi Lodge rich and grand,
Where now the fat salmon swims,
They hammered hard upon the door-
This upset the folk within.
Help us; Help us, they shouted to the commissioners within,
Whothem selves were tired after having roast with all the trim,
Go way they were told in no uncertain terms
Go back where you came from, and we won’t tell you again.
But there is nowhere for us, they said, there is nowhere to go
Will you not just do what we ask, and sign the chit below?
It’s just to say what you must know; you can see it in our face
We're just poor paupers and need to be thus placed.
But all their cry’s for help they made, fell upon deaf ears.
So some did go and some did stay,
And were found where they fell,
Next day.
When the royal commissioners left for Louisburgh
The next day, when all was bright and well,
They had to pick their way along the road
Between the rot and hell.
The tragedy of Doolough ended here, where the ground was frozen hard,
They had to dig upon the beach to put the people where they now belong.
When their toils were over and the burying was done,
The mass famine grave that they had made was higher than the sun.
All that glisten now upon that beach so stark,
Is the white and fear-full sight that’s left of bones.
The only sound that dares to speak, is the skylark on high
And tells us of our wrong.
As for tombstones none were raised, it just could not be done
But what there is, is a yellow flower
Shinning bright
A little candle of memory.
And yes, there were survivors, who fled to distant lands.
But when they conveyed there miserable tail
To the savages they found,
These Indians could not bear to here, and just would not believe.
How a nation could forget it’s own and let it’s starving die,
This Chocor tribe sold all they had, and sent back all they could.
One hundred and seventy dollars they sent to help the needy poor.
How much more was this in compassion, help, indeed
Than all the poor law guardians that could not rise from their dinning table,
And sign the chitty declaring the Irish poor.
Oh what irony it must be
When savages have got
More sympathy,Than the civilised with their Christianity.
copyright
Ian Trenor
Walk with me
