Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Bantry Girls Lament



Oh, who will plough the fields now
And who will sow the corn
And who will watch the sheep now
And keep them from all harm
And the stack that's in the haggard
Unthreshed it may remain
Since Johnny, lovely Johnny
Went to fight the king of Spain

Oh, the girls of the Banóg
In sorrow may retire
And the piper and his bellows
May go home and blow the fire
Since Johnny, lovely Johnny
Went sailing o'er the main
Along with other patriots
To fight the king of Spain

The boys will sorely miss him
When Moneymore comes round
And grieve that their bould captain
Is nowhere to be found
And the peelers must stand idle
Against their will and grain
Since the valiant boy who gave them work
Now peels the king of Spain

At wakes and hurling matches
Your likes we'll never see
'Till you come back again to us
Mo storeen óg mo chroi
And won't you trounce the buckeens
Who show us much disdain
Because our eyes are not as bright
As those you meet in Spain

Oh, if cruel fate should not permit
Our Johnny to return
His awful loss we Bantry girls
Will never cease to mourn
We'll resign ourselves to our sad lot
And die in grief and pain
Since Johnny died for Ireland's pride
In the sunny land of Spain

Monday, May 30, 2011

Remembering Grandpa Jack Maxwell







My Maternal Grandfather, John Jay Maxwell
Sargent Major Army Hospital Corps
March 3, 1894 - 1945

Also Remembering today...



Trygve Norman Tveter my Maternal Grandfather

Also remembering today Ronald Clyde Tveter who served in the Korean War, Thomas Norman Tveter who served in the Green Berets (Vietnam), Pi Ornellas who served in Vietnam (Navy), George M. Boyle (Navy), Trygve Norman Tveter who served in WW1 nnd WW2, and John (Jack) Jay Maxwell was a Sargent Major in the Army's Hospital Corps.

Remembering Darrell Ingram Maxwell Today




Darrell was lost while serving in the US Navy
in the South Pacific
in W.W.2

Darrell Ingram Maxwell born in Farrell PA 1922.
He was an ENS in the U.S Navy reserve. He was killed Dec 10, 1944 at Invasion of Leyte.


Today we remember as it is Memorial Day



Memorial Day is a United States federal holiday observed on the last Monday of May. Formerly known as Decoration Day, which was first recorded to have been observed by Freedmen (freed enslaved southern blacks) in Charleston, South Carolina in 1865, at the Washington Race Course, to remember the fallen Union soldiers of the Civil War.



Today, what is now known as Memorial Day, commemorates all U.S. Service Members who died while in military service. The recognition of the fallen was then enacted under the name Memorial Day by an organization of Union veterans — the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) — to honor Union soldiers of the American Civil War. Over time, it was extended after World War I to honor all Americans who have died in all wars.



Begun as a ritual of remembrance and reconciliation after the Civil War, by the early 20th century, Memorial Day was an occasion for more general expressions of memory, as ordinary people visited the graves of their deceased relatives, whether they had served in the military or not. It also became a long weekend increasingly devoted to shopping, family get-togethers, fireworks, trips to the beach, and national media events such as the Indianapolis 500 auto race, held since 1911 on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

The Lily Of The Valley


Sweetest of the flowers a-blooming
In the fragrant vernal days
Is the Lily of the Valley
With its soft, retiring ways.

Well, you chose this humble blossom
As the nurse’s emblem flower,
Who grows more like her ideal
Every day and every hour.

Like the Lily of the Valley
In her honesty and worth,
Ah, she blooms in truth and virtue
In the quiet nooks of earth.

Tho’ she stands erect in honor
When the heart of mankind bleeds,
Still she hides her own deserving
In the beauty of her deeds.

In the silence of the darkness
Where no eye may see and know,
There her footsteps shod with mercy,
And fleet kindness come and go.

Not amid the sounds of plaudits,
Nor before the garish day,
Does she shed her soul’s sweet perfume,
Does she take her gentle way.

But alike her ideal flower,
With its honey-laden breath,
Still her heart blooms forth its beauty
In the valley shades of death.

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Iris by William Carlos Williams



Iris
by William Carlos Williams

a burst of iris so that
come down for
breakfast

we searched through the
rooms for
that

sweetest odor and at
first could not
find its

source then a blue as
of the sea
struck

startling us from among
those trumpeting
petals

The Gard'ner Wi' His Paidle



When rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green, spreading bowers;
Then busy, busy are his hours,
The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

The chrystal waters gently fa';
The merry birds are lovers a';
The scented breezes round him blaw
The Gardener wi' his paidle.

When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare;
Then thro' the dews he maun repair,
The Gardener wi' his paidle.

When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws of Nature's rest;
He flies to her arms he lo'es the best,
The Gardener wi' his paidle.

By Robert Burns

Friday, May 27, 2011

A Favorite Flower of Mine is the Iris




Iris is a genus of 260 species of flowering plants with showy flowers. It takes its name from the Greek word for a rainbow, referring to the wide variety of flower colors found among the many species. As well as being the scientific name, iris is also very widely used as a common name for all Iris species, though some plants called thus belong to other closely related genera. A common name for some species is 'flags', while the plants of the subgenus Scorpiris are widely known as 'junos', particularly in horticulture. It is a popular garden flower. Bearded Iris are tall, elegant additions to the flower garden. You can help cut down on the incidence of soft rot and borer damage through regular division of the iris rhizomes every 2-3 years. This will also keep bearded iris performing and blooming at its best. If left undivided, the flowering will decrease and the rhizome will be subject to more pests and damage.

You can divide bearded iris anytime after flowering through August. Using a pitch fork, carefully dig around the bearded iris plant, starting about a foot away from the outer most edge. Try not to pierce the rhizome with the fork. Work the fork around the bearded iris plant and gently lift the rhizomes out of the soil. Since bearded iris are grown at soil level, this is one of the easiest plants to lift





Bearded iris, Iris germanica, is a hardy, long-lived perennial that require a minimum of maintenance. The flowers have six petals; three upright petals (called standards) and three hanging petals (called falls). A fuzzy line or beard runs down the middle of each fall. Flowers come in many colors including blue, pink, purple, reddish, white, yellow, and bi-colors. Most bearded iris flower in the spring (April to June depending on cultivar), but some of the new cultivars re-flower in the summer and fall. The second flower display is not as showy as the spring display but last into the fall. Many re-blooming iris are fragrant.





Bearded irises are classified into several types: miniature dwarf (height 8 inch or less, 1 to 2 inch diameter flowers), standard dwarf (height 8 to 15 inches), intermediate (height 16 to 27 inches), miniature tall (height 16 to 25 inches, small flowers), border (height 16 to 27 inches), and tall (height 28 to 38 inches). The shorter iris flower first, followed by the intermediate, and then the taller irise

Jack in the Garden

Monday, May 23, 2011

Peace

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d


1
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

2
O powerful western fallen star!
O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

3
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.

4
In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat,
Death’s outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,
If thou wast not granted to sing thou would’st surely die.)

5
Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,
Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

6
Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil’d women standing,
With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,
With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,
With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang,
Here, coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.

7
(Nor for you, for one alone,
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,
O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you and the coffins all of you O death.)



8
O western orb sailing the heaven,
Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk’d,
As I walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,
As you droop’d from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on,)
As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

9
Sing on there in the swamp,
O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call,
I hear, I come presently, I understand you,
But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain’d me,
The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.

10
O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?



Sea-winds blown from east and west,
Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,
These and with these and the breath of my chant,
I’ll perfume the grave of him I love.

11
O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific,
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there,
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows,
And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

12
Lo, body and soul—this land,
My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships,
The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio’s shores and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies cover’d with grass and corn.

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,
The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,
The gentle soft-born measureless light,
The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill’d noon,
The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

13
Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird,
Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes,
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!
You only I hear—yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)
Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.

14
Now while I sat in the day and look’d forth,
In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds and the storms,)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail’d,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages,
And the streets how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo, then and there,
Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail,
And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me,
The gray-brown bird I know receiv’d us comrades three,
And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later delicate death.

Prais’d be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.





Approach strong deliveress,
When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.

From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee,
And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night in silence under many a star,
The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil’d death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,
Over the dense-pack’d cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.

15
To the tally of my soul,
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,
And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
As to long panoramas of visions.

And I saw askant the armies,
I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,
Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc’d with missiles I saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,
I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought,
They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer’d not,
The living remain’d and suffer’d, the mother suffer’d,
And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer’d,
And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.

16
Passing the visions, passing the night,
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands,
Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,
Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.

I cease from my song for thee,
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.

Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe,
With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well,
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.




By Walt Whitman


When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd is an elegy written by Walt Whitman shortly after the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln in 1865. Admired as one of Whitman's greatest poems, "Lilacs" has influenced many other works in literature and the arts.

Wonderful Guitar by Eric Lemieux

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Livingston Taylor / Good Friends



Livingston Taylor (born November 21, 1950) is an American singer-songwriter, originally from Boston, Massachusetts. He grew up in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where his father was a medical professor at the University of North Carolina. He briefly attended the Westtown School in Pennsylvania. He is the brother of singer-songwriter James Taylor and is currently on the faculty of Berklee College of Music.

http://www.bluedesert.dk/livingston.html

Forget-Me-Not Photos











Remember that Forget Me Nots are woodland plants and so need the general characteristics of woodland if they are to thrive.

Provide them with rich soil to simulate the rich soil of a forest floor that is continually enriched with falling leaves.

I've found that leaf compost really works best for this purpose, but other forms will do as well, just so long as they're rich in the organic matter these plants favor.


Make sure the soil is moist, but not wet and soggy - remember that these plants are native to forests, not marshes. Mulch is highly beneficial, and indeed absolutely necessary. The best time to apply mulch is in Spring and Fall or Autumn.

Rich organic mulch will protect the roots, hold in moisture, and keep the plant cool.



The varieties of Forget-Me-Not that are biennial will generally be easy to maintain over the years as they tend to self-sow, so propagation is not a problem once you establish them in your garden.

These are highly recommended and extremely popular shade flowers, and with good reason.

Among the most popular varieties there is velvet forget-me-not and hairy forget-me-not plants.


There are a great many varieties of Forget Me Nots, and you can find a lot of differently colored flowers - some of the popular colors are white, blue or pink, and the centre can be yellow or white, depending on the species.

The plants themselves are very attractive to look at, forming low mounds that can be between six to ten inches tall - of course this varies from species to species. The flowers shoot up above the mounds like little stars.

http://www.easyshadegardening.com/forget-me-nots.html

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Forget-Me-Nots



Forget-Me-Nots

By Lee Bain

Forget-me-nots I’d press on your mind’s eye;
Bright silent messengers of sky’s wild blue…
That from your thoughts my name would never die,
I’d bid them haunt you with their heavenly hue.
Bold blooms would border every path you bent
In blue profusion, like a blossomed lea;
My fragrance would enhance their subtle scent
To blend their perfume with the breath of me.
And when, at end of day, you’d sip and sup
Or finely dine in stately pomp and grace,
You’d find forget-me-nots twined ‘round your cup
Or gaily patterned in the table’s lace.
Through such sweet sorcerers’ spell would I secure
Some memory of me that may endure.

The Forget- Me- Nots are in full Bloom Now.


What is Forget-me-Not's native range?
Indigenous To: Europe and Asia

Where Forget-me-Not is naturalized or can be grown
Regions: All regions of North America.
Zones: 3-9

States:
How to grow Forget-me-Not (Myosotis sylvatica)
Soil preference: Actually a waterside plant, so moisture is all-important. Rich soils.

Sun/Shade: Full sun or almost full shade. (not under evergreens.)
Moisture Requirements: A waterside plant, so appreciates plenty of moisture.

Instructions: Keep in mind that this species actually grows in the wild in streambeds and wet woodlands. This means lots of moisture, and shade tolerance. Once established, forget me nots spread happily, and wildflower gardeners love them. So try to establish them with proper conditions, and you'll enjoy them every spring.



There are approximately fifty species in the genus, with much variation. Most have small (1 cm diameter or less) flat, 5-lobed blue, pink or white flowers with yellow centers, growing on scorpioid cymes. They bloom in spring. Leaves are alternate. Popular in gardens, Forget-me-nots prefer moist habitats and where they are not native, they have escaped to wetlands and riverbanks. They can tolerate partial sun and shade.



Forget-me-nots may be annual or perennial plants. Their root systems are generally diffuse. Their seeds are found in small, tulip-shaped pods along the stem to the flower. The pods attach to clothing when brushed against and eventually fall off, leaving the small seed within the pod to germinate elsewhere. Seeds can be collected by putting a piece of paper under the stems and shaking them. The seed pods and some seeds will fall out.

They are widely distributed. Most Myosotis species are indigenous to New Zealand, though one or two European species, especially the Wood Forget-me-not, Myosotis sylvatica have been introduced into most of the temperate regions of Europe, Asia and America. Myosotis scorpioides is also known as scorpion grass due to the spiraling curve of its inflorescence. Myosotis alpestris is the state flower of Alaska.






In a German legend, God named all the plants when a tiny unnamed one cried out, "Forget-me-not, O Lord!" God replied, "That shall be your name."

The Christ Child was sitting on Mary's lap one day and said that he wished that future generations could see her eyes. He touched her eyes and then waved his hand over the ground and blue forget-me-nots appeared, hence the name forget-me-not.

Henry IV adopted the flower as his symbol during his exile in 1398, and retained the symbol upon his return to England the following year.

In 15th-century Germany, it was supposed that the wearers of the flower would not be forgotten by their lovers. Legend has it that in medieval times, a knight and his lady were walking along the side of a river. He picked a posy of flowers, but because of the weight of his armour he fell into the river. As he was drowning he threw the posy to his loved one and shouted "Forget-me-not." It was often worn by ladies as a sign of faithfulness and enduring love.




When bees hum in the linden tree

and roses bloom in cottage plots.

Along the brookside banks we see

the blue wild forget-me-nots.

~Patience Strong~

Monday, May 16, 2011

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Moonlight Scotch Broom


http://www.monrovia.com/plant-catalog/plants/1050/moonlight-scotch-broom.php

Moonlight Scotch Broom
Cytisus scoparius 'Moonlight'

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

On May Morning



Now the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

On May Morning
by John Milton

Sunday, May 8, 2011

My new Hiemalis Begonias



Hiemalis Begonia plants, also called Rieger begonias, are a man-made hybrid variety that is a cross between wax begonias and tuber begonias. The flower stalks reach heights of between 12 and 18 inches when fully developed, and they can be grown both indoors and outdoors. Growing Hiemalis begonias is similar to growing other begonia varieties, but if they receive proper care they will continue blooming through the fall.I am crazy about mine they look like small cabbage roses!


Begonia, Hiemalis Netja DarkColor Medium Pink
Flower Time Early
Habit Upright, medium
Foliage Dark Green
Patented No
Notes
Double Flower




Begonia is a genus in the flowering plant family Begoniaceae and is a perennial. The only other members of the family Begoniaceae are Hillebrandia, a genus with a single species in the Hawaiian Islands, and the genus Symbegonia which more recently was included in Begonia. "Begonia" is the common name as well as the generic name for all members of the genus.

The genus name, coined by Charles Plumier, a French patron of botany, honours Michel Bégon, a former governor of the French colony of Haiti. It was adopted by Linnaeus.



These are called Dark Netja and are Hiemalis Begonias. These Begonias grow best in fertile, well-drained soils in the landscape. Often grown in hanging baskets, window boxes, and combo planters. Morning sun is ok, but they should be in the shade in the afternoon. Let soil surface dry out between watering. Use a water soluble fertilizer twice a month to keep plants blooming and fresh looking.

Happy Mother's Day



This special Mother's Day wish
That comes with love to you
Brings warm and heartfelt thanks
For all the thoughtful things you do--

It also comes to let you know
You mean more to me (us) each day
To everyone your lives have touched
In such a loving way.

Happy Mother's Day

Friday, May 6, 2011

More Mary Black


Mo Ghile Mear - Mary Black


This song, performed by Mary Black, is an Irish tribute to the "Great Pretender", Bonnie Prince Charlie, the descendant of Mary Stewart, Queen of Scots who had sought to sit on the throne of Britian. To put an end to religious persecution in Scotland, occupied Ireland, Wales, and England his loyal followers of the Jacobite movement fought for him to take possession of the crown. The Jacobite rebellion (1745) was put down and hundreds of thousands died in battle under unsurmountable odds. Under secrecy, the prince fled to the continent and died in exile. "Mo Ghile Mear" was written by Seán Clárach Mac Dhomhnaill (c. 1691-1757). This video dramatizes the Gaelic lyrics with the paintings of D'Arcy Bacon, Caravaggio, Mary Cassatt, Gustave Courbet, Julien Dupre, Winslow Homer, and J.M.W. Turner.




"Mo Ghile Mear"

Lá na mara
Lá na mara nó rabharta
Guth na dtonnta a leanadh
Guth na dtonnta a leanfad ó
Lá na mara nó lom trá
Lá na mara nó rabharta
Lá an ghainimh, lom trá
Lá an ghainimh

(The day of the sea
The day of the sea or of the high tides
To follow the voice of the waves
I would follow the voice of the waves
The day of the sea or the ebb tide
The day of the sea or of the high tides
The day of the sands, the ebb tide
The day of the sands)

Can you feel the river run?
Waves are dancing to the sun
Take the tide and face the sea
And find a way to follow me

Leave the field and leave the fire
And find the flame of your desire
Set your heart on this far shore
And sing your dream to me once more

[Chorus:]
'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear

(He is my hero, my dashing darling
He is my Caesar, dashing darling
Rest or pleasure I did not get
Since he went far away, my darling)

Now the time has come to leave
Keep the flame and still believe
Know that love will shine through darkness
One bright star to light the wave

[Chorus]

Amhrán na farraige
Ór ar na seolta
Amhrán na farraige
Ag seoladh na bhfonnta...

(Song of the sea
Gold on the sails
Song of the sea
Sending the melodies...)

Lift your voice and raise the sail
Know that love will never fail
Know that I will sing to you
Each night as I dream of you

[Chorus]

Ag seinm na farraige
Ag seinm na farraige
(Playing the sea
Playing the sea)

Seinn... Play...

[Chorus]

Gile mear, the wind and sun
The sleep is over, dream is done
To the west where fire sets
To the gile mear, the day begun

[Chorus 2x]

Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear
(Since he went far away, my darling)

Amhrán na farraige
Ór ar na seolta
Ag seoladh na bhfonnta
(Song of the sea
Gold on the sails
Sending the melodies)

The Fahan Mura Cross



St. Mura

Born in Co. Donegal, Ireland, about 550. He was appointed Abbot of Fahan by St. Columba. The monastery was anciently known as Othan Mor, but after the death of our saint was called Fahan Mura. He was highly esteemed by Hugh, Head King of Ireland, whose obit is chronicled in 607. Numerous legends are told of Mura; he wrote many works, including chronicles and a rhymed life of St. Columba, which is quoted in the Martyrology of Donegal. He is regarded as the special patron saint of the O'Neill clan, being sixth in descent from the founder, whose name survives in Innishowen (Inis Eoghan). His death occurred about 645, and his feast is observed on 12 March. Among his relics still preserved are his crozier (Bachall Mura), now in the National Museum, Dublin, and his bell-shrine, now in the Wallace Collection, London. In the ruined church of St. Mura at Fahan is a beautiful Irish cross, and not far off is St. Mura's Well.





Fahan Mura Cross as carved by James E. Boyle of the Rams Horn Studio


http://www.ramshornstudio.com/

Fahan (Irish: Fathain)(pronounced fawn) is a district of Inishowen, in County Donegal, located five kilometres south of Buncrana. In Irish, Fahan is named after its patron saint, St. Mura, first abbot and patron saint of Fahan, an early Christian monastery. The Fahan Mura Cross is located in a graveyard of a ruined church, beside the road from Letterkenny to Buncarna, and was the site of a monastery founded by St. Colmcille for his disciple St. Mura. This early 7th century cross-slab is 6 1/2 feet and demonstrates a close connection with Scotland, where the shape is more common.

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http://www.megalithicireland.com/High%20Cross%20Fahan%20Mura.html


http://www.ramshornstudio.com/

Hope


"For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience."

- Acts 8:24-25

Mary Black - No Frontiers




If life is a river and your heart is a boat
And just like a water baby, baby born to float
And if life is a wild wind that blows way on high
And your heart is Amelia dying to fly
Heaven knows no frontiers and I've seen heaven in your eyes

And if life is a bar room in which we must wait
'Round the man with his fingers on the ivory gates
Where we sing until dawn of our fears and our fates
And we stack all the dead men in self addressed crates

In your eyes faint as the singing of a lark
That somehow this black night
Feels warmer for the spark
Warmer for the spark
To hold us 'til the day
When fear will lose its grip
And heaven has its ways

Heaven knows no frontiers
And I've seen heaven in your eyes

If your life is a rough bed of brambles and nails
And your spirit's a slave to man's whips and man's jails

Where you thirst and you hunger for justice and right
And your heart is a pure flame of man's constant night

In your eyes faint as the singing of a lark
That somehow this black night
Feels warmer for the spark
Warmer for the spark
To hold us 'til the day when fear will lose its grip
And heaven has its ways
And heaven has its ways
When all will harmonise
And you know what's in our hearts
The dream will realise

Heaven knows no frontiers
And I've seen heaven in your eyes
Heaven knows no frontiers
And I've seen heaven in your eyes



This video of her Studio Version has better sound.

Scottish Elections


Scottish election: SNP toast 'historic' night of wins

The leader of the Scottish National Party Alex Salmond said the unfolding Holyrood election night results had been "historic".

As dawn broke on Friday, the party's tally was 30 seats, including 19 gains.

It is also turning out to be a bad night for the Lib Dems which have lost their deposits in at least 20 seats.

By 0515 BST the Tories had lost three constituencies, including ex-Tory leader David McLetchie's Pentlands seat.

Mr Salmond, who held Aberdeenshire East with about 64% of the vote, added: "Firstly, I think it demonstrates that Scotland has outgrown negative campaigning.

"I hope after this result we'll see an end to negativity and scaremongering in Scottish politics - no more insults to the intelligence of the Scottish people."

Referring to an SNP forerunner, the National Party of Scotland, he added: "Some 70 years and more later, the SNP can finally say that we have lived up to that accolade as the national party of Scotland.

"We have reached out to every community across this country."

Highlights so far include:
Labour has lost the seat of Glasgow Anniesland by seven votes. This constituency has significance for the party as it was held by the first first minister Donald Dewar who died in 2000.
Four Labour MSPs who had represented Lanarkshire seats since 1999 lost out to the SNP. Former ministers Andy Kerr and Tom McCabe lost East Kilbride and Hamilton, Larkhall and Stonehouse to the SNP's Linda Fabiani and Christina McKelvie.
Labour had better news in Eastwood where it held the Tory target seat. Ken Macintosh fought off advances from Conservative Jackson Carlaw.
Blushes were spared when Scottish Labour leader Iain Gray held on to his East Lothian seat by just 151 votes.
Labour's Malcolm Chisholm also held on to his Edinburgh Northern and Leith seat by a slim majority.

In his speech following the declaration in East Lothian, Mr Gray thanked the people of his constituency for re-electing him, and said it was "a great privilege" to represent the electorate there.

The SNP's Bill Kidd, Nicola Sturgeon, James Dornan and John Mason celebrate

Mr Gray spoke about helping young people into employment, care for the elderly and help for businesses, education and a living wage.

He said: "I promise you that I will fight every minute of every day for the next five years for these things, the things that really matter here in East Lothian.

"Scotland has made a choice tonight too. And while we cannot know for sure what that choice is, the indications are clear.

"Given the opportunity, Labour would devote itself to those self-same things that really matter.

"Whatever the outcome of the election tonight, these will be Labour's priorities in the parliament and in the five years ahead.

"We will pursue them, we will argue for them, we dedicate ourselves to them, and we will work with anyone who will work with us to get Scotland working again."

Reacting to the results, Tory leader Annabel Goldie said the "SNP were having a good night".


http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-13305522

Twas in the Merry Month of May...



Barbara Allen

Twas in the merry month of May
When green buds all were swelling,
Sweet William on his death bed lay
For love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his servant to the town
To the place where she was dwelling,
Saying you must come, to my master dear
If your name be Barbara Allen.

So slowly, slowly she got up
And slowly she drew nigh him,
And the only words to him did say
Young man I think you're dying.

He turned his face unto the wall
And death was in him welling,
Good-bye, good-bye, to my friends all
Be good to Barbara Allen.

When he was dead and laid in grave
She heard the death bells knelling
And every stroke to her did say
Hard hearted Barbara Allen.

Oh mother, oh mother go dig my grave
Make it both long and narrow,
Sweet William died of love for me
And I will die of sorrow.

And father, oh father, go dig my grave
Make it both long and narrow,
Sweet William died on yesterday
And I will die tomorrow.

Barbara Allen was buried in the old churchyard
Sweet William was buried beside her,
Out of sweet William's heart, there grew a rose
Out of Barbara Allen's a briar.

They grew and grew in the old churchyard
Till they could grow no higher
At the end they formed, a true lover's knot
And the rose grew round the briar.





Thursday, May 5, 2011

Sunshine Today , its a Jewel of a Day!

It's election time in the UK!


Good luck with elections UK!
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Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Handsome Jack



Handsome Jack Imagines He is in Wales!

The Rams Horn

The Rams Horn on Facebook