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aussieannie
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My heart is bursting and my mind is going down memory lane. I am just helping Tina find some Australian adventure stories, but it has led me to poems, as alot of our poetry are stories in themselves that capture our spirit - I thought these poems were a good idea as I can send links to these poems and their history without anyone needing to spend money to buy them or have trouble tracking them down in the US.
So then I remembered a poetry book from my childhood - written by a Catholic Irish priest, Fr John O'Brien who expresses the Australian Irish Catholics so perfectly. The trimmings of the rosary.....is that a term used here too? Probably, but is a word all Australian Catholics know, all those extra prayers added, praying for this person and that intention you add to the end of the rosary - my mum had trimmings, and my Nanna and any friends we visited to say the rosary with had their trimmings too - it is a beautiful thing - my greatgrandfather's trimmings were legendary in our clan.
Well here is a poem I can remember from when I was little, and I have to laugh at this line: "With a "Glory, Daddah, Glory!" and he'd "Glory" like a shot." this was my dad if he were in the car driving and not holding his beads.
I hope you enjoy reading this.
Trimmings Of The Rosary
Ah, the memories that find me now my hair is turning gray,
Drifting in like painted butterflies from paddocks far away;
Dripping dainty wings in fancy-and the pictures, fading fast,
Stand again in rose and purple in the album of the past.
There's the old slab dwelling dreaming by the wistful, watchful trees,
Where the coolabahs are listening to the stories of the breeze;
There's a homely welcome beaming from its big, bright friendly eyes,
With the Sugarloaf behind it blackened in against the skies;
There's the same dear happy circle round the boree's cheery blaze
With a little Irish Mother telling tales of other days.
She had one sweet, holy custom which I never can forget,
And a gentle benediction crowns her memory for it yet;
I can see that little mother still and hear her as she pleads,
"Now it's getting on to bed-time; all you childer get your beads."
There were no steel-bound conventions in that old slab dwelling free;
Only this-each night she lined us up to say the Rosary;
E'en the stranger there, who stayed the night upon his journey, knew
He must join the little circle, ay, and take his decade too.
I believe she darkly plotted, when a sinner hove in sight
Who was known to say no prayer at all, to make him stay the night.
Then we'd softly gather round her, and we'd speak in accents low,
And pray like Sainted Dominic so many years ago;
And the little Irish mother's face was radiant, for she knew
That "where two or three are gathered" He is gathered with them too.
O'er the paters and the aves how her reverent head would bend!
How she'd kiss the cross devoutly when she counted to the end!
And the visitor would rise at once, and brush his knees-and then
He'd look very, very foolish as he took the boards again.
She had other prayers to keep him. They were long, long prayers in truth;
And we used to call them "Trimmin's" in my disrespectful youth.
She would pray for kith and kin, and all the friends she'd ever known,
Yes, and everyone of us could boast a "trimmin'" all his own.
She would pray for all our little needs, and every shade of care
That might darken o'er The Sugarloaf, she'd meet it with a prayer.
She would pray for this one's "sore complaint,' or that one's "hurled hand,"
Or that someone else might make a deal and get "that bit of land";
Or that Dad might sell the cattle well, and season's good might rule,
So that little John, the weakly one, might go away to school.
There were trimmin's, too, that came and went but ne'er she closed without
Adding one for something special "none of you must speak about."
Gentle was that little mother, and her wit would sparkle free,
But she'd murder him who looked around while at the Rosary:
And if perchance you lost your beads, disaster waited you,
For the only one she'd pardon was "himself"-because she knew
He was hopeless, and 'twas sinful what excuses he'd invent,
So she let him have his fingers, and he cracked them as he went,
And, bedad, he wasn't certain if he'd counted five or ten,
Yet he'd face the crisis bravely, and would start around again;
But she tallied all the decades, and she'd block him on the spot,
With a "Glory, Daddah, Glory!" and he'd "Glory" like a shot.
She would portion out the decades to the company at large;
But when she reached the trimmin's she would put herself in charge;
And it oft was cause for wonder how she never once forgot,
But could keep them in their order till she went right through the lot.
For that little Irish mother's prayers embraced the country wide;
If a neighbour met with trouble, or was taken ill, or died,
We could count upon a trimmin'-till, in fact, it got that way
That the Rosary was but trimmin's to the trimmin's we would say.
Then "himself" would start keownrawning-for the public good, we thought-
"Sure you'll have us here till mornin'. Yerra, cut them trimmin's short!"
But she'd take him very gently, till he softened by degrees-
"Well, then, let us get it over. Come now, all hands to their knees."
So the little Irish mother kept her trimmin's to the last,
Ever growing as the shadows o'er the old selection passed;
And she lit our drab existence with her simple faith and love,
And I know the angels lingered near to bear her prayers above,
For her children trod the path she trod, nor did they later spurn
To impress her wholesome maxims on their children in their turn.
Ay, and every "sore complaint" came right, and every "hurled hand";
And we made a deal from time to time, and got "that bit of land";
And Dad did sell the cattle well; and little John, her pride,
Was he who said the Mass in black the morning that she died;
So her gentle spirit triumphed-for 'twas this, without a doubt,
Was the very special trimmin' that she kept so dark about.
But the years have crowded past us, and the fledglings all have flown,
And the nest beneath The Sugarloaf no longer is their own;
For a hand has written "finis" and the book is closed for good-
There's a stately red-tiled mansion where the old slab dwelling stood;
There the stranger has her "evenings," and the formal supper's spread,
But I wonder has she "trimmin's" now, or is the Rosary said?
Ah, those little Irish mothers passing from us one by one!
Who will write the noble story of the good that they have done ?
All their children may be scattered, and their fortunes windwards hurled,
But the Trimmin's on the Rosary will bless them round the world.
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MarilynW
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Dear Annie
What a beautiful poem - has me all tearful.Makes me think of my Nana and her "trimmings". I still get to say rosary with my mum and her "trimmings". I have never heard the work trimmings - but I am going to adopt it.
Thanks for sharing.
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aussieannie
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Well I wondered Marilyn, if was a word used here or not - I'm glad I posted, 'cause it is a great word to adopt!
Had to add this too - Trimmings - like all the precious prayer intentions everyone prayers for, from this forum - these are the perfect 'trimmings' that many of you would be adding to the end of daily rosarys for sure.
Actually, I think Fr John O'Brien is writing specifically about his own mother, when I read this line: "So that little John, the weakly one, might go away to school."
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Bridget
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Just the other night I was thinking I need to look for that poem! We have quite a few trimmings on our rosary.
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Bridget, happily married to Kevin, mom to 8 on earth and a small army in heaven
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alicegunther
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Annie, in my pocketbook at this very moment is the book "Around the Boree Log" by John O'Brien. It is an Out of Print book, at least here in the US, but it is my favorite collection of poetry by a single poet of all time--bar none. I re-read it constantly, and when it is not actually in my bag, it is usually close at hand.
John O'Brien's writings touch my heart so deeply, I think because, although he writes about the Australian Irish Catholic experience, his humor and observations mirror my own American Irish Catholic experience in every way. The "characters" in his poetry could have been parishioners and priests of St. Mary's Winfield back in the days of my childhood.
Ever since reading our first Fr. John O'Brien poem, The Trimmin's on the Rosary, our whole famiy has used that expression (trimmin's), and I can never read through the piece without a swell of happy tears. My grandmother's maiden name was Mary Casey, and there are many poems in the Boree Log about Mary Casey and the Caseys, so it always makes me think of her. Other favorites are Six Brown Boxer Hats (hilarious), Vale, Father Pat (sad and beautiful and observant), Josephine (funny and sad and moving), and so many others. Father John O'Brien's words are music, and he hits the nail on the head every single time.
BTW, I've always thought his poem, "The Libel," should be read by all homeschoolers! The theme might be characterized as: Boring and inaccurate texts vs. real life.
Oh, and a big hat tip to Cay Gibson--I discovered the Trimmin's in a St. Patrick's Day post on her blog two years ago. After reading it, I needed to track down all his works. I now own both the Boree Log and The Parish of St. Mel's.
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aussieannie
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Alice, Bridget - I am please to hear it is known in the US - I think as an Australian you think the US doesn't recieve much exposure to us - we of course are very much influenced by the US in so many things!! (very encouraging for Australian Catholics - especially with EWTN.)
alicegunther wrote:
| although he writes about the Australian Irish Catholic experience, his humor and observations mirror my own American Irish Catholic experience in every way. |
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I sensed that with other things - were the Irish Catholic persecuted quite vigorously in the early part of the US history? I was shocked to discover how much we were at the beginning (and for a long time) but I feel persecution can also help define a culture in a unique way - you band together and hold onto your faith through thick and thin - Catholics are blessed by our Irish heritage, absolutely!
When I read that poem in particular - I started to bubble and shake inside and my eyes pinprick, touching deeply - that's my heritage in all that, right up till now! - the rosary in particular is such a gift to families - to mothers.
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1floridamom
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Thank you so much for sharing this! It is beautiful and will send us down many a rabbit trail.
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St. Ann
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It is very beautiful and inspires me now for my journey, recently begun, with praying the Rosary.
Thank you.
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Wife and mother to Hannah '96, Maria '99, Dorothea '01, Helena '03
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Erin
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Anne,
My favourite of all time is "The Parting Rosary" do you have a copy of that one? It's in a different book to Around the Boree Log. Can you guess I didn't pack up any of my John O'Brien books? Its late now, so I'll hopefully have time to post it
Oh and in our family in 'our disrespectful youth' we didn't call them 'trimmin's' but zippedy-do-da's
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jdostalik
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Anne,
Thank you for posting this lovely ode to the Rosary...my dh, who loves all things Irish AND the Rosary, will just adore it...
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Jennifer in TX
wife to Bill, mom to six here on earth and eight in heaven.
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aussieannie
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Erin,
Not from memory, I'd have to see it to be sure..look forward to you posting!!
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Erin
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I cry and cry everytime I read this one 
~~~ The Parting Rosary ~~~
They have brought the news, my darlin', that I've waited for so long.
Faith, 'twas little news they brought me; every story, every song
That I've heard since you enlisted seemed to bear the one refrain,
Till the whole world used to tell me that you'd never come again.
They've been cruel times, alannah, since you left us for the fight,
Potterin' dazed-like all the daytime, thinkin', thinkin' through the night;
Yerra, what's the use complainin', when the world is all amiss,
When the hopin' and the strivin' ever come to dust like this.
'Twas the green months when you left me; non the brown, brown months have come,
Stand the ripe crops in the paddocks, but the harvesters are dumb.
There'll be flowers again in plenty, and a carpet o'er the plain-
Oh, it's hard you won't be comin' when the green months come again!
Still, I'm thankful, oh, I'm thankful for one golden memory,
That the last time spent together was to say The Rosary.
Don't you mind it, boy? we said it in my own room there beyond,
Where I have the little altar where your early prayers you conned,
By the statue that I cherish of the Holy Mother fair,
With the blue cloak round her shoulders, and her white hands crossed in prayer.
They were singin' in the parlour, them that came to say good-bye;
And they sang their gay songs to me-och, I knew the reason why !
They are always kind in trouble in this big warm- hearted land;
Ah, but their way wasn't my way, and they mightn't understand.
So I lit the little candles, and I beckoned you away,
And you came-God bless you for it, boy-the partin' prayer to say.
Ay, the partin' Rosary, darlin'-I can see you kneelin' there,
With your big broad shoulders bendin', and your hands joined on the chair,
And your man's voice like an organ rollin' out its soul apart-
Och, to-night, boy, in my dreamin' it is dronin' in my heart.
Yes, we said it with the music strummin' ragtime songs throughout,
Just our two selves there together, answerin' Bother turn about.
'Tis a quare, quare world, alannah, when the storm can work its stress
On the strong limb, while the withered leaf is left in loneliness.
"Lay your treasure up in Heaven," for there's nothing here below;
Och, we Irish mothers learned it in the old land long ago!
Short life's springtime with its blossom; and it comes not back again,
Only haggard trees in winter stretchin' naked limbs in pain.
Oh, I'm thankin' God, my bonhal, though the achin's in my breast,
'Twas He took you from me, darlin', and He knoweth what is best:
And His Holy Mother Mary, with her Baby on her knee,
Sure she lost Him in His manhood, for He died at thirty-three.
There's a numbin' in my heart, boy; like a cold, cold hand it grips
Oh, I'm thankful that we parted with the Rosary on your lips.
It has ever been my refuge; it has been my hope and stay,
Been my hymn of sweet thanksgivin' for what good there came my way.
It has been my only comfort when the heart was sick and sore,
When the bad days past the countin' flung their troubles round my door.
I was taught it by my mother; ay, and when we crossed the sea
For to seek the gold we never found-the old man there and me
(Sure he stood six feet and higher then, and coal- black was his hair
Och, you'd never know 'twas him at all, that bent old man in there)-
We have said it in the slab hut, strong and clear in flood and drought,
Just our two selves there together "answerin' up" and "givin' out."
We have said it by the cradle, we have said it by the cot;
When the babes the angels brought us made us happy in our lot,
When the house was full of childer, and the pride of livin' glowed,
Och, we said it till the neighbours heard us, passin' on the road.
But ye've gone and left me lonely; one by one, my doves, ye flew;
One by one the circle's dwindled, till the Rosary's said by two-
Said by two old husky voices, old and weak and wearin' out,
Just our two old selves together, answerin' t'other turn about.
Sure it won't be long, alannah, till the troubled sea is calm,
And the beads drop from my fingers, and they bind them on my arm.
You would tease me with the "trimmin's" in the dear days that are dead,
There's another trimmin' now, boy, every time the Rosary's said.
But there won't be many Rosaries, for the singin's in my ears,
And the Holy Mother's beckonin'-I can see her through my tears.
These old feet have done their journey, better leave them restin', then;
They will bring me to the hill-side ere the green months come again.
Sure I'll tread the House of Glory, where the soul is free from harm,
And you'll know 'tis me, alannah, by the Rosary on my arm.
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alicegunther
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Thank you, Erin. This is my favorite poem in "The Parish of St. Mel's" It is so sad, but so full of Faith and Love.
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alicegunther
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aussieannie wrote:
| Alice, Bridget - I am please to hear it is known in the US - I think as an Australian you think the US doesn't recieve much exposure to us - we of course are very much influenced by the US in so many things!! (very encouraging for Australian Catholics - especially with EWTN.) |
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Unfortunately, Father John O'Brien (whose real name, I believe, was Msgr. Patrick Hartigan--I should double check that one) is not well known here. Cay Gibson mentioned him on her blog awhile back, and I took a lot of time researching and seeking out his other work. That was how I managed to obtain the two out of print copies of his works. I encourage anyone reading this to do the same, especially if you are fortunate enough to find "Around the Boree Log." It is just wonderful.
aussieannie wrote:
alicegunther wrote:
| although he writes about the Australian Irish Catholic experience, his humor and observations mirror my own American Irish Catholic experience in every way. |
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I sensed that with other things - were the Irish Catholic persecuted quite vigorously in the early part of the US history? I was shocked to discover how much we were at the beginning (and for a long time) but I feel persecution can also help define a culture in a unique way - you band together and hold onto your faith through thick and thin - Catholics are blessed by our Irish heritage, absolutely! |
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Yes, there was quite a bit of it years ago, especially when the Irish started arriving in droves during the potato famine. Needless to say, this was no longer the case by the time I was growing up. Still, we lived in a unique Irish neighborhood, full of immigrants, and the common Faith was prevalent and open, much like it would have been in the old country. It didn't seem unusual to me at the time, but I see now that it was. (My parents, by the way, were born in the US, and this actually made me stand out in that crowd!)
aussieannie wrote:
When I read that poem in particular - I started to bubble and shake inside and my eyes pinprick, touching deeply - that's my heritage in all that, right up till now! - the rosary in particular is such a gift to families - to mothers. |
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Annie, that is so true here as well. The mother in the "Trimmin's poem reminds me so much of my two grandmothers and mother, all of whom were devotees of the Rosary. Dh's mother was devoted to the Rosary as well, gathering her eleven children every night in October and May to say the Rosary when they were growing up. God bless all those Rosary-saying mothers!
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teachingmom
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Erin wrote:
| Oh and in our family in 'our disrespectful youth' we didn't call them 'trimmin's' but zippedy-do-da's |
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I love that, Erin!
These poems are wonderful! I remember Alice introducing me to the "Trimmins" poem. It made me laugh to read it. Thanks for reminding me of it, Annie. And "The Parting Rosary" is so sad and beautiful too.
(From another proud Irishwoman. I was a Kelly in my youth!)
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Erin
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Irene
I picked another for you being an Irishwoman I thought you'd appreciate the Irish/Australian humor in this one 
I have fond memories of my dh reciting this one at a Christmas concert a couple of years ago.
TANGMALANGALOO
The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime,
And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time.
And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around,
With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound.
Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too
An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo?
A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,
And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;
Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin's rim,
And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb;
There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too -
But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.
The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;
He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.
But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;
He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn't sure of that.
The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,
And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.
"Come, tell me, boy," his lordship said in crushing tones severe,
"Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?
"How is it that around the world we celebrate that day
"And send a name upon a card to those who're far away?
"Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?"
A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.
He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,
He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.
And so, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,
"That's good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?"
The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew -
"It's the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo.
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teachingmom
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That's a good one, Erin! I'll have to share it with my 12 year old, who is preparing for her Confirmation this Spring. Of course, as I read it out loud to myself, I automatically fell into my Irish grandmother's accent.
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Tangmalangaloo is a riot, Erin!!! As long as we are sharing Father O'Brien's humorous poetry, here is a piece of hilarity from Around the Boree Log. As a mother of six girls, I feel for the mother trying to outfit those six sons:
Six Brown Boxer Hats
The hawker with his tilted cart pulled up beside the fence,
And opened out his wondrous mart with startling eloquence;
All sorts of toys for girls and boys upon the grass he spread,
And dolls, dirt-cheap, that went to sleep when stood upon their head;
But our male hearts were beating high for balls and cricket-bats
When mother, with the business eye, bought six brown boxer hats.
Six out-of-date extinguishers that fitted us too soon -
Six ugly, upturned canisters -but through the afternoon
Our rage and scorn were overborne to see swift fingers flit
With pad and trim, around the rim, to make the stove-pipes fit.
So Monday morning came, and six "ungrateful young kanats"
Went off to school like lunatics in six brown boxer hats.
Then friends at every meeting showed an interest all too rare
Or chilled our faltered greetings with the silence of a stare;
And comrades who, we thought, were true indulged in vulgar jeers,
While willing fists of humorists slambanged them round our ears
But worst of all the social smart from taunting plutocrats -
"Yez pinched them from the hawker's cart, them six brown boxer hats."
(Dress how we will, we feel it still, when friends will stop to chat,
To see a broad good-humoured smile is trained upon the hat.)
We could not fight with wonted might, for bitter black distress
Was in our souls, and on our polls the hateful ugliness.
We faced a fine barrage of sticks; and six "broke-up" kanats
Went home to meet the storm in six brown battered boxer hats.
__________________
Love, Alice
mother of seven!
Cottage Blessings
Brew yourself a cup of tea, and come for a visit!
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alicegunther
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BTW, "kanats" is a slang term, probably a variation on "gnats."
__________________
Love, Alice
mother of seven!
Cottage Blessings
Brew yourself a cup of tea, and come for a visit!
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stefoodie
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Not Australian or Irish here, but I recognized my parents in your "trimmin's" -- they did this while I was growing up and until now -- we have our own tradition now of trimmin's, but they are said BEFORE the rosary.
Thank you so much for sharing, Anne and Alice and Erin!
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stef
mom to five
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4Real Forums : Living Literature
Topic: Can I share something that is beautiful?
