Credit: Photo by Ted Creedon. T he location is a dramatic one, overlooking the Blasket islands and the broad sweep of the grey Atlantic. Recognised as one of Ireland's great storyrellers Peig died in Dingle Hospital 50 years ago on December 8, Her grandson Dan Sheehan came from Connecticut, along with his daughter Kerry, for the commemorations. They had earlier attended a special rememberance Mass in the local church.
Mr Sheehan, aided by his daughter, lay a wreath at the base of Peig's gravestone in front of the gathering. He subsequently travelled to Europe and was present during the Munich putsch, when Herr Hitler took command in Germany and he was in Valencia during the Spanish Civil War. By March , Ward had moved on from Waterford to Cork, first to Bandon and in April, while in Adrigole, he composed a poem about the village.
He was later in Killarney where he was not well received, a ban on street singers being in place. The news of his reception in Kerry reached Waterford, where he had earlier received such welcome. His real merit is his intimate knowledge of the tinkers and other travelling tribes of the roads of Ireland.
So much rot has been written about these people that it is a real education to meet Mr Ward. He has lived with them, been at their weddings and wakes. He has bought and sold with them and fought them. He speaks highly of their morality and their general decency. If they steal, well that is part of their way of life. The response was not immediate and Ward struggled on alone. There had been a misunderstanding about the use of a donkey.
The court reporter gave a good description of the foxy-haired, red-bearded poet:. His spare frame was poorly clothed and from the recesses of the ragged garments he took scraps of paper bearing his own ballad compositions. One of them was entitled The Shilling a Night and according to the author had been broadcast by him from Radio Eireann. Another ballad was about Williams, the young man executed in Belfast.
He had read the works of Dickens and Maxim Gorky, to name a few. Without a donkey, Ward was drawing his makeshift caravan an inverted part of a navog or canvas boat generally used in the Kerry Gaeltacht by himself and his health suffered.
In March, Ward was in the county Infirmary. Within one week, Roe was out of hospital and his donkey had been replaced. Ward sent a poetic thank you to supporters published courtesy of the newspaper. By April , Ward was in the Galtees on his way to Cork from where he planned to visit Kerry for the summer. He was welcomed to the town by Seumus Breathnach. Ward continued his travels to Kerry, where he seems to have remained for some time.
He was still in Dingle in April that year when he sent a verse of condolence to the Nationalist and Leinster Times in memory of James Reddy, manager. The publicity gave opportunity for a little scrutiny of Ward. A young, lank and lean man, somewhat hollow-cheeked of squarish face with deep set light eyes and red, unruly hair. He wore no collar and his broad hands were those of a manual worker. His soft voice with the lovely lilt of his native accent was naturally cultured, the choice of his words was faultless and his arguments so closely knit that the audience hung spell-bound on his lips.
When he returned home he built his caravan. In it he follows the seaboard, writing his ballads, short and succinct stories of local gossip and history. He does it in the early morning, for too many have been eaten by rats overnight. Perhaps it was the interest in his autobiography that caused Ward to go to England in search of a publisher. Ward wrote:.
Unrest is rife and morals seem to have gone very low. Such things are so common that one begins to accept them as part of the broken-down city through which I wander. People do not think here anymore; they are led by emotionalism. But one thing they strongly express themselves about is that they want Germany crushed. Having knocked her down they want to squelch her good and well into the ground. Vengeance is the cry of London — London that is victory-drunk; a city of bitterness.
Hate is in its hey-day, and not only hate for the Germans who have been brought to their knees but also hate for the Welsh and Irish workers who are treated with a great deal of scorn and ridicule. The soldiers of all nationalities, in their several uniforms, are the silent symbols of the nations who have fought for England, and they are now to a great extent unwanted. They are soldiers without a country often than not, especially Poles, who have no place to go.
They are left utterly out in the cold. While he was in England, Ward became unwell but refused to go into hospital there. He returned to Dublin in October with hopes that his book would soon be published. It was remarked that he was suffering from stomach trouble and complaints due to his early working years in the coal pits of Scotland. It was hoped his recovery would come quickly to speed the work into the hands of the publisher.
The response was rapid and generous. The fruit was rushed from the airport to the hospital by Irish Independent newspaper van to Dublin. He travelled to Mexico and the United States and England.
When privation and bad health struck him he became a sad man. A year ago in spring I met him near Foxrock in Co Dublin, sitting on the roadside brooding.
He had just come from hospital after a serious operation which was really the beginning of the end for him. That was the last of him I saw until I got word of his death … Those of you who knew him will pray too that the sod may rest lightly over his frail corpse, and that the soul of Eoghan Roe Ward, The Bard of Tirconnaill, may enjoy the peace that passes understanding. This is about as much as is known about the travelling bard and he remains something of a mystery.
His remarks about his ancestry may well hold truth, for he certainly donated an historic belt to Waterford museum. With his day job in the department of local government he supported a family of 10 siblings after the early death of their father. An alcoholic for much of his life, he suffered from throat cancer and died of a heart attack. He is buried in Deansgrange with his parents and his wife. He was also extraordinarily generous and fatally attracted to alcohol — a knockout combination that meant that despite a number of starring roles, both in the ring and on the screen, he ended up dying penniless in a London hospital.
Cork Ex-Boxers Association came to the rescue and brought his body back to his native Cobh, his coffin topped by his trademark red carnation. Strongbow Christ Church, Dublin Richard de Clare, second earl of Pembroke, is notorious nowadays as the Welsh warlord who brought an invading force of Anglo-Normans into Ireland in Beside him, poignantly, lies a smaller figure, which may be one of his children.
A week later her body was discovered in a shallow grave, broken and badly burned. It was one of the most infamous of all Irish murder cases and it became a political cause celebre, with the Tory press using the killing to discredit the cause of home rule by playing on the notion of a savage Irish peasantry.
Yeats sent him west to the Aran Islands; the rest is Irish literary legend. With the six plays of his brief career as a playwright — a lymphatic sarcoma killed him at the age of 37 — Synge changed the face of Irish theatre forever. Liam Whelan Glasnevin, Dublin He was just 22, and he hated flying. The plane crashed on the return journey after a refuelling stop at Munich airport, killing Whelan and seven other United players, as well as three of the coaching staff.
Bobby Sands Milltown, Belfast Bobby Sands joined the republican movement at the age of 18, after years of intimidation and threats against him and his family. He was, briefly, MP for Fermanagh and South Tyrone, and the author of lyrics for several well-known songs, including Back Home in Derry, which has been recorded by Christy Moore, among others.
He was arrested on suspicion of being involved in a bombing in the North, and died in the Maze Prison after 66 days on hunger strike. His death, and that of nine others, focused international attention on the situation in the North. His grave is in the Jesuit plot at Glasnevin, unmarked, although his name is on a large granite crucifix nearby.
Samuel Cohen Ballybough Cemetery, Fairview, Dublin Among the Jewish immigrants who came to Ireland in the 18th century were jewellers, painters, musicians and chocolate makers. Several generations of Cohens are buried in the old Jewish cemetery at Ballybough, where their headstones feature a pair of carved hands, a traditional symbol of relationship to the biblical high priest Aaron. Later, however, he settled in Wicklow, and he was buried opposite the entrance to the Powerscourt estate in a spot so picturesque that it might have come straight out of one of his canvases.
The granite headstone marking the grave is as modest as he, apparently, was in life. After parachuting into Ballivor, Co Meath, in he lived in hiding for a year before being interned in Athlone. In , under cover of darkness, a group of German ex-army officers exhumed his remains and reburied them in Glencree. Luckily for him he got off at Cobh before the ship sailed to its doom. Soil from each of the six counties was scattered on his coffin.
He is the only person to be buried in the cathedral. Martin Cahill Mount Jerome, Dublin For nearly two decades Cahill was suspected of being behind many of the major crimes committed in Ireland, and his trademark jokes — such as dropping his trousers to reveal a pair of Mickey Mouse boxer shorts — gained him a media profile more suited to a master chef than a master criminal.
His life formed the basis for two international feature films, The General and Ordinary Decent Criminal. The crime caught up with him in the end, and he was murdered in Born to a London-dwelling family with Kerry roots, she grew up to be one of the most kick-ass soul singers of all time.
Please update your payment details to keep enjoying your Irish Times subscription. Arminta Wallace. Photograph: Jack McManus. Dermot Morgan: buried in Deansgrange, Dublin. Photograph: Channel 4. Photograph: Dermot Barry. George Best: buried in Roselawn, Belfast. Lady Gregory: buried at Bohermore, Co Galway.
Martin Cahill: buried at Mount Jerome, Dublin. Photograph: James Meehan. Arthur Guinness: buried at Oughterard, Co Kildare. Bobby Sands: buried at Milltown, Belfast. Liam Whelan: his grave at Glasnevin, Dublin.
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