Thomas Caulfield Irwin
We just came across Thomas Caulfield Irwin. He was a famous 19th century poet who came from Warrenpoint. He was born in 1832 and died in 1892. He was a master of the sonnet and was celebrated for his descriptive portrayals of Ireland's landscapes.
it is believed he was born in Newry Street and was the son of a doctor who practiced locally.
Here is one of his songs!
THE POTATO DIGGER'S SONG
COME, Connal, acushla, turn the clay, And show the lumpers the light, gosoon,
For we must toil this autumn day, With Heaven's help till rise of the moon. Our corn is stacked, our hay secure, Thank God! and nothing, my boy, remains, But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure, Before the coming November rains. The peasant's mine is his harvest still; So now my lad, let's dig with a will; " " Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand, Through the crumbly mould; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland!
Och ! I wish that Maurice and Mary dear Were singing beside us this soft day! Of course they'r far better off than here; But whether they'r happier who can say! I've heard, when it's morn with us, 'tis night With them on the far Australian shore; " Well, heaven be about them wid visions bright, And send them childer and money gallore.
With us there's many a mouth to fill, And so my boy, let's work with a will: " Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the brown dry mould; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland!
All, tlun, Paddy O'Reardan, you thundering Turk, Is it coortingyou are in the blessed noon ? " 'omc over here, Katty, and mind your work, Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune. Well " youth will be youth, as you know, IVIike, Sixteen and twenty for eacli were meant; " But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avic Defer your proposals till after Lent; And as love in this country lives mostly still On potatoes " dig, boy, dig with a will: " Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the harvest mould; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland!
Down the bridle road the neighbours ride, Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten sheaves :l sg th mountain side, In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves.
And the children in one As the great Sun sets in glory furled, Faith, it's grand to think as I watch his face " If he never sets on the English World, He never, lad, sets on the Irish Kace,
In the West, in the South, New Irelands still Grow up in his light; " come, work with a will: " Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the native mould; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland!
But look! " the round Moon, yellow as corn, Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm; It scarcely seems a day since morn; Well " the heel of the evening to you ma'in.
