Holy Well / Tobernalt
Two occurrences of late have convinced me to put up a page here dedicated to the Holy Well of Aughamore. First up Anne McMorrow, a cousin of mine, gave me the loan of an anonymous poem written about the building of Tobernalt in it's present form back in 1921. It is written along the epic scale so intend to post it several verses at a time. The second instance was a late night session that dragged on, not to the wee hours of the morning but the hours directly after them, say around 5 / 6 am: heading off to the laba at around 5.20 I notice a car pulling up opposite the house and couple exiting and heading off, 'a strange place to park' I thought, next a small cavalcade of cars appear and duly pass, I thought a party was about to occur further down the road ( it turns it was but not of the kind I first imagined ), a few more bodies, more cars, the penny drops: Garland Sunday. So needless to say I cleaned myself up and indulged in 6 am mass on Garland Sunday for the first time in perhaps 40 years.
I will post more pictures and text as the days, years, decades past. For now the pictures were taken just last Sunday morning at around 6 am (another late night early morning). I had gone down hoping to get some with the well beset with mist but alas it was everywhere expect there.
I will post more pictures and text as the days, years, decades past. For now the pictures were taken just last Sunday morning at around 6 am (another late night early morning). I had gone down hoping to get some with the well beset with mist but alas it was everywhere expect there.
August 13th 1921
A Simple Rhyme
Dedicated to the Aughamore Boys and their C.C.
“To be sure it could be better” - (Horace)
“And be sure to put in a bar about Harry.” - (Omar Kahyam)
“Fifty to one the Aughmore boys” - (Jacobus Ward)
You’ve never seen Tubbernailt, have you?
Turn down, sir, this lane to the right.
Just a few hundred yards past the school, sir.
And the lake there below just in sight.
They’re a grand people here, sorra’ grander
And the district is called Aughamore.
And the lake is Lough Gill as you know sir,
Famed for beauty the wide world o’er.
Mind that stone, sir; look our for the thorns,
This lane is not made, sir, for tyres,
‘Tho’ it serves its own purpose alright, sir,
Which is all that a car-horse requires.
That’s Gallagher’s there on the hill, sir,
And Thady Oates lives just next door,
If ever you’re hungry or dry, sir,
You will know where to call; and what’s more,
It’s the same with them all around here, sir,
They are ladies and gents every one.
If you’re the right sort, sir, you’re welcome;
But if not, well, the quicker you run
And the more miles you put, sir, behind you
The longer you’ll live. But you’re done
If they catch you at thieving or plunder,
Or anything crooked or mean,
They’ll come down like a loud clap of thunder
And you’ll wish that you never had been.
For they’re fine hefty lads around here, sir,
Now the Oates’, to name but a few,
And the Ward’s and M’Loughlin’s and Scanlon’s,
And the Gallagher’s, John, James and Hugh.
But we’ll call them plain Harry and Pat, sir,
And Stephen, Luke, Jerry and John, sir,
And James p. with the long football kick.
Here we are, sir, dismount, and look around you
And tell me if ever you’ve seen
A sight to beat hat, sir, for grandeur,
In all the grand places you’ve been.
Take a drink from the Well, as you’re at it,
There’s a nice goblet there at your feet,
In the sultriest heat of midsummer
It’s as cool, sir, as January sleet.
When you’re finished, look down to the bottom
And try, sir, to locate the trout,
For as sure as you do, sir, you’re luck
And you’ll get your request beyond doubt.
There’s the boundary wall, look it over,
Try the weight of those rocks if you’re strong,
Fionn McCool put them there long ago, sir,
At least so you’d think, but I’m wrong,
And I’d not take you in for the world, sir,
And to lie, sir, it’s sorry I’d be,
But the lads from ‘round here built this wall, sir,
And placed the big stones as you see.
T’was a great sight the first day we started,
One close summer’s evening last May.
Our plan was to root them out first, sir,
And then roll them down to the dray.
And haul them across the green sward, sir,
To the Well, a good distance away.
So they all turned up to a man, sir,
Some thirty fine fellows or more.
From every direction they came, sir,
From the wood and the quarries and shore,
And they didn’t bring empty hands either,
But crowbars and shovels galore.
While to crown all, my friend, Pat Gilmartin,
With his horses, was there to the fore.
It was then that the green woods resounded
And rang to each loud cheer and blow
As the big boulders skipped, sir, and bounded,
And crashed through the timber below.
“All together boys, now”! Says Pat Duignan
“Come on every man worth his salt,”
And away head the stone for the lake, sir,
Till young Peter Healy, cried “halt!”
“Clear the way!” cries a loud voice up higher,
“Keep back!” and to cover we flew
As another rock came, sir, a flier,
Like a skylark from out of the blue.
But a sturdy old ash blocked the way, sir,
And for once all our labours were in vain,
For the rock went in bits on the tree, sir,
And the splinters came falling like rain.
Well of course, we attracted some notice,
And some strangers once lent us a hand,
But the left, sir, sad men, sir, and wiser,
Because why as you’ll well understand.
Cigarettes are all right in their way, sir,
And we all like a “Woodbine” or “Player”,
But to offer mere fags, sir, for wages,
Is not treating the workingman fair.
So they didn`t come back anymore, sir,
And I`m sorry to say, but it`s true,
That I don`t think our hearts were too sore, sir.
That`s a fact, sir, between me and you.
It was a long after dark when we struck, sir,
And the night wind astir in the trees,
When we wended our way to the altar,
And there on our low-bended knees,
We offered a Rosary to Mary
That Ireland soon might be free.
‘Twas a grand sight, sir, weird and thrilling,
Calling back Penal Days long ago,
And no wonder if eyes, sir, were filling
And some voices were broken and low
While the young priest knelt there at the altar
Where the dim candles lights were aglow,
With the deep silent woods all around, sir,
And the deep silent waters below.
Dedicated to the Aughamore Boys and their C.C.
“To be sure it could be better” - (Horace)
“And be sure to put in a bar about Harry.” - (Omar Kahyam)
“Fifty to one the Aughmore boys” - (Jacobus Ward)
You’ve never seen Tubbernailt, have you?
Turn down, sir, this lane to the right.
Just a few hundred yards past the school, sir.
And the lake there below just in sight.
They’re a grand people here, sorra’ grander
And the district is called Aughamore.
And the lake is Lough Gill as you know sir,
Famed for beauty the wide world o’er.
Mind that stone, sir; look our for the thorns,
This lane is not made, sir, for tyres,
‘Tho’ it serves its own purpose alright, sir,
Which is all that a car-horse requires.
That’s Gallagher’s there on the hill, sir,
And Thady Oates lives just next door,
If ever you’re hungry or dry, sir,
You will know where to call; and what’s more,
It’s the same with them all around here, sir,
They are ladies and gents every one.
If you’re the right sort, sir, you’re welcome;
But if not, well, the quicker you run
And the more miles you put, sir, behind you
The longer you’ll live. But you’re done
If they catch you at thieving or plunder,
Or anything crooked or mean,
They’ll come down like a loud clap of thunder
And you’ll wish that you never had been.
For they’re fine hefty lads around here, sir,
Now the Oates’, to name but a few,
And the Ward’s and M’Loughlin’s and Scanlon’s,
And the Gallagher’s, John, James and Hugh.
But we’ll call them plain Harry and Pat, sir,
And Stephen, Luke, Jerry and John, sir,
And James p. with the long football kick.
Here we are, sir, dismount, and look around you
And tell me if ever you’ve seen
A sight to beat hat, sir, for grandeur,
In all the grand places you’ve been.
Take a drink from the Well, as you’re at it,
There’s a nice goblet there at your feet,
In the sultriest heat of midsummer
It’s as cool, sir, as January sleet.
When you’re finished, look down to the bottom
And try, sir, to locate the trout,
For as sure as you do, sir, you’re luck
And you’ll get your request beyond doubt.
There’s the boundary wall, look it over,
Try the weight of those rocks if you’re strong,
Fionn McCool put them there long ago, sir,
At least so you’d think, but I’m wrong,
And I’d not take you in for the world, sir,
And to lie, sir, it’s sorry I’d be,
But the lads from ‘round here built this wall, sir,
And placed the big stones as you see.
T’was a great sight the first day we started,
One close summer’s evening last May.
Our plan was to root them out first, sir,
And then roll them down to the dray.
And haul them across the green sward, sir,
To the Well, a good distance away.
So they all turned up to a man, sir,
Some thirty fine fellows or more.
From every direction they came, sir,
From the wood and the quarries and shore,
And they didn’t bring empty hands either,
But crowbars and shovels galore.
While to crown all, my friend, Pat Gilmartin,
With his horses, was there to the fore.
It was then that the green woods resounded
And rang to each loud cheer and blow
As the big boulders skipped, sir, and bounded,
And crashed through the timber below.
“All together boys, now”! Says Pat Duignan
“Come on every man worth his salt,”
And away head the stone for the lake, sir,
Till young Peter Healy, cried “halt!”
“Clear the way!” cries a loud voice up higher,
“Keep back!” and to cover we flew
As another rock came, sir, a flier,
Like a skylark from out of the blue.
But a sturdy old ash blocked the way, sir,
And for once all our labours were in vain,
For the rock went in bits on the tree, sir,
And the splinters came falling like rain.
Well of course, we attracted some notice,
And some strangers once lent us a hand,
But the left, sir, sad men, sir, and wiser,
Because why as you’ll well understand.
Cigarettes are all right in their way, sir,
And we all like a “Woodbine” or “Player”,
But to offer mere fags, sir, for wages,
Is not treating the workingman fair.
So they didn`t come back anymore, sir,
And I`m sorry to say, but it`s true,
That I don`t think our hearts were too sore, sir.
That`s a fact, sir, between me and you.
It was a long after dark when we struck, sir,
And the night wind astir in the trees,
When we wended our way to the altar,
And there on our low-bended knees,
We offered a Rosary to Mary
That Ireland soon might be free.
‘Twas a grand sight, sir, weird and thrilling,
Calling back Penal Days long ago,
And no wonder if eyes, sir, were filling
And some voices were broken and low
While the young priest knelt there at the altar
Where the dim candles lights were aglow,
With the deep silent woods all around, sir,
And the deep silent waters below.
