Saturday, March 18, 2006

Coming Up On the Third Anniversary Of the Beginning Of the Iraqi Campaign Of the War On Moslem Terror

I was just looking at casualty figures for the Battle of Gettysburg, which took place on July 1st, 2nd, and 3rd, 1863. The Union lost roughly 3,000 killed and 14,000, wounded, plus around 4,000 missing (a combination of prisoners and deserters). The Confederates lost around 3,000 killed, 18,000 wounded, and 5,000 missing (also part prisoners, part deserters). That was in 3 days to defend a little patch of Pennsylvania, mind you.

In Iraq, in six weeks of intense combat operations in taking over the entire country, and almost three years occupying the place, the US has lost a little over 2,000 killed (roughly the equivalent of 2 re-inforced battalions) and 17,000 wounded, and a negligible number of prisoners. And for that, we defeated one of the 20 largest armed forces in the world, ousted its government, secured its oil industry, put in place a new government acceptable to US interests, as well as used the place as a honey trap to draw in wildly anti-American Moslems from all over the world to fight us there, rather than here, dealing a significant blow to al Qaeda, as well as removing a government known to have always supported Moslem terrorism in various ways. Plus occupying Iraq puts the US strategically in great position for possible military force against our next targets in the War On Moslem Terror, Iran and Syria. In fact, with bases in Afghanistan and Iraq, the US could attack Iran on two fronts simultaneously.

So tell me again that the cost is too high.

Of course every American lost or maimed is sad. But these people are doing a great job. And they ought to be allowed to continue doing so, as the war they are waging for us has a way to go, yet.

Suppressing Piracy Is Part Of the Job Of the Navy

And it looks like the USS Cape St. George and the USS Gonzalez are taking their mission seriously, and doing their work well.

Good work, lads!

Quick Question

You remembeer the Danube Seven, the seven womyn who had themselves "ordained" by a renegade bishop on a cruise boat in the middle of the Danube? I recall that the Vatican reaction to that event was very prompt. The then-Cardinal Ratzinger issued directives to all of the "priestesses" that they had 30 days to renounce the travesty, or be excommunicated. None renounced, and, promptly, on the 31st day, bulls of excommunication were issued from the Vatican for each of them.

Now less than a year ago, there was another one of these spectacles on a boat in the St. Lawrence River, involving, I think, ten more misguided people. And these were "ordained" by some of the Danube Seven, who now consider themselves "bishops." I missed some of the follow-up coverage. Does anyone know if bulls of excommunication were duly issued by the Vatican for this group as well? Was the reaction the same? Or was it swept under the rug, and handled as "automatic excommunication" so that the Vatican could remain inert?

In my view, it would not be the same. You need to have the public record of a formal excommunication for the punishment to have real effect among the laity in general. But was it done? I don't remember seeing news saying it was.

Saturday of the Second Week Of Lent

Station Church: Ss. Marcellino e Pietro al Laterano

Devotions for a Lenten Saturday holy hour:

Divine Mercy Chaplet
Seven Penitential Psalms
Prayer of St. Thomas More
Threnus Prayer of Saint Augustine
Stabat Mater Dolorosa
Litany of Our Lady of Sorrows
Sorrowful Mysteries

The Gospel for today in the traditional Latin Mass was the Prodigal Son, which never fails to move me. I think I, like everyone else, is sometimes the older son, and more often the Prodigal. Am I ever the father? Frankly, I have never had an opportunity to be the father of the parable in any meaningful way.

Blogburst For Terri: First Anniversary

From Blogs For Terri:

On March 31, 2005, Terri Schindler Schiavo died of marked dehydration following more than 13 days without nutrition or hydration under the order of Circuit Court Judge, George W. Greer of the Pinellas-Pasco’s Sixth Judicial Court. Terri was 41.

It was nearly one year ago that Terri Schiavo’s feeding tube was removed for the purpose of ending her life. Nearly one year ago her legal guardian obtained a court order in public view to purposefully bring about her death by withholding the most basic of necessities. Yes, nearly one year ago Terri began 13 days without food or water.

We invite you to join us for a Blogburst in remembrance of Terri Schiavo beginning March 18th (or earlier). Over the 13 days we are asking our friends to write about Terri's life and death, link to her family's foundation (Terrisfight.org) and affirm the intrinsic dignity of human life.

Her judicial murder began in earnest one year ago today. God help us!

Friday, March 17, 2006

Some Of My Favorite Irish Tunes

I really did not intend to set down so many songs, but, enjoy! They are intended to be read in sequence from the top down. If you know the tunes, and I know them all intimately, far, far better than I know any contemporary music, you can't help but hear Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers in your head singing them.

Molly Malone
1. In Dublin's fair city,
Where the girls are so pretty,
I first set me eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!

Alive, alive oh! alive, alive oh!
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!

2. Now she was a fishmonger,
And sure twas no wonder,
For so were her mother and father before,
And they each wheeled their barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!

3. She died of a fever,
And no one could save her,
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.
Now her ghost wheels her barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!

Dublin In the Rare Ould Times

Raised on songs and stories, heroes of renown,
The passing tales and glories that once was Dublin Town
The hallowed halls and houses, the haunting childrens' rhymes,
That once was part of Dublin in the rare ould times.

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times

My name it is Sean Dempsey, as Dublin as can be,
Born hard and late in Pimlico, in a house that ceased to be.
By trade I was a cooper, lost out to redundancy.
Like my house that fell to progress, my trade's a memory

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times

And I courted Peggy Dignan, as pretty as you please,
A roguish child of Mary, from the rebel Liberties.
I lost her to a student chap, with skin as black as coal.
When he took her off to Birmingham, she took away my soul.

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times

The years have made me bitter, the gargoyles 've dimmed me brain,
'Cause Dublin keeps on changing, and nothing stays the same.
The Pillar and the Met have gone. The Royal's long since pulled down.
As the grey, unyielding concrete, makes a city of my town.

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times

Fare thee well, sweet Anna Liffey, I can no longer stay
And watch the new glass cages, that spring up along your quays.
My mind's too full of memories, too old to learn new chimes.
I'm a part of what was Dublin, in the rare ould times

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times...

Finnegan's Wake

Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street
A gentleman, Irish, mighty odd;
He had a brogue both rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod.
Now Tim had a sort of the tipplin' way.
With a love of the whiskey he was born.
And to help him on with his work each day
He'd a "drop of the cray-thur" every morn.

Whack fol the darn O, dance to your partner
Whirl the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!

2. One mornin' Tim was rather full.
His head was heavy which made him shake.
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull.
And they carried him home his corpse to wake.
They wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet,
And laid him out upon the bed,
A gallon of whiskey at his feet,
And a barrel of porter at his head.

3. His friends assembled at the wake
And the Widow Finnegan called for lunch.
First they brought in tay and cake,
Then pipes, tobacco, and brandy punch.
Biddy O'Brien began to cry
"Sech a nice clean corpse, did you ever see?
"O Tim, mavourneen, why did you die?"
"Arragh, hold your gob" said Paddy McGhee!

4. Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job,
"O Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure."
Biddy she gave her a belt in the gob,
And left her sprawlin' on the floor.
And then the war did soon engage
'Twas woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelagh Law was all the rage,
And a row and a ruction soon began.

5. Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head
When a noggin of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and landing on the bed,
The liquor scattered over Tim!
Tim revives! See how he rises!
Timothy rising from the bed,
Says,"Whirl your whiskey around like blazes
Thanum an Dhul! Do you thunk I'm dead?"

The Minstrel Boy

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain
Could not bring that proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and brav'ry!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!"

Whisky, You're The Divil

Whisky you're the divil, you're leading me astray
Over hills and mountains and to Amerikay
You're sweeter, stronger, dacenter
You're spunkier than tay
Oh whisky you're me darlin' drunk or sober.

Oh, now brave boys we're off for
marching up to Portugal and Spain.
Drums are beating, colours flying,
The divil a home we'll come to tonight.
Oh, love fare thee well.
With me tiddery idle loodle lum a da,
Me tiddery idle loodle lum a da,
Me right fol torral addee o,
There's whiskey in the jar.


Now the French are fightin' bouldly.
Men are dying hot and couldly.
Give every man his flask of powder,
His firelock on his shoulder.
Love fare thee well.
With me tiddelly idle loodle lum a da,
Me tiddery idle loodle lum a da,
Me right fol torral addee o,
There's whiskey in the jar.


Said the mother do not wrong me.
Don't take me daughter from me.
For if you do I will torment you.
And after death me ghost will haunt you.
Love fare thee well,
With me tiddery idle loodle lum a da,
Me tiddery idle loodle lum a da,
Me right fol torral addee o,
There's whiskey in the jar.

Four Green Fields (by Tommy Makem)

What did I have, said the fine old woman.
What did I have, this proud old woman did say.
I had four green fields, each one was a jewel.
But strangers came and tried to take them from me.
I had fine strong sons, who fought to save my jewels.
They fought and died, and that was my grief said she.

Long time ago, said the fine old woman.
Long time ago, this proud old woman did say.
There was war and death, plundering and pillage.
My children starved, by mountain, valley and sea.
And their wailing cries, they shook the very heavens.
My four green fields ran red with their blood, said she.

What have I now, said the fine old woman.
What have I now, this proud old woman did say.
I have four green fields, one of them's in bondage,
In stranger's hands, that try to take it from me.
But my sons have sons, as brave as were their fathers.
My fourth green field will bloom once again, said she.

The Maid Of Fife
There once was a troop of Irish Dragoons
Come marching down through Fife-e-o
And the captain fell in love with a very bonny lass
And her name it was called pretty Peggy-o

There's many a bonny lass in the town of Augherlass
There's many a bonny lassie in the Jeery-o
There's many a bonny Jean in the streets of Aberdeen
But the flower of them all is in Fife-e-o

"Oh, come down the stairs pretty Peggy my dear
Oh, come down the stairs pretty Peggy-o
Oh, come down the stairs, comb back your yellow hair
Bid a long farewell to your mammy-o"

"Oh, I'll give you ribbons love and I'll give you gold
I'll give you a necklace of amber-o
And I'll give you petticoats wi' flounces to your knees
If you will convey me to your chamber-o"

The colonel he cried "mount, mount boys mount"
The captain he cried "tarry-o
Oh tarry for a while, for another day or twa'
'Till I see if this bonny lass will marry-o"

"I never did intend a soldier's wife for to be
I never will marry a soldier-o
I never did intend to gang to a foreign land
And I never will marry a soldier-o"

Long 'ere we came to the town of Augerlass
We had our captain to carry-o
And long 'ere we reached the streets of Aberdeen
We had our captain to bury-o

Green grow the birks on bonny Eithan side
And low lie the lowlands of Fife-e-o
Oh, the captain's name was Ned and he died for a maid
He died for the chambermaid of Fife-e-o

The Band Played Waltzing Matilda

When I was a young man, I carried my pack.
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the Murray's green basin
To the dusty outback,
I waltzed my matilda all over.
Then in nineteen fifteen, my country said son
It's time to stop rambling,
There's work to be done.
So they gave me a tin hat,
And they gave me a gun,
And they sent me away to the war.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
As the ship pulled away from the Quay
And amidst all the cheers,
Flag-waving and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli

Well I remember that terrible day
When our blood stained the sand and the water,
And how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk he was ready
Oh he primed himself well.
He rained us with bullets,
And he showered us with shells.
And in five minutes flat,
We were all blown to hell
Nearly blew us back home to Australia.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
As we stopped to bury our slain.
And we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
And it started all over again.

Those who were living,
Just tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks,
I kept myself alive,
While around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell,
Knocked me ass over head,
And when I awoke in my hospital bed,
And saw what it had done,
Christ I wished I was dead:
Never knew there were worse things than dying.

For no more I'll go Waltzing Matilda,
All around the green bush far and near
For to hump tent and pegs
A man needs both legs
No more Waltzing Matilda for me.

So they collected the wounded
The crippled, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless
the blind, the insane.
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where me legs used to be
And thanked Christ there was no one there waiting for me
To grieve, and to mourn, and to pity.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
As they carried us down the gangway.
But nobody cheered,
They just stood there and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

And now every April,
I sit on my porch
And I watch the parades pass before me.
I see my old comrades,
How proudly they march.
Renewing their dreams of past glory.
I see the old men, all tired, stiff, and sore,
The weary old heroes of a forgotten war.
And the young people ask,
What are they marching for?
And I ask myself the same question.

And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men still answer the call.
But year after year,
Their numbers grow fewer
Someday no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a waltzing matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard
As you pass by that billabong
Who'll come a'waltzin' matilda with me?

The Rambles Of Spring

There's a piercing wintry breeze
Blowing through the budding trees
And I button up my coat to keep me warm
But the days are on the mend
And I'm on the road again
With my fiddle snuggled close beneath my arm

I've a fine, felt hat
And a strong pair of brogues
I have rosin in my pocket for my bow
O my fiddle strings are new
And I've learned a tune or two
So, I'm well prepared to ramble and must go

I'm as happy as a king
When I catch a breath of spring
And the grass is turning green as winter ends
And the geese are on the wing
And the thrushes start to sing
And I'm headed down the road to see my friends


I have friends in every town
As I wander up and down
Making music at the markets and the fairs
Through the donkeys and the creels
And the farmers making deals
And the yellow headed tinkers selling wares


Here's a health to one and all
To the big and to the small
To the rich and poor alike, and foe and friend
And when I return again
May our foes have turned to friends,
And may peace and joy be with you until then!


Old Reilly's Daughter

As I was sitting by the fire
Talking to old Reilly's daughter
Suddenly a thought come into me head:
I'd like to marry old Reilly's daughter

Giddy-I-ay, giddy-I-ay, giddy-I-ay for the one eyed Reilly
Giddy-I-ay, try it on your own big drum

Reilly played on a big bass drum
Reilly had a mind for murder and slaughter
Reilly had a bright, red, glittering eye
And he kept that eye on his lovely daughter

Her hair was black and her eyes were blue,
The colonel, and the major, and the captain sought her,
The sergeant, and the piper, and the drummer boy too,
But they never had a chance with Reilly's daughter

I got me a ring and a parson too
I got me a scratch in a married quarter
Settled me down to a peaceful life
Happy as a king with Reilly's daughter

Soon a foot steps up the stairs
Who should it be, but Reilly out for slaughter
With two pistols in his hand
Looking for the man that had married his daughter

I got old Reilly by the hair
Rammed his head in a pale of water
Fired his pistols into the air
Damn sight quicker than I married his daughter

The Rising Of the Moon

Come tell me, Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so
Husha buachaill hush and listen and his cheeks were all a glow
I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon

Now come and tell me, Sean O'Farrell, where the gath'rin is to be
At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me
One more word for signal token whistle out the marchin' tune
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon

Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed warning light
Murmurs rang along the valleys to the banshees lonely croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon

All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen
High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green
Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon

'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon

Johnny McEldoo

There was Johnny McEldoo and McGee and me
And a couple of two or three went on the spree one day
We had a bob or two, which we knew how to blew
And the beer and whisky flew and we all felt gay.
We visited McCann's, Maclaman's, Humpty Dan's.
We then went into Swan's, our stomachs for to pack
We ordered out a feed, which indeed, we did need
And we finished it with speed, but we still felt slack

Johnny McEldoo turned red, white and blue
As a plate of irish stew he soon put out of sight
He shouted out "Encore!" with a roar for some more
That he'd never felt before such a keen appetite
We ordered eggs and ham, bread and jam, what a cram
But him, we couldn't ram, though we tried our level best
For everthing we brought, cold or hot, mattered not
It went down him like a shot and he still stood the test

He swallowed tripe and lard by the yard, we got scared
We thought it would go hard when the waiter brought the bill
We told him to give o'er, but he swore he could lower
Twice as much again and more before he had his fill.
He nearly supped a trough full of broth says McGragh
"He'll devour the tablecloth if you don't hold him in"
When the waiter brought the charge, McEldoo felt so large
He began to shout and barge and his blood went on fire.

He began to curse and swear, tear his hair in despair
To finish the affair, called the shop man a liar
The shop man, he through out and no doubt, he did clout
McEldoo he kicked about like an old football
Tattered all his clothes, broke his nose, I suppose
He would have killed him with a few blows in no time at all
Mceldoo began to howl and to growl, by my soul
Threw an empty bowl at the shop keepers head
It struck poor Mickey Flynn, took the skin from his chin
An eruction did begin and we all fought and bled
The peelers did arrive, man alive, four or five
At us they made a dive for us all to march away
We paid for all the mate that we ate, stood a trait
And went home to ruminate on the spree that day.

The Patriot Game

Come all you young rebels,
and 'list while I sing,
for the love of one's country
is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear
with the speed of a flame,
and it makes us all part of
the patriot game.

My name is O'Hanlon
and I've just gone sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan
where I was weaned.
I've learned all my life
cruel England's to blame
and so I'm a part of
the patriot game.

It's barely two years
since I wandered away
with the local battalion
of the bold IRA
For I'd read of our heroes
and wanted the same:
to play my own part in
the patriot game.

This Ireland of ours has
for long been half-free.
Six counties are under
John Bull's tyranny.
So, we gave up our boyhood
to drill and to train
and play our own part in
the patriot game.

And now as I lie here,
my body all holes,
I think of those traitors
who bargained in souls.
I wish that my rifle
had given the same
to those Quislings who sold out
the patriot game.


I wish I was in Carrickfergus
only for nights in Ballygrand
I would swim over the deepest ocean,
the deepest ocean, my love to find
But the sea is wide and I can't swim over
And neither have I the wings to fly
I wish I could meet a handsome boatman
To ferry me over to my love and die

Ah, but in Kilkenny, it is reported,
they have marble stones there as black as ink
With gold and silver, I did support her,
but I'll sing no more 'till I get a drink
I'm drunk today and I'm seldom sober
A handsome rover from town to town
Ah, but I'm sick now, my days are numbered
Come all you young men and lay me down

Fiddler's Green

As I walked down the dockside one evenin' so fair,
To view the still waters and take the salt air,
I heard an old fisherman singin' this song,
Saying, "Take me away boys. Me time is not long."

Wrap me up in me oilskins and jumper.
No more on the docks I'll be seen.
Just tell me old shipmates I'm takin' a trip, mates
And I'll see you one day in Fiddler's Green.

Now, Fiddler's Green is a place, I've heard tell,
Where fishermen go if they don't go to hell,
Where the women are all fair and the whisky is all free,
And the cold coasts of Greenland are far, far away.

Home, Boys, Home!

And it's home, boys, home
Home I'd like to be, home for awhile in my old count-a-ry
Where the oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree
They're all a-growing greener in my old count-a-ry

There was an apprentice lived in Strawberry Lane
Loved by her master and her mistress the same
Until a young sailor lad came sailing o'er the sea
And that was the beginning of her misery

This young maid being innocent she thought it was no harm
To go into bed for to keep his back warm
He hugged her and he kissed her and he called her his dear
He said "I wish, my love this night had been as long as a year"

'Twas early next morning the sailor lad arose
And into her apron he put handfuls of gold
"Take this my dear for the mischief that I've done
Last night I may have left you with a daughter or a son"

"And if it be a girl child, dandle her on your knee
And if it be a man child, call him after me
And when he is a man, you can dress him up in blue
He'll go skipping up the rigging like his daddy used to do"

The Green Fields Of France or Willie McBride

Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?
And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the dead heroes in 1916,
Well, I hope you died quick, and I hope you died clean
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fir o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that true heart are you forever 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn, tattered, and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

The sun's shining now on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard it's still No Man's Land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
To a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

And I can't help but wonder, now Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you "The Cause?"
Did you really believe that that war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the pain,
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it's all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

Courtin' In the Kitchen

Come single belle and beau, unto me pay attention
Don't ever fall in love, it's the devil's own invention
Once I fell in love with a maiden so bewitchin'
Miss Henrietta Bell out of Captain Kelly's Kitchen

With my tooral-ooral-I, and my tooral-ooral-addy
With my tooral-ooral-I, and my tooral-ooral-addy

At the age of seventeen, I was 'prenticed to a grocer
Not far from Stephen's Green, where Miss Henry used to go, sir
Her manners were sublime and she set my heart a-twitchin'
And she invited me to a hooley in the kitchen


Next Sunday being the day, we were to have the "flare-up"
I dressed myself quite gay and I frizzed and oiled my hair up
The captain had no wife, faith he had gone out fishin'
And we kicked up high life down below stairs in the kitchen


With her arms around my waist, she slyly hinted marriage
To the door in dreadful haste, came Captain Kelly's carriage
Her eyes soon filled with hate and poison she was spittin'
When the footman at the door, walked right into the kitchen


She flew up off my knees, full five feet up or higher
And over head and heels, sent me slap into the fire
Me new Repealers coat, that I bought from Mrs. Mitchell
With a twenty-shilling note, went to blazes in the kitchen.


When the captain came downstairs, though he saw me situation,
In spite of all my prayers, I was marched off to the station
For me they'd take no bail, but to get home I was itchin'
And I had to tell the tale how I came into the kitchen


I said she did invite me, but she gave a flat denial
For assault, she did indict me and I was sent for trial
She swore I robbed the house, in spite of all her screechin'
And I got six months "hard" for my courtin' in the kitchen


Whisky In the Jar

As I was going over the far famed Kerry mountains
I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting.
I first produced me pistol, and then produced me rapier.
Said stand and deliver, for I am a bold deceiver,

Musha ring dumma do damma da
whack for the daddy 'ol
whack for the daddy 'ol
there's whiskey in the jar

I counted out his money, and it made a pretty penny.
I put it in my pocket and I took it home to Jenny.
She said and she swore, that she never would betray me,
but the devil take the women, for they never can be easy

I went into my chamber, all for to take a slumber,
I dreamt of gold and jewels and for sure it was no wonder.
But Jenny took my charges and she filled them up with water,
Then sent for captain Farrel to be ready for the slaughter.

It was early in the morning, as I rose up for travel,
The guards were all around me and likewise captain Farrel.
I first produced my pistol, for she stole away my rapier,
But I couldn't shoot the water so a prisoner I was taken.

If anyone can aid me, it's my brother in the army,
If I can find his station down in Cork or in Killarney.
And if he'll come and save me, we'll go roving near Kilkenny,
And I swear he'll treat me better than me darling sportling Jenny

Now some men take delight in the drinking and the roving,
But others take delight in the gambling and the smoking.
But I take delight in the juice of the barley,
And courting pretty fair maids in the morning bright and early

The Rocky Road To Dublin

In the merry month of May from my home I started
Left the girls of Tuam nearly broken-hearted
Saluted Father dear, kissed my darlin' Mother
Drank a pint of beer my grief and tears to smother
Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born
I cut a stout blackthorn to banish ghost and goblin,
In a bran'new pair of brogues I rattled o'er the bogs
And frightened all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin,

One, two, three, four five,
hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky roaad,
and all the ways to Dublin
Whack fol-lol-de-ra.

In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary,
Started by daylight next morning light and airy,
Took a drop of the pure, to keep my heart from sinking,
That's an frishman's cure, whene'er he's on for drinking,
To see the lasses smile, laughing all the while,
At my curious style, 'twould set your heart a-bubbling,
They ax'd if I was hired, the wages I required,
Till I was almost tired of the rocky road to Dublin.

In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity,
To be so soon deprived a view of that fine city,
Then I took a stroll out among the quality,
My bundle it was stole in a neat locality;
Something crossed my mind, then I looked behind,
No bundle could I find upon me stick a-wobblin',
Enquiring for the rogue, they said my Connaught brogue
Wasn't much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin.

From there I got away my spirits never failing,
Landed on the quay as the ship was sailing,
Captain at me roared, said that no room had he,
When I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy
Down among the pigs, I played some funny rigs
Danced some hearty jigs, the water round me bubblin'
When off to Holyhead I wished myself was dead,
Or better far, instead, on the rocky road to Dublin.

The boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed,
Called myself a fool, I could no longer stand it;
Blood began to boil, temper I was losin'
Poor old Erin's isle they began abusin'
"Hurrah my soul!" sez I, my shillelagh I let fly,
Some Galway boys were by, saw I was a hobble in,
Then with a loud Hurrah, they joined in the affray,
We quickly cleared the way, for the rocky road to Dublin.

Red Is the Rose

Come over the hills my bonny Irish lass
Come over the hills to your darling
You choose the road love and I'll make a vow
That I'll be your true love forever

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows
Fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any

It's down in Killarney's green woods that we strayed
When the moon and the stars, they were shining
For the moon shone its rays on her locks of golden hair
And she said she'd be my love forever


It's not for the parting with my sister Kate
It's not for the grief of my mother
It's all for the loss of my bonny Irish lass
That my heart is breaking forever

O'Donell Aboo

Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding
Loudly the war cries arise on the gale
Fleetly the steed by Lough Swilly is bounding
To join the thick squadrons on Saimer's green vale
On every mountaineer, strangers to flight or fear
Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh
Bonnaught and Gallowglass, throng from each mountain
Pass onward for Erin O'Donnell Abu

Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing
With many a chieftain and warrior clan
A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing
'Neath the borderers brave from the Banks of the Bann
Many a heart shall quail under its coat of mail
Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue
When on his ears shall ring bourn on the breeze's wing
Tir Conwell's dread war cry, O'Donnell Abu

Wildly o'er Desmond the war wolf is howling
Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain
The fox in the streets of the city is prowling
And all who would scare them are banished or slain
On with O'Donnall then, fight the old fight again
Sons of Tir Conwell are valiant and true
Make the proud saxon feel Erin's avenging steel
Strike for your country O'Donnell Abu

The Sick Note

Dear Sir, I write this note to you to tell you of me plight
For at the time of writing I am not a pretty sight
Me body is all black and blue, my face a deathly grey
And I write this note to say why Paddy's not at work today.

Whilst working on the fourteenth floor,some bricks I had to clear
To throw them down from such a height was not a good idea
The foreman wasn't very pleased, the bloody awkward sod
He said I had to cart them down the ladders in my hod.

Now clearing all these bricks by hand, it was so very slow
So I hoisted up a barrel and secured the rope below
But in me haste to do the job, I was too blind to see
That a barrel full of building bricks was heavier than me.

And so when I untied the rope, the barrel fell like lead
And clinging tightly to the rope I started up instead
I shot up like a rocket, till to my dismay I found
That half way up I met the f-ck-n' barrel coming down.

Well the barrel broke my shoulder, as to the ground it sped
And when I reached the top I banged the pulley with me head
I clung on tightly, numb with shock, from this almighty blow
And the barrel spilled out half the bricks, fourteen floors below.

Now when these bricks had fallen from the barrel to the floor
I then outweighed the barrel and so started down once more
Still clinging tightly to the rope, my body racked with pain
When half way down, I met the bloody barrel once again.

The force of this collision, half way up the office block
Caused multiple abrasions and a nasty state of shock
Still clinging tightly to the rope I fell towards the ground
And I landed on the broken bricks that were all scattered round.

I lay there groaning on the ground I thought I'd passed the worst
But the barrel hit the pulley wheel, and then the bottom burst
A shower of bricks rained down on me, I hadn't got a hope
As I lay there bleeding on the ground, I let go the bloody rope.

The barrel then being heavier, it started down once more,
And landed right across me as I lay upon the floor.
It broke three ribs, and my left arm, and I can only say
That I hope you'll understand why Paddy's not at work today.

The Wild Rover

I've been a wild rover for many's a year
And I've spent all my money on whiskey and beer
But now I'm returning with gold in great store
And I never will play the Wild Rover no more

And it's no, nay, never
No, nay, never, no more
Will I play the Wild Rover
No never, no more

I went into an alehouse that I used to frequent
And I told the landlady my money was spent
I asked her for credit, she answered me "nay
Such a custom as yours I can have any day"

Then out of my pockets I took sovereigns bright
And the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight
She said "I have whisky and wines of the best
And if ye come upstairs w' me, I'll show you the rest."

I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done
And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son
And if they caress me as oft times before
Then I never will play the Wild Rover no more

In the Hills Of Connemara

Gather up the pots and the old tin can
The mash, the corn, the barley and the bran
Run like the devil from the excise man
Keep the smoke from rising Barney

Keep your eyes well peeled today
The big, tall men are on their way
Searching for the mountain tay
In the hills of Connemara

Mountain breezes as they blow
Hear their echo in the glen below
The gombeen men are on the go
In the hills of Connemara

A gallon for the butcher, a quart for Tom
A bottle for poor old Father John
To help his prayers and hymns along
In the hills of Connemara

Stand your ground boys, it's too late
The excise men are at the gate
Glory be to God, but they're drinking it straight
In the hills of Connemara

Swing to the left and swing to the right
The excise men will dance all night
Drinking up the tay till the broad daylight
In the hills of Connemara

The Foggy Dew

It was down the glen one Easter morn, to a city fair rode I
There Ireland's lines of marching men, in squadron passed me by
No pipes did hum or no battle drum did sound its dread tattoo
But, the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell, rang out in the Foggy Dew

Right proudly high over Dublin town, they hung out the flag of war
For, 'twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud El Bar
And from the plains of Royal Meath, strong men came hurrying through
While Brittania's sons with their long range guns, sailed in by the Foggy Dew

'Twas England bade our wild geese go that small nations might be free
But, their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves on the fringe of the grey North Sea
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side, or fought with Valera true
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the hills of the Foggy Dew

The bravest fell and the sullen bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Easter tide in the springing of the year
And the world did gaze in deep amaze at those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the Foggy Dew

The Parting Glass

Oh all the money that e'er I had, I spent it in good company
And all the harm that e'er I've done, alas, it was to none but me
And all I've done for want of wit to memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had, they are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had, they would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call good night and joy be with you all

If I had money enough to spend and leisure time to sit awhile
There is a fair maid in this town, that sorely has my heart beguiled
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips I own, she has my heart enthralled
So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

My dearest dear, the time draws near when here no longer can I stay
There's not a comrade I leave behind, but is grieving for my going away
But since it has so ordered been what is once past can't be recalled
Now fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

If I had money for to spend, If I had time to waste away
There is a fair maid in this town, I feign would while her heart away
With her rosy cheeks and dimpled chin, my heart she has beguiled awa'
So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you a'

If I had money for to spend, I would spend it in her company
And all the harm that I have done, I hope it's pardoned I will be
And all I've done for want of wit to memory I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

A man may drink and not be drunk, a man may fight and not be slain
A man may court a pretty girl and perhaps be welcomed back again
But since it has so ordered been by a time to rise and a time to fall
Come fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

OK, that's not Reilly's Daughter, but a young Lucy Lawless. But she has black hair and blue eyes, too. And this picture of the stunning Emer Kenney is absolutely gratuitious, except that she has an album titled Parting Glass. And she is a fair thing to look at, eh?

Prayer Request And Update!

First of all, an update. Some good news on my friend Jerry, who has been in a coma for about 2 weeks after a triple by-pass. He is out of the coma and conscious! His doctors told him that they almost lost him twice in the last three weeks. He has a long, slow recuperation ahead of him, so please keep your prayers coming.

And secondly, my patience could use your prayers, as a situation at work promises to require more patience than all the saints in heaven combined possess. I'm immensely patient. I inherited that from my Da, who spent huge, almost incomprehensible, amounts of time physically waiting for my mother, her mother, my uncle, and for me over the years. Almost all my life has been spent waiting for someone or something. But I don't suffer fools lightly, and have found my tongue growing increasingly sharp, and my wit increasingly bitter and cutting over the last two years. For the next month, I will need incredible patience to not tell certain people what I really think of them.

Saint Patrick

The Golden Legend on the life of Saint Patrick

A short biography

And make an e-pilgrimage to Lough Derg, otherwise known as St. Patrick's Purgatory

And one to Crough Patrick, where Saint Patrick fasted for 40 days atop the mountain.

Read The Confession Of Saint Patrick here in pdf.

Don't forget to pray the Lorica.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona Dhaoibh !

First of all, allow me to direct you to a temporary change in the link line-up on the right of the page. In honor of the Saint, I have taken the link section "The Importance Of Being Irish" and moved it up for the weekend to the top of the column. I don't think many people get a chance to scroll all the way down in my links. The list is quite extensive, and often the blog text doesn't even get half-way down the link column before it is exhausted (as I archive every 7 days). So for those who have not had an opportunity to stroll around this set of links, enjoy.

Second, there is no place better to be Irish than in Boston. All the big traditional Irish music groups make an appearance here in March, including Tommy Makem, Ronan Tynan,and the Chieftans. I think there are more Irish bars here than anywhere outside Ireland. The Black Rose and another one whose name escapes me, had in their windows electronic "Countdown to St. Patrick's Day" devices. The festivities started early with "genuine Irish breakfasts" served at 6 am, and first call at the bar at 8am.

And speaking of Irish music, who should be the grand marshal of Dublin's parade this year? Sure it's Ronnie Drew, former lead vocalist of The Dubliners!

I took a long walk this morning (that is why I'm late starting) and was struck by the number of people wearing green. Well more than half. I even saw an old drunk with a woman's kelly green boa wrapped around his neck.

Southie's big parade is Sunday afternoon (it is always the Sunday after St. Patrick's Day), so the entire weekend here in Boston is a gigantic St. Patrick's Fest.

So enjoy this celebration of being Irish!

Here is what I posted a couple of years ago about various things Irish.

May St. Patrick intercede on your behalf
and God be beside you when you walk,
in your voice when you talk,
in your eyes when you see,
in your ears when you hear,
in your heart when you pray,
in your mind when you think,
and in your hands when you touch.
In every sense may it be
that God is with you eternally.

Friday Of the Second Week Of Lent

Station Church: S. Vitale in Fovea

Devotions For A Lenten Friday Holy Hour:
Dies Irae
Divine Mercy Chaplet
Seven Penitential Psalms
Prayer of St. Thomas More
Threnus Prayer of Saint Augustine
Devotions To the Holy Cross
Stations of the Cross

Thursday, March 16, 2006

US Bishops On The Da Vinci Code

The Da Vinci Code is a mess, a riot of laughable errors and serious misstatements. Almost every page has at least one of each."

The Picture Says All That Need Be Said

Go to Baronius Press to buy it for only $29.95.

Saint Patrick's Week: Preparations For the Feast Day

Tomorrow is Saint Patrick's Day. Of course, it is a holiday for schoolchildren and city workers here in the City of Boston (Suffolk County). It is not a holiday because it is Saint Patrick's Day, of course, but because of the coincidence of General William Howe's British army leaving Boston on March 17th, 1776 under threat of bombardment by the heavy artillery from Fort Ticonderoga which had been hastily dug in on Dorchester Heights by Washington. Yes, Bunker Hill Day (June 17th) is also a hack high holyday for hacks in the city of Boston. And Patriots' Day (April 19th or the third Monday of April) the anniversary of the Battles of Lexington and Concord is a state holiday.

Wink. Wink. Nudge. Nudge. It is just a coincidence that we celebrate Evacuation Day on Saint Patrick's Day in a city that at one time was so thoroughly dominated by the Irish that one could be forgiven for mistaking the place for Dublin or Limerick. Wink. Wink. Nudge. Nudge.

Well, there are some things to do before the feast day. One might assemble a St. Patrick's Cross button. The directions are derived from Kevin Danaher's indispensible The Year In Ireland.

As an alternative, you could make something equally Irish to adorn your lapel. Just take any old political or cause button you have no further use for, and paint it gold. Then, print out this Celtic Cross:

I reduced it to just the right size in Photobucket for use on a standard button. Trim away the black background. Glue the cross to the gilded button, and, there you are. I find it a little easier than playing with ribbon and drawing things free-hand, which I am not gifted at.

Then, one must buy the necessary comestibles for the feast. After all, it is rather a poor show if all you can offer to honor the saint and wet the shamrock is corned beef and cabbage and green beer (YUCK!!!). So take a gander at this menu I posted two years ago, and pick and choose some authentic Irish food and drink for the feast. Another occasion for Champ! YUM! And if you must drink beer, at least make it a Guinness. As for me, some Jameson's will do rather nicely, doubled, and neat.

And you must have music to put you in the mood. Go to Contemplations From the Marianas Trench (or more simply, The Contemplator) for Irish folk music in Midi format.

Let me see, food to gorge on, whisky to indulge in, music to groove out Hibernian to, and something silly to wear. We are only laking one thing: the realization that Saint Patrick was a real, genuine, authenticated Catholic Saint who converted Ireland to the Faith, and is the patron saint of all Ireland and Irish people, even we Americanized Guinea/Micks.

And what better way to give homage to our patron than reciting the wonderful morning prayer attributed to him, the Lorica of Saint Patrick?

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,
Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,
Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preaching of apostles,
In faith of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven, (God the Father)
Light of sun, (God the Son)
Radiance of moon, (Our Blessed Lady)
Splendor of fire, (God the Holy Ghost)
Speed of lightning, (Saint Michael)
Swiftness of wind, (Saint Gabriel)
Depth of sea, (Saint John the Baptist)
Stability of earth, (Saint Joseph)
Firmness of rock. (Saint Peter)

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and all evils,
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise.

Christ in the heart and mind of every one who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me or to me,
Christ in every eye that sees me or my works,
Christ in every ear that hears me or hears of me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.

I make this wonderful Breastplate Prayer part of my Morning Prayer holy hour every day.

Catholic Devotions In Spanish

I don't read Spanish, but from what I can see, this looks like a nice orthodox collection. The webmaster seems to have a fondness for the same type of Catholic devotional art I am using here, at the Yahoo Group, and as illustration in my prayerbooks, especially Bouguereau.

Thursday Of the Second Week Of Lent

Station Church: S. Maria in Trastevere

Devotions for a Lenten Thursday holy hour:
Dies Irae
Divine Mercy Chaplet
Seven Penitential Psalms
Prayer of St. Thomas More
Threnus Prayer of Saint Augustine
Devotion To the Holy Face

A Moved Blog

Defensor Veritatis has a new url. Please make note of that if you are linking to Brad.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Happy Birthday, Susie!

Hilary at The Devout Life is having one of those things folks our age are better advised to not have.

The Ides Of March

Two historical events of some importance today.

In 44 BC, this was the date Julius Caesar got to utter the line, "Et tu, Brute?"

And 225 years ago, General Charles, Earl Cornwallis beat the American rebels led by General Nathaniel Greene in the Battle of Guilford Courthouse, North Carolina. Cornwallis went into the battle with 2,000 men, Greene with 4,000. Cornwallis over 500 killed and wounded, and Greene somewhat less. It was a hard-fought engagement that bled Cornwallis' little army white.

H.Charles McBarron, Jr.'s depiction of one of the stands of Greene's Continentals

Artist Dale Gallon depicts the scene behind Cornwallis' line during the battle

Dale Gallon captures the beginning of the melee between the Maryland Continentals and the Guards

The height of the melee between the Guards and the Maryland Continentals, one of the few documented open-field bayonet-to-bayonet encounters of the 18th century. Depicted by Don Troiani.

Don Troiani shows the aftermath of the battle. Reminds me of what Wellington said after Waterloo: "After a battle lost, the saddest thing is a battle won."
From Brigadier General Charles O'Hara, Commanding the Brigade of Guards:
"I never did, and hope I never shall, experience two such days and Nights, as these immediately after the Battle, we remained on the very ground on which it had been fought cover'd with Dead, with Dying and with Hundreds of Wounded, Rebels, as well as our own--A Violent and constant Rain that lasted above Forty Hours made it equally impracticable to remove or administer the smallest comfort to many of the Wounded. In this situation we expected every moment to be attacked, there could be no doubt, that the Enemy must be very well informed of our loss, and whatever their loss might be, their numbers were still so great, as to make them very formidable; and they had only retired eighteen Miles from us, fortunately for us they did not, or even follow'd us, when we march'd but at a very respectable distance, or have ever fired a Single Shot since the affair of the 15th."

["Letters of Charles O'Hara to the Duke of Grafton," George C. Rogers, Jr., ed. South Carolina Historical Magazine, v. 65, 1965, p. 177-178]

There is a good, brief description of the battle here at British Battles.

St. Patrick's Week: Irish High Crucifixes

Notice how I have drained all the New Age and non-Catholic implications from the most common name ("Celtic High Cross").

The Irish Tall Crucifix is important as it represents the largest body of free-standing sculpture in Europe from the end of the Roman Empire until the Renaissance. Most of the Crucifixes were carved between the 8th and 12th centuries. Between 800 and 900 seems have been the period of greatest achievement. These Crucifixes appear at monastic sites.

"The crosses often marked the boundaries of monastic lands, or important crossroads. Other crosses served devotional or penitential functions. Still others commemorated a miraculous event, the dedication of a church, or a sacred spot associated with a saint. Inscriptions, when discernible, ask that prayers be said for the patron. No doubt, a monastery could possess a number of crosses, both wooden and stone, that served a variety of purposes." University of North Carolina website

The Crucifixes may originally have been painted.

Ardboe, Co. Tyrone, from the site of a 6th century monastery established by St. Colman.

Castledermot, Co. Kildare, East Face with Crucifixion

Clonmacnois, Co. Offaly, 6th century monastery founded by St Ciaran

Duleek, Co. Meath

Durrow, Co. Offaly, at Durrow Abbey, established by Saint Columba (this is also the home of the Book of Durrow)

Graiguenamanagh, Co. Kilkenny, 8th century: the Cistercian Abbey of Duiske was built at the site of this Crucifix and its companion 400 years later.

Kells, the Market Crucifix, Co. Meath

Kilfenora, Co. Clare, West Crucifix

Monasterboise, Co. Louth, Crucifix of Muiredach

Monasterboise, West Crucifix

Roscrea, Co. Tipperary, 12th century. Saint Cronan's Crucifix. This is actually two fragments of the original Crucifix held together by a modern section

Termonfeckin, Co. Louth, 7th century Crucifix on a monastic site that is now part of the graveyard of a CofI church

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