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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 21st Of July 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 21st Of July 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 21st Of July 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Learn moreListen to West Wind Blows 21july2024 by Connemara Radio Archives MP3 song. West Wind Blows 21july2024 song from Connemara Radio Archives is available on Audio.com. The duration of song is 54:32. This high-quality MP3 track has 64 kbps bitrate and was uploaded on 25 Jul 2024. Stream and download West Wind Blows 21july2024 by Connemara Radio Archives for free on Audio.com – your ultimate destination for MP3 music.
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This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. It features poetry, songs, and stories. The first segment discusses a poem by W.B. Yeats about unrequited love. It is followed by a reading of the poem. Next, a poem by Patrick Kavanagh is discussed and read. The program then moves on to a story about Circle Time in a classroom, where the students discuss getting a class pet. Finally, a Rilke poem is read. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and mattress in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877. Hello again and welcome to the West Wind Blows, a weekly program of poetry, song and story. My name is Kathleen Faherty and Bridie Cashin is producer and technician for the program. We'll begin with the poem by W.B. Yeats, He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven. This is one of Yeats' great love poems. It's addressed to Morganne, the love of his life. This poem was written in 1899 when Yeats was 34 years old. Yeats the romantic is dreaming up all the gifts he'd love to bestow on Morganne, the whole universe with all its splendour and variety of colour. Yeats is saying that because he is materially poor he could only ever give her spiritual gifts. The poem ends with Yeats beseeching Morganne not to reject him and break his heart. I have spread my dreams under your feet, tread softly because you tread on my dreams. And we know of course that Morganne did reject him and broke his heart. Yeats himself said, does the imagination dwell more upon a woman won or a woman lost? History has told us that Yeats' imagination dwelt more on a woman lost. Throughout his life and on unto old age, and out of all his unfulfilled romantic dreams, heartaches and disappointments, he has left the world a legacy of beautiful poems of love and unrequited love. And now we listen to Lorna Flaherty reading her favourite Yeats poem, He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven. I chose this poem as I had studied W.B. Yeats for my Leaving Cert in 2004 and this was by far my favourite poem. He Wished for the Cloths of Heaven Had I the heavens embroidered cloths, Enwraught with gold and silver light, The blue in the dim and the dark cloths, Of night and light and half-light. I would spread the cloths under your feet, But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I would spread my dreams under your feet, Thread softly, because you thread on my dreams. Oh, Rosemary, I love you, I'm always dreaming of you, No matter what I do, I can't forget you. Sometimes I wish that I never met you, And yet if I should lose you, It would mean my very life to me, Of all the queens that ever lived, I'd choose you, To rule me, my Rosemary. Of all the queens that ever lived, I'd choose you, To rule me, my Rosemary. Of all the queens that ever lived, I'd choose you, Yes, I'd choose you, To rule me, my Rosemary. And that was Slim Whitman with Rosemary. Now with a poem by Patrick Kavanagh. And it's called Peace. The poem is read by Anne-Marie McGowan. Peace is one of Kavanagh's classic country poems. His ambivalence about country versus city life is very evident. He captures the atmosphere with his distinctive simplicity. A saddle harrow removed the top of potato drills before the shoots broke the surface. It was shaped like a saddle and would not have been in general used throughout the country. And sometimes I am sorry when the grass is growing over the stones in quiet hollows, and the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-path, that I am not the voice of country fellows, who now are standing by some headland, talking. Talking of turnips and potatoes or young corn, of turf-banks stripped for victory. Here Peace is hawking his coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn. Upon a headland by a whinny hedge, a hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow. There's an old plough upside down on a weedy ridge, and someone is shouldering home a saddle harrow. Out of that childhood country, what fools climb, to fight with tyrant's love and life and time? I've met some folks who say that I'm a dreamer, and I've not doubted this truth in what they say. For should a body bound to be a dreamer, when all the things he loves are far away, and special things are dreamers to an exile, they take him o'er the land across the sea. Especially when it happens he's in exile, from that dear lovely island in H3. And when the moonlight peeps across the rooftops of this great city, wondrous though it be, my scarce can feel the magic or the beauty. I'm once again back home in H3. I wander o'er green hills and dreamy valleys, and find a peace no other land could know. I hear the birds make music fit for angels, and watch the rivers lapping as they flow. And then unto a humble shack I wander, my own dear home, and tenderly behold the folks I love around the tarp I gather. On bended knees the rosary is sung, but dreams don't last, oh dreams are not forgotten, and soon I'm back to surf reality. And though they paint the footpaths here with boulders, I still will choose the island in H3. I still will choose my island in H3. And that was The Isle of Inish Free, sung here by Paddy Flaherty, with Liam Aspel on accordion. And that's taken from the Connemara Community Radio CD, Come by the Hills. The highly popular writing series, A Page in the Life, ran on RTE's Marian Finucane Show throughout 2004-2005 season, featuring true-life stories written by listeners about life and living in contemporary Ireland. And this is one of the stories, Circle Time, by Cyril Kelly, and the story is read by Brian Tunder. Circle Time by Cyril Kelly Circle Time, the manual claimed, was the new panacea for the ills besetting education today. It would enhance pupils' self-esteem, improve class morale, even arouse empathy in the most disaffected little macho man around. So what was I waiting for? My first difficulty, however, was to get my lad to sit in a circle on the floor. It wasn't so much the geometric concept that presented a problem, more the social notion. Mixer wouldn't sit near Shamey, Marco's sister had dumped Philly, and Chili's da had moved in with Mushroom's ma the previous week. Eventually, after I'd cajoled and counseled, we were ready. I was going around the restless circle with my saucer of sweets, proffering one to any fella who'd said something positive either about himself or a classmate. But by the time they had learned that boastfulness was not the same as saying something positive, it was nearly home time. Out of the blue, Ghosty, the smallest, quietest fella in the class, spoke. He just wanted to know, could we get a class pet? All differences and dissent were immediately forgotten. Before I could intervene, some lads had a horse bought in Smithfield and had given him grazing at the back of the school. Another lad's neighbour had snakes, while someone's cultchy cousin had found a fox cub. But the reality came down to a choice between goldfish, pigeons or mice. An amazingly adult discussion ensued, all about care, cost and commitment. The bell was long gone when a consensus was arrived at. Mice it was. By unanimous choice, Ghosty was given the responsibility of collecting fifty cents from everybody and making the purchase. On Monday morning, our two sniffing, darting, defecating, pink-eyed orphans arrived. I'd just placed their cage on the press and was calling the roll when Sparky declared that the mice should have names as well. Thinking I was being smart, I wondered aloud about their gender. A boy mouse wouldn't want a Miss Mousy name. Suddenly the place was like the pit in Wall Street. Everybody knew somebody who knew somebody who knew what to look for. When I got peace restored, Ghosty said that in the pet shop Waxy had explained everything. With a nod from myself and gleeful urgings from the lads, Ghosty went to the cage and removed one of the mice. Grasping each hind leg between finger and thumb, a minute scrutiny was carried out beneath the frenzied tail. A boy, Ghosty announced, returning the squealing creature and grabbing his companion. Almost immediately a similar verdict. Another boy. So we christened them Eminem and Rap. On the following Thursday morning, Sparky was cleaning out the cage when he gave a screech, SOAR! SOAR! In the corner he discovered half a dozen newborn mice. In these days of sex education and exploring masculinities, with controversy raging among parents and teachers, I reckoned that it was time to revise the biological basics with my lads. A mouse lived in a windmill in old Amsterdam. A windmill with a mouse in and he wasn't browsing. He sang every morning how lucky I am. Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam. I saw a mouse. Where? There on the stair. Where on the stair? Right there. A little mouse with gloves on. Well I'd be fair. Going clippity cloppity on the stair. Oh yeah. This mouse he got lonesome. He took him a wife. A windmill with mice in. It's hardly surprising. She sang every morning how lucky I am. Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam. I saw a mouse. Where? There on the stair. Where on the stair? Right there. A little mouse with gloves on. Well I'd be fair. Going clippity cloppity on the stair. Oh yeah. First they had triplets and then they had quins. A windmill with quins in. Triplets and twins in. They sang every morning how lucky we are. Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam. I saw a mouse. Where? There on the stair. Where on the stair? Right there. A little mouse with gloves on. Well I'd be fair. Going clippity cloppity on the stair. Oh yeah. The daughters got married and so did the sons. The windmill had christenings when no one was listening. They all sang in chorus how lucky we are. Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam. I saw a mouse. Where? There on the stair. Where on the stair? Right there. A little mouse with gloves on. Well I'd be fair. Going clippity cloppity on the stair. Oh yeah. A mouse lived in a windmill so snug and so nice. There's nobody there now but a whole lot of mice. And why? And that was The Windmill in Old Amsterdam. And it was sung here by Ronnie Hilton. The poet Rainer Maria Rilke was born in 1875 and died in 1926. Rilke is considered to be one of the greatest lyric poets of modern Germany. This Rilke poem, I Live My Life in Widening Rings, is truly inspirational. And the poem is read by Joe McGowan. I live my life in widening rings spread over earth and sky. I may not ever complete the last one, but that is what I will try. I circle around God, the primordial tower, and I circle ten thousand years long. And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song. I live my life in widening rings spread over earth and sky. And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song. And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song. I live my life in widening rings spread over earth and sky. And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song. And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song. I live my life in widening rings spread over earth and sky. And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. And it's called Doreen's Traditional Irish Breakfast. And the story is read by Mary Faherty. Doreen's Traditional Full Irish by Pat Lawless The sound of charcoal being scraped from toast in the adjoining kitchen alerted me to the impending arrival of our breakfast. My wife and I were heading to Cork for a wedding. It was in the long hot summer of 1976. As a result of the car overheating with a burst hosepipe we had stopped for the night in a small town. We decided to stay in a B&B called Rose Tree House and leave early next morning for the wedding. The landlady's name was Doreen. She was siftyish with blonde hair and was a little overweight. She was wearing a green dressing gown and purple slippers crumpled at the back from years of incorrect wear. There was a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. She was carrying our full Irish and I thought she would not reach the table without the long ash from her cigarette falling into the food. She tossed the plates onto our table with a loud crash and smiled as she sucked another smoke load into her lungs. Tea or coffee, she said. Tea, we answered. The menu stated traditional full Irish and maybe Doreen shouldn't be condemned for flouting the Trade Descriptions Act. But what about the traditional element? Rose Tree House? I saw no rose tree, either out front or in the back garden. There wasn't a flower of any kind in sight unless you counted the plastic one standing in a used mineral bottle in the middle of our table. The tarmac on the drive was worn with potholes as big as a dustbin lid. At the back of the house there was what looked like hastily laid paving. It was half covered with weeds and grass. The lawn was a haven for wildlife, having not seen a lawnmower for the whole summer. The area where we were having breakfast had a plaque on the door saying dining room. Another misnomer. A room which was obviously a sitting room in another life now had three round tables with four mismatching chairs around each. Doreen had thrown in some white plastic tablecloths and called it the dining room. As she shuffled back when she came, my attention turned to my fry-up. The bacon was crisp and hard, the sausage burnt, which is the way I like them, and the toast was burnt too. The egg was soft white on the edges with what looked like a yellow oil slick in the middle. I put my knife under the edge and lifted it and found beans. I counted eight. Why put eight beans on a plate and ten on my wife's plate when we were the only customers staying that night? Had Doreen opened up a fresh ten just to use a small spoon of beans? I began to wonder if perhaps there were leftovers from a previous guest. From that moment on, I didn't allow my knife to even touch them. That ruled out the egg and the toast was a goner even before we got it. I then noticed one of my sausages was actually half a sausage. Had Doreen eaten the other half? I dropped my knife and fork on the plate and the yellow oil slick splashed out on the plastic white tablecloth and also on my tie and white wedding shirt. Back in the bedroom, I struggled with soap and cold water to remove the yellow stain, but to no avail. We paid our bill and left to complete the remainder of our journey. As previously arranged, we stayed in a hotel in Cork City and took a taxi ride to the event. We were going to a friend's daughter's wedding. Her future husband was in the Navy based on the island of Hull Bowling in Cork Harbour. The wedding was in the church on the island followed by a short walk to the officers' mess for the reception. The reception was a grand affair with uniforms, medals, swords and all the paraphernalia one might expect at such an occasion. It even included the Navy Band. The one remaining memory that sticks in my mind from that weekend, apart from Dorian's breakfast, was the cost of a round of drinks. The Navy paid no duty or tax on alcohol, so the price of a round of six drinks was less than a fiver. It would normally be nearly three times that amount anywhere else. I kept my jacket on the whole day. I had to hide the egg-stained shirt. As I was walking down the road I spied a corpse amid the boring The heart so swinging open wide Oh, welcome to the female God save all here, I kindly said As sweet Colleen clapped down her head And, God save you kindly, sir, she said Hop in and close the hat to it She had abhorred the place Upon her knees with full epithet As I could see Every one of them cared for me She peered before me, I said She looked at me with a roguish smile She said, sit down and rest a while And you're welcome back to Wilms Isle We never close the hat to it She said, no, sir, you'll have to stay Until I've wet the cup of tea And then you can be on your way And then hang up the hat to it She didn't have to ask me twice Her firm kick and shave was nice And before I left I kissed her twice She leaned across the hat to it She said, see up the shaft in real And I will make you happy feel She turned right upon her heel And lifted up the hat to it She danced that reel with grace and style With every step she went and smiled And to my poor heart she did beguile While dancing on the hat to it She said, no, sir, you'll have to stay Until I've wet the cup of tea And then you can be on your way And then hang up the hat to it She didn't have to ask me twice Her firm kick and shave was nice And before I left I kissed her twice And before I left I kissed her twice She leaned across the hat to it She danced that reel with grace and style With every step she went and smiled And to my poor heart she did beguile While dancing on the hat to it She didn't have to ask me twice Her firm kick and shave was nice And before I left I kissed her twice He was a British poet and soldier in World War I. He was born in 1887. After the outbreak of World War I, he joined the newly formed Royal Naval Division and saw action in Antwerp before dying of septicemia in April 1915 en route for Gallipoli and at that time he would have been 28 years old. This Rupert Brooke poem, The Great Lover is read by Gareth Armstrong and it's believed to be one of the all-time favourite poems of Margaret Thatcher. The Great Lover I have been so great a lover Filled my days so proudly with the splendour of love's praise The pain, the calm and the astonishment Desire illimitable and still content All dear names men use to cheat despair Are hearts at random down the dark of life Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife steals down I would cheat drowsy death so far My night shall be remembered for a star That outshone all the suns of all men's days Shall I not crown them with immortal praise whom I have loved Who have given me, dared with me, high secrets And in darkness knelt to see the inanarrable godhead of delight Love is a flame We have beaconed the world's night A city, and we have built it, these and I An emperor, we have taught the world to die So for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence To keep their magnificence and to keep loyalties young I'll write those names, golden forever, eagles, crying flames And set them as a banner that men may know To dare the generations burn and blow Out on the wind of time, shining and streaming These I have loved White plates and cups, clean gleaming Filled with blue lines and feathery fairy dust Wet roofs beneath the lamplight The strong crust of friendly bread and many tasting food Rainbows and the blue bitter smoke of wood And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers And flowers themselves that sway through sunny hours Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon Then the cool kindliness of sheets That soon smooth away trouble And the rough male kiss of blankets, grainy wood Live hair that is shining and free, blue massing clouds The keen, unpassioned beauty of a great machine The venison of hot water, furs to touch The good smell of old clothes and other such The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, hairs' fragrance And the musty reek that lingers about dead leaves in last year's ferns Dear names and thousand other throng to me Royal flames, sweet waters dimpling laugh From tap or spring, holes in the ground And voices that do sing, voices in laughter too And bodies' pain soon turn to peace And the deep panting train, firm sands The little dulling edge of foam that browns and dwindles As the wave goes home And washing stones gay for an hour The cold graveness of iron, moist black earthen mould Sleep and high places, footprints in the dew And oaks, and brown horse chestnuts, glossy new And new-peeled sticks, and shining pools on grass All these have been my loves, and these shall pass Whatever passes not in the great hour Nor all my passion, all my prayers Have power to hold them with me through the gate of death Here, turn with a traitor breath, break the high bond we made And sell love's trust and sacramented covenant to the dust Oh, never a doubt, but somewhere I shall wake And give what's left of love again And make new friends, now strangers But the best I've known stays here and changes Breaks, grows old, is blown about the winds of the world And fades from brains of living men and dies Nothing remains, oh dear my loves, oh faithless Once again this one last gift I give That after men shall know And later lovers far removed praise you All these were lovely, say, he loved Snowdrops, and taco tins Butterflies, and bees Sailboats, and fishermen Things of the sea Wishing mountains, wedding vases Early morning dew All kinds of everything Things of the sea Seagulls, and aeroplanes Things of the sky Winds that go howling, breezes that fly Cities far, near mountains Grey skies or blue All kinds of everything Remind me of you Summertime, wintertime Spring and autumn too Monday, Tuesday, every day I think of you Roses, things of the night Sunshine, and holidays Postcards to write Burning trees, autumn leaves The snowflakes are true All kinds of everything Remind me of you Summertime, wintertime Spring and autumn too Seasons will never change The way that I love you Dancing, romancing Things of the night Sunshine, and holidays Postcards to write Burning trees, autumn leaves The snowflakes are true All kinds of everything Remind me of you All kinds of everything Remind me of you And that, of course, was Dana with All Kinds of Everything and that was Ireland's entry for the Eurovision Song Contest of 1970 which was held in Amsterdam And now we listen to Mary Ruddy reading a story by Joe Conmey and it's called A Twist in Life A Twist in Life Tonight I'm in a pensive mood looking back on the twists and turns my life has taken I was born in the 1950s in Belmulloch, County Mayo the most westerly point in Ireland Our house was right on the brink of the Atlantic Ocean My father was a small farmer twelve acres of land and four of bog We had five milking cows, their calves a sow and a litter of bonnels every year and dozens of fowl hens, ducks, geese and turkeys The cow bar, stone built and slated, was beside the house There was a channel in the cobbled stone floor to collect the cow manure The pigsty adjoined the bar and had a separate entrance There were also small sheds for the fowl and in winter the donkey was housed in one of those The cows too were housed overnight in wintertime They'd be tethered in the bar I remember bringing them hay in the evenings and how warm and cosy the bar always was with the heat from the hay and the cows' huge bulk and warm breath I used to stay in there for ages just patting the cows and savouring the warmth and the smell of the hay The farmhouse was cold drafts came through the doors and windows and to feel warm you had to be right beside the fire but that wasn't always possible Father commandeered his own special place by the fireside and as my mother did all the cooking on the open fire she needed space around the hearth to manoeuvre pots and pans so there was little room for the rest of us to gather around There were six children in the family We didn't consider ourselves rich or poor We were practically self-sufficient always had enough to eat as we produced most of our food and fuel All six children helped Father on the farm and the bog did chores around the house for Mother and helped her with the fowl In 1958 free education was introduced in Ireland and Father insisted we all attend secondary school He knew there was no future for us on the small farm I started secondary school in 1966 and looking back now I can say I enjoyed the five years there Considering all the child abuse that went on at the time in schools and institutions around Ireland I count myself lucky While the teachers often told me that I was careless, heedless and didn't apply myself like my brothers and sisters I was never slapped or abused After secondary school I drifted from job to job Six months in a bachelors factory in Dublin Substitute teacher for a year in Inver National School in County Donegal Then back to Dublin to work for a landscaping company Two years later in 1972 I got a permanent position with the Department of Agriculture in Athenry I was assigned to the experimental farm where I worked on the propagation of new cereal and grass varieties After two years there I was bored with the job and life in general I had no permanent girlfriend, no car and all my friends had and seemed to be making plans for the future I however was just drifting along from week to week and at the weekend I'd hitch a lift to Dublin One bright summer evening I strolled into a pub off Grafton Street It was only four o'clock and the bar was empty except for one man sitting at the counter puffing a cigar and wearing a fedora hat and a tattered grey jumper ''Great porter, young fella'' he said to me as I took a mouthful of my pint of Guinness I nodded in agreement and encouraged he moved out of the corner ''Mind if I sit here?'' he asked, taking the stool beside me ''Haven't much choice'' I said ''Where are you from?'' he asked, Galway ''My mother came from Athenry'' he said ''That's where I work'' He stretched out his hand and I was really surprised by his firm, decisive handshake ''I might look scruffy and unshaven'' he said ''but I'm not a beggar'' ''Sharp too'' I thought for he guessed correctly that I judged him by his appearance But after that handshake I knew Tom Holden was an honourable soul and I was happy to listen to his story He left school in the 1950s and like me, over a decade later, he drifted from job to job for a while He was in London and worked on building sites and in pubs Then he got a job as a bank clerk and that night he studied law at London University After five years he qualified as a lawyer left the bank, returned to Ireland and joined a firm of solicitors in Dublin ''I met my wife Peggy in Dublin'' he said ''We got married a year later'' He told me that he used to go drinking with his colleagues after work while Peggy would be at home, minding their three children He enjoyed the pub, he said and soon an hour and a couple of drinks was turning into a night and several drinks ''I became alcoholic'' he said and after a pause he added ''It was my fault Peggy and the children left me'' ''Are you still working as a solicitor?'' I asked and called for two more pints ''Drink is a curse, Joe'' he said I started turning up late at the office and missing court cases The firm had no choice but to sack me ''Where do you live now, Tom?'' ''Any, any way I find shelter'' he replied Then he looked me straight in the eye and said ''I can see you're a nice lad, Joe'' ''Don't make the same mistakes as me'' ''Ah sure, a few drinks on a Saturday is no harm'' I said ''That's what I used to say'' he said I looked at my watch and sure enough I had spent three hours drinking ''Tom, I have to go'' I told him and I slipped him a five pound note ''Don't forget to find a nice girl and settle down'' he said shaking my hand again That night I thought about him and his wasted life I took out my little red notebook and wrote ''Remember Tom Holden, August 9th 1975'' ''Be happy and contented in your work and career'' ''Keep close to your family and friends'' ''Set targets to improve your life'' ''Have hope in the future'' The following Monday after work I went to bat in the slow with my friend Simon and purchased a car Now I could drive into the future He couldn't move a mountain Nor pull down a big old tree But my daddy became a mighty big man With a simple philosophy ''Do what you do, do well, oh boy'' ''Do what you do, do well, oh boy'' ''Do what you do, do well'' ''Give her your love and all of your heart'' ''And do what you do, do well'' ''Sometimes he'd kiss my mother and hold her tenderly'' ''Then he'd look across the top of her head'' ''And he'd wink and say to me'' ''Do what you do, do well, oh boy'' ''Do what you do, do well'' ''Give her your love and all of your heart'' ''And do what you do, do well'' ''Well he was a man of man of dirt'' ''But a tragedy came by'' ''The tears ran free and he'd say to me'' ''Don't be afraid to try'' ''Do what you do, do well, oh boy'' ''Do what you do, do well'' ''Give her your love and all of your heart'' ''And do what you do, do well'' ''Today I still remember just like it yesterday'' ''But a mighty big man with a mighty big heart'' ''And a mighty few words to say'' ''Do what you do, do well, oh boy'' ''Do what you do, do well'' ''Give her your love and all of your heart'' ''And do what you do, do well'' ''And do what you do, do well'' And that was ''Do What You Do, Do Well''. Brendan Ridge vocals, Elbow Scannel backing vocals, Lee Nassbell accordion, Peter Carey guitar, Fionnuala Hennigan-Duntley on drums. And that's taken from the Connemara Community Radio CD ''Come By The Hills''. And now we'll move on to a poem by Derek Mahan. And the poem is called ''Everything Is Going To Be Alright''. Derek Mahan was born in Belfast in 1941. An only child of strict Protestant parents. He studied modern languages at Trinity College Dublin. Mahan's poems emerged from real places, persons and events. And this gives them a basis in a reality with which we are familiar. Among his best known poems are ''Antarctica'' and ''After The Titanic''. This poem you're about to hear is quite different. And it is a lovely, comfortable philosophy of life. And the poem is read by Neil Taubin. How should I not be glad to contemplate the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window and a high tide reflected on the ceiling? There will be dying, there will be dying, but there is no need to go into that. The poems flow from the hand unbidden and the hidden source is the watchful heart. The sun rises in spite of everything and the fire cities are beautiful and bright. I lie here in a riot of sunlight watching the day break and the clouds flying. Everything is going to be alright. Soft as the voice of an angel, breathing a lesson unheard. Hope, with a gentle persuasion, whispers her comforting words. Wait till the darkness is over. Wait till life's canvas is done. Hope for the sunshine tomorrow, after the sunshine is gone. Whispering hope, oh how welcome my voice. Making my heart and its sorrow rejoice. Then when the night is upon us, why should the heart sink away? When the dark midnight is over, watch for the breaking of day. Whispering hope, oh how welcome my voice. Making my heart and its sorrow rejoice. And that was Whispering Hope with Pat Boone. Well, we've come to the end of the programme for this week. Thanks to all the contributors. Thanks to Bridie who produced the programme. And thank you at home for listening. Looking forward to your company next week. We are at the end of the programme for this week. Thanks to everyone who participated. Thanks to Bridie for the technical support. Thanks to everyone at home for listening. We'll be back next week with another song from the 16th century. And until we meet again, take care and see you soon. Goodbye.
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