More lyrics: Kings and Queend of England

Kings and Queens of England

(c) Vic Gammon

Now Charles II had eleven bastard children
And George III went mad
And Edward VII they thought was Jack the Ripper
But Richard III weren't as bad as Shakespeare thought he was
Victoria lay back and thought of England
Charles I lost his head
Well the best thing about those Kings and Queens of England
Is that most of them are dead.

Singing
Rule Britannia
Britannia waives the rules
Kings, Queens, Jacks and Knaves and tyrants
Cheats and fools.

Now William III was a protestant and Dutchman
And James I was a Scot
And George I spoke nothing else but German
What a mixed-up, inter-bred lot.
And William I was a grasping Norman bastard
Believe me, it's no lie.
Well there hasn't been an English king of England
Since Harold got one in the eye.

Chorus

Now she was a well-heeled blue-blood Cinderella,*
Him Prince Charming with big ears,
But he has a thing going with the ugly sister
So it ended all in tears.
So arise now ye ghosts of old Oliver Cromwell,
Brave Harrison and Tom Paine.
Won't you rind our land of this monstrous carbuncle
And bring sunshine after the reign.

Chorus

* I take it the well heeled Cinderella and prince Charming is Diana and Prince Charles?

A Lyrical Year's End

Earsdon, UK

     Over the holiays I had occasion to hear several old songs with historically based lyrics, accounts not only of single events but of several.  I will take these last few days of 2011 to share some of them.  If you happen to know something about the songs, do please comment.

EARSDON SWORD DANCE SONG

I heard this on one of the Waterson's albums, and found reference to its being called "Calling On Song" elsewhere.
Come people give ear to my story
We have called for to see you by chance
Five heroes I bring blythe and bonny
Intending to give you a dance
For Earsdon is our habitation
It's the place we were all born and bred
There are no finer boys in the nation
And none are more gallantly led

It's not for your gold or your silver
Nor yet for the gain of your gear
But we come for to take a weeks pleasure
And welcome the incoming year
My lads they are all fit for action
With spirits and courage so bold
They are born of a noble extraction
Their fathers were heroes of old

Now I shall tell of brave Elliot
The first youth to enter the ring
And so proudly rejoice I to tell it
He fought for his Country and King
When the Spaniards besieged Gibraltar
T'was Elliot defended the place
And he soon made their plans for to alter
Many died others fell in disgrace

Well the next handsome youth who does enter
Is a boy who is both straight and tall
He is the son of the great Bonaparte
The hero that conquered them all
He went over the Lowlands like thunder
Made nations to quivver and quake
Many thousands left standing in wonder
At the havoc he always did make

Now you see all my fine noble heroes
My fine noble heroes by birth
And they each bear as good a character
As any such heroes on earth
If they be as good as their fathers
Their deeds are deserving records
It is our whole company desires
To see how they handle their swords

Novel Grammar Mistakes

I have been reading a lot of novels lately that, in spite of professional editing, reveal the most appalling grammar in the narratives.  I am not speaking of complex grammatical constructions but some of the simplest.. and dumbest.. mistakes around.  No one's perfect, least of all me.  But c'mon, you guys.. these are elementary.

Compound nouns and pronoun.mistakes

Which is correct?

Lady Angelique gave the news to Marie and me.

-or-

Lady Angelique gave the news to Marie and I.

The way to figure the answer is to remove "Marie and' and try it with just "I" or "me".   It's obvious now, right?    I bet you are saying, "You can't seriously mean to tell me you saw this done wrong in a novel!" Not just one!  The official rule is that "I" can only be the subject of a verb and "me" the object.  So while "Marie and I (subject of 'gave') gave the news to lady Angelique" is correct, it is "Lady Angelique gave the news to Marie and me (object of 'gave't)."

Then there is "lie" and "lay". 

Is it:

I can picture Clem laying in the tall prairie grass.

-or-

I can picture Clem lying in the tall prairie grass.

This is actually a sentence in the novel i am reading right now.  You would not believe how often i have seen it.  "To lie" is an intransitive verb.  That means it does not need to have an object.  Something or someone can simply "lie", such as in "Let sleeping dogs lie."  But "to lay" is transitive.  It needs a object.  You "lay" something on something else.  "I lay the book on the table."

You will be in company if you get these two wrong, but I refuse to say "good company".

An Involuntary Christmas: A Story

 

Based on characters from my novel, An Involuntary king: A Tale of Anglo Saxon England -- see left

“Damn!” Lawrence, King of Críslicland, muttered as he realized that in the thickly falling snow he had lost the party with whom he traveled. Shouting did not seem to help. No sound came to tell him where his men were, nor that they had heard and were coming to him. The fat snowflakes fell so fast he could barely see the trees not ten feet from him. It was Advent, the sennight before Christmas, and though his life hung in the balance if he could not find his way out of the blizzard, all he could think was, “I would like to spend it in Lawrencium with my wife.”

He rode on, his horse picking its way carefully in the ever-deepening snow. He could tell the animal, a descendant of his old horse, War-brother, was nervous for when he tried again to shout for help; it started and took a faltering step sideways. With difficulty he used the reins and his voice to calm it.

It was then he heard the voice, coming in wavering snatches as if from a boat tossed at sea. He halted the horse and listened. He leaned forward, cupping one ear with numbing fingers. There it came again, a woman’s voice, calling for help. He listened a moment more to discover from which direction the sound came. He urged his horse forward towards the source of the sound. Taking the chance, he called out that he was coming.

Lawrence picked his way as quickly as he dared through the snow to a stand of bare ash trees. The sound repeated, ever closer. At last he burst out of the trees to find himself in a clearing. There he saw a cloaked figure kneeling in the deep snow trying to cover a prone body with its own. The bent figure straightened. A woman called “Over here! Hurry!”

He slid off his horse, throwing the reins over a low branch at the edge of the woods. He was a very tall man, so his long legs allowed him to walk in the dense snow. He approached the woman, for the voice he heard with its lilting Celtic accent, was female. He wondered how long she had been there, kneeling by what looked like a man’s body, as there were no footprints near, just a slightly shallower valley in the accumulating snow.

“What is it? What has happened?” he called as he came to the spot. Under the hood of the mantle the woman wore he saw a dark face and very dark eyes full of distress.

“H-he fell from his horse, I think. It landed on him. His leg is broken. We must get inside or he will freeze to death.” She began to struggle to her feet. “I can’t lift him. Will you?”

She had no idea who he was. His rich clothing was coated in snow, like her own. But he barely noticed the omission of “my lord” or “your grace”. He was staring down into the blue tinged face of a bearded man. The man was still, his eyes closed. Lawrence was certain he was dead.

“Woman, this is a corpse,” he said.

“No, no, it is not! He has a heartbeat!” she insisted as she used his proffered arm to right herself.

Lawrence knelt by the man. Removing one glove, he put his fingers to a spot within the man’s cloak, to feel for a pulse. He was surprised to encounter chain mail as he tried to push his frozen fingers to bare skin. “My fingers are numb. I can’t feel his heartbeat.”

The woman started to protest but silenced when she saw his arms go under the man to lift him. She did her best to help him, mostly steadying him as he stood again with the limp but stiffening body in his arms.

“Where is your cottage?” he asked. He looked up as she pointed off to one side. “I will get my horse,” he explained as he turned back to where he had entered the clearing.

The woman had noticed his eyes when he looked to her for direction. They were a piercing blue, almost illuminated.

The horse with its burden stepped through the drifting snow as his master led it along behind the woman. The king could tell the woman struggled as if she was old, lame, or simply unsteady on her feet. She was short but corpulent. Either that or she had a dozen layers of clothing on against the cold.

He smelled the smoke of the fire pit before he saw her tiny cottage. At its crude plank door he tied his horse where it was under the overhang of the cottage’s thatch. The roof was so low that it was able to pull at the thatch by simply lifting its head. He assured himself with a glance that the thatch was full of dried grass and no noxious plants. He lifted the body from where he had draped it over his saddle. It seemed warmer now, as if the horse’s body heat had thawed it. He took the body in his arms and turned to follow the woman through the door into the cottage.

It was wonderfully warm inside. The single room was small. There was only one palette, and it was there the woman indicated he should place his burden. As soon as he had, she awkwardly got to her knees and started to strip the man of his snow-peppered clothing. “That chest there.” She flung an arm behind her and he followed her pointing finger, exposed in fingerless gloves, towards a wooden box against the far wall. “Get blankets,” she commanded.

He went to the box and raised the lid. There were indeed thick wool blankets. He enjoyed the warmth on his fingers as he pulled them out. Wool blankets in a warm room, like putting on thick gloves. He brought them to her. She began to tug at the dead man’s cloak. “Here, let me lift him for you.” She thanked him as first he lifted the body so she could pull the cloak out from under what he was beginning to suspect was actually a live man, and when he pulled off his own fur lined cloak, shook off the melting snow, and handed it to her to use as a further blanket. “Let me get my horse’s saddle off. I can bring in the saddle blanket and my saddle bags.”

When Lawrence came back into the cottage with the blanket and his other things, he could barely see the man under layers and layers of blankets and cloaks. On the floor nearby was a pile of chain mail. The woman was at the fire pit, melting snow in an iron pot suspended from a tripod over the flames. She put her hand to the small of her back as she got to her feet. His eyes widened. Now just in her dress and shawl he could see she was not fat. She was well gone with child.

“You certainly got his armor off quickly.” Lawrence asked, “Your man?”

“Dead,” she said dully.

He was confused. Then this was not her man, for she insisted the fellow he had carried here was living. “That’s not your man,” he responded as a statement of fact.

“No, I do not know who he is. I was outside watching the snow fall thicker and thicker when I heard a cry. His horse was gone, but I could see what was left of its prints. He was lying in the snow, moaning. The snow was pressed hard all around him as if a great weight was lifted from him. That’s why I think his horse fell on him. I did not know what to do. In my condition, I could not carry him. I could not even help him stand and hobble here.”

Lawrence helped her lower herself to her knees next to the man. “What can I do?” he asked.

She looked at him directly for the first time. Without his cloak, she saw how rich his chain mail and boots were. She raised her face to those blue eyes again. “Who are you?”

He grinned, “An angel from Heaven?”

A barely perceptible lift to the corners of her lips acknowledged the jest. “Are you.. a lord?”

He grinned more broadly. “Something like that.”

The man on the palette moaned, drawing her attention. “When that snow melts, put one of the stones from the side of the fire into it to warm the water. And hand me that rag.” When he had followed her instructions, she added, “Now wrap some of those other stones in more rags and bring them here.”

He came back and knelt at her side. She was wiping the man’s face and drying his dark curly hair and beard as best she could. He had divined the purpose of the rag covered hot stones and reached under the blankets to put them first at the man’s feet, then alongside him to his shoulders.

When he pressed the coverings back down to the man’s shoulders, he looked at the man’s face and drew in a sharp breath.

The woman looked at him. “You know him, my lord?”

A breath hissed between his teeth. “He is.. or was a mercenary. A Breton. Elerde of Leon.”

At the sound of his name the semi-conscious Breton opened heavy lidded dark eyes. He could barely make out the faces of the man and woman kneeling over him. He knew that voice however. An odd smile played on his countenance. “If it isn’t the hulking Saxon,” he essayed through cracked and bleeding lips. Then he started, looking sharply at the woman. “Josephina?!” he croaked.

Lawrence smiled thinly. “No, Elerde, it’s not the.. not my wife. It is the angel of mercy who found and saved you.”

The prone man’s sight was gradually clearing and he took in the dark hair and dark skin of the woman. “No, not the queen.”

The woman looked directly at Lawrence. “Your wife is the queen? Then you are the..” She stopped, her eyes wide. “The king?”

“Soon not to be,” he breathed. “In the summer I hand the crown to the King of Mercia.”

She stared at him disbelieving. “Why ever for? You are a good king!”

His smile was rueful. “I would like to think so, but part of being a good king is knowing when your kingdom needs protection you cannot give it.”

The woman was aware that raids by Northmen kept the king in the saddle almost constantly, trying to anticipate when and where the attacks would occur. Not content with harrying coastal villages, the dragon ships found the Wash and the Welland, giving them access to the towns upstream as far almost as Grantham. The same was true for the Humber. It was as a member of the fyrd trying to repel the raiders that her young husband had been killed.

She came out of her brief reverie to find the blue eyes fixed on her face. She realized he had asked her name.

“Tancogeistla,” (TAN ko GEEST la ) she replied. “And you are.. Lawrence.”

“King Lawrence,” came the thin voice from the head now propped on a folded cloak. Somewhere in his mind it registered that the woman’s name was a Celtic name. Not Breton like his, but probably Briton.

Lawrence looked at Elerde. Some color was returning to his face. There was a long scar that reached from just under the inside corner of one eye across his cheek almost to his jaw. His hair, now dry, proved to be streaked with gray. His beard was more gray than black. “Elerde, you look like an old man.”

The man looked up at him. “Have you seen your own reflection lately?” the mocking voice managed. One supercilious eyebrow went up, an expression Lawrence remembered from.. what?.. almost twenty years back?

Tancogeistla looked from one man to the other. There was definitely some history here. She was far too young to know much about the battle between these noblemen for the love of one woman. If she had she would have known that woman was the queen, and that the king had won that battle.

A deep groan issued from the Breton’s mouth. “My leg,” he moaned.

“The feeling is coming back to your limbs. I will have to examine your leg.”: The woman gestured Lawrence to get out of her way. In spite of her huge belly she managed to walk on her knees down to where the man’s legs were, lifted the many coverings off him, and Lawrence saw that somehow Tancogeistla had also gotten Elerde’s leggings and boots off. He was naked under the blankets. He looked at her and asked again, “What can I do to help?”

“It will depend on whether the leg is broken, and how cleanly. For now just bring me a cup of the hot water.” She scanned hanging plants on one wall. “Also that bit of white willow. Take your knife and scrape off some of the bark into the hot water.”

The king heard Elerde’s moans of increasing distress and knew Tancogeistla was squeezing his shin to find the break. He was glad to have a task that focused his eyes as he did not want to watch what she was doing.

He brought the cup with its brewing herbs back to the palette and set it on the floor. He gave the woman a questioning look.

“It’s a clean break, just the one, but it’s slightly out of alignment. I am going to have to ask you to help me set it, or it will heal wrong. Let him drink some of that first.”

“I have something better,” Lawrence said. He reached for his saddle bag and unlaced the closing. Reaching in he pulled out a stoppered wineskin. The look of gratitude in the woman’s eyes was trebled in Elerde’s. The king unstoppered the skin and helped the man suck down the deep red wine.

When Elerde had drunk the entire contents of the skin, Lawrence positioned himself at his feet. At Tancogeistla’s command, he put his hands around the man’s left ankle and at her signal, gave a sharp tug. Elerde in spite of himself gave a sharp cry. Lawrence could feel the scrape of the break transmitted through where his hands touched the man’s ankle bone. He looked up to see the Breton had partially swooned. The woman was smiling contentedly.

“Perfect. It will heal straight now, God willing,” she said. “Cover him back up. We will worry about a splint later. He’s not going anywhere any time soon.

The king and Tancogeistla sat on stools on the other side of the fire pit, bowls of ale warmed by a hot poker in their hands and talked. He heard of her husband’s death in his service, and his head bowed, he silently was glad that soon commanding the fyrd would fall to King Offa. He would have his own oath-men and men at arms, but somehow being only their lord felt less burdensome than being their king.

He hesitantly asked her how long it would be until she was delivered of her child. Her careworn face did not hide fear. “By the new year.”

He frowned, “Do you have anyone to help you?”

She looked up at the walls as if she could see through them to the snow that continued to pile up outside. “I do, but I don’t think she will be able to get through all that to help me deliver.” She sighed. “It’s in God’s hands.”

He gazed thoughtfully. “My people will be looking for me. If they don’t come in time, I will venture out to get your woman to help you.”

She gave him a wry look. “If they don’t come, methinks you will be the one to help me.” She chuckled as his face blanched.

Images flew through his mind, his wife’s mostly easy deliveries, but also the terrible death of his dearest friend Ansovald’s wife. She was too small for Ansovald’s child. The delivery had cost her her life and Ansovald the love of his own. The child was the boy Tavish, the quiet, earnest child he and Josephine had raised as their own after his father was murdered.

Then he thought of his daughter Caithness, the girl who looked most like her golden haired mother, and who lost baby after baby as the wife of the king of East Anglia. At least Elaine, who would be an abbess soon, would be spared that pain and grief. He knew better than to bring up Caithness. This woman had a fearsome enough fate to contemplate. And thereafter she would raise the child alone.

“My wife had three children, our son Peter and the twins. As tiny as she is, she had quick labor and the babies were bonny and healthy.”

Tancogeistla grinned at him. “Are you saying you had something to do with that?”

He looked at her surprised, but he saw the twinkle in her eye. “No, I was utterly without credit for anything but the getting.”

“The queen is a strong woman then?” she asked.

From the palette came, “Oh, yes. Very strong.”

Lawrence shot a displeased look at the man. His face softened. Wickedly he asked, “After all, she resisted your charms, did she not?”

The hooded eyes glared back. “Well, she had her children. They were the priority.”

Two sets of eyes, one blue and the other almost black, glared at each other.


The snow did not abate. Lawrence had to go out and climb up a ladder onto the thatch several times to clear the smoke hole. He grew restless, worrying about what the queen would think if he were not home for Christmas. The snow seemed never-ending and threatened to trap them all inside. It fell to him to use what tools he had at hand to keep the dooryard clear or the snow should have come to the top of the doorway. He knew Peter and the others were out there somewhere looking for him.

He remembered the time so long ago when everyone thought he was dead when in fact he had gone from being the prisoner of a small band of outlaws to the prisoner of his own liege-man, Earl Harold of Grantham. How surprised he had been when the outlaws were the ones that rescued him from his more highborn gaoler. He took heart remembering that Josephine alone had never accepted the news that he was dead. Glancing at the sleeping Elerde, he recalled that she had stayed steadfast even when spirited away by the Breton.

As the days dragged, the two men sat together in conversation. Elerde told the king how he had left the queen at Lindisfarne and gone to find a battle so fierce he would surely die.

“I see you almost succeeded,” Lawrence said, indicating the livid scar on his face.

“Yes, then and other times. Always something saved me. I could not catch a break.” He glared at the king. “I almost succeeded a few days ago, but you, damn you to Hell, saved me. How is that for irony?”

A stern word came from Tancogeistla. “Are you damning me to hell as well?”

Lawrence was surprised at the regret that Elerde showed in his face as he stammered an apology.

For the next few days he noticed that the woman sat by the injured man as much or more than he did. He came back from gathering what little wood he could to find them talking in low tones. It was he that insisted Elerde share the bed with her. In her condition she should not be lying on the floor wrapped in blankets as he was. Tancogeistla resisted, but finally one evening she relented and curled up, her back to Elerde, on the straw palette.

Lawrence awoke to relieve himself early one morning to see that the Breton was able to lie on his side now and had one arm over the woman.

A few more days went by. The snowfall slowed and ceased. It was still cold enough that the deep snow on the ground remained, at least four feet deep and more where it had drifted. Lawrence was able to go further to find wood, which he did not only to keep them all warm in the cottage but to make smoke that might lead rescuers.

Watching Elerde and Tancogeistla together, Lawrence became thoughtful, reflective. He had hated the man since he first learned of his attentions to Josephine. He even tried to kill him once in cold blood. He had realized some time ago that a large part of his resentment and antagonism stemmed from his own insecurity. He had genuinely feared the darkly sensual Celt would be too much of a temptation to his queen. He knew that he had been wrong to doubt her. If anything, Josephine knew her mind and never wavered from what she knew to be true. One of those truths was her utter devotion to the king and their family.

Looking at Elerde as the man’s eyes followed the pregnant woman’s form as she moved about the cottage Lawrence suddenly had a sharp painful realization of how empty Elerde’s life must have been. He ventured conversationally, “So, do you have a wife somewhere?”

Elerde’s dark eyes bored into him. “What do you think? Could you marry again once you had her?”

Of course the blasted man meant Josephine. “No, of course not.” He dropped the subject.

It was Christmas Eve when Elerde, now able to sit up, tentatively asked, “So, how is she?”

Lawrence looked up at him startled. “Josephine? She’s well. You know she is always well.”

“Is she.. still beautiful?”

Lawrence’s mouth fell open, but as he considered the Breton’s averted eyes, he softened. “She’s older. But yes, she is still beautiful.”

“No gray in that golden hair?” Elerde smiled, glancing at the king.

Lawrence just smiled, declining to answer.

“And as stubborn as ever?” Elerde was smiling wryly now.

Lawrence laughed. “Oh yes. More.”

“That’s not possible,” Elerde chuckled.

Their conversation came to an abrupt halt when Tancogeistla suddenly cried out. The two men chorused “What is it?!”

“The child,” she groaned. I think it’s coming.”

Lawrence spun to order Elerde off the palette, but he did not need to. Moving gingerly the Breton was crawling, wincing, off to make the poor bed available for the woman’s lying in. Lawrence sprung to his feet and went to Tancogeistla, put his arm around her shoulders and guided her slowly to the bed. “Lie down here,” he said.

As she settled down and he folded the cloak better to use as a pillow, she said in a strained voice, “Well, your grace, it looks like you will have to play midwife after all.”

The Breton accented voice inserted, “Oh no he won’t. You’ve never helped at a lying in, have you, Saxon? Well, I have. More than once. I’ll need your help but I will be the midwife.”

Tancogeistla’s eyes went to Elerde’s. “Oh my dear, can you? Will you?”

In a soft voice, he replied, “Yes, my love.”

Lawrence was too panicked about the birth to register what had just passed between the two.

He was about to ask for what felt like a dozenth time, “What can I do?” when he heard shouts from outside. “My god, it’s Peter.”

Elerde looked up. “Peter? Your son, Peter?” He was smiling with fond memories.

“Yes,” the king called over his shoulder as he threw open the door.

“Shut that door, you great lout!” the Breton snapped. “You want her to die of the cold and the baby with her?”

Outside Lawrence shouted to the small group of riders threading their way through melting drifts of snow. “Here! I am here! Hurry!”

Peter, Críslicland’s ætheling, at least until King Offa took over, was the first to dismount and run up to his father. The men embraced. “Father, I wondered if we would ever find you. We lost you in the blizzard!”

Lawrence laughed, “I know. I was there!” He noticed one of the men helping a woman from where she had sat behind him on his horse. “Who is that?”

Peter glanced back. “Oh that’s a midwife. We came across her hut early this morning. She wouldn’t let us go on looking for you until we brought her here. She said the woman inside was about to give birth.”

The woman bustled past the king and through the rough plank door, which she shut firmly behind her. Lawrence and Peter heard her sharp commands and then a woman’s protest. “He can’t. He has a broken leg.”

Peter looked back inquiringly at his father. “It’s a long story,” his father replied.

Lawrence would not leave with his son and their men until he was assured Tancogeistla and her child were well. As a result they had to build a fire and huddle around it waiting, listening to the woman’s cries of pain, a man’s voice comforting, and the midwife’s coaching. At long last they heard a hearty wail.

Peter looked at his father’s beaming face. “It sounds like they are well. Can we go now?”

“Be patient,” was all the king would say.


It was near dawn when the midwife came outside to fetch snow to melt. “Oh my lord, you are all still here?” she said incredulously.

Lawrence stood and went to her, taking the bucket from her hands. “How is the child? How is its mother?”

She looked from his face to the other men, then back to him. “Well, quite well. It’s a lad. She is sitting up in bed and nursing the little one now.”

“May I go in to offer my thanks and farewells?” the king asked.

“If you fetch me some snow in that bucket, you may. But then you should go. Tancogeistla needs her rest.”

Lawrence excitedly gathered snow in the bucket and hurried back to the cottage. Peter’s bemused glance followed his form through the door. He heard the midwife answer a question from the king, “She has named the child for its father.”

Inside the cozy room Lawrence stopped to let his snow-blind eyes adjust. Gradually he made out the two figures, three in fact, on the palette. The mother sat up against the man’s chest. He had his arms around her and the child who was at her breast. Elerde looked up and smiled.

Lawrence stood looking at the trio with a broad smile. “I have to go. It’s Christmas Day and we can just make Lawrencium before dark. I wanted to thank you. And to congratulate you.” He hesitated, “May I see him?”

Tancogeistla glanced up at Elerde’s face. The Breton nodded his head.

Lawrence knelt at the bedside as Elerde’s fingers pulled the blanket away from the little one’s face. It was red, wrinkled, and bleary eyed. “Merry Christmas, little Elerde,” the king murmured.

He looked up into his old nemesis’ face. “God be with you. I am happy now that you have what you always wanted.”

Tancogeistla looked puzzled.

Elerde answered her unspoken question. “What he has had all along. The love of a good woman.”

“I will leave a man to help you until you are both back on your feet.”

Elerde nodded his thanks.

The two men clasped hands over the mother and child. Then Lawrence stood and left Elerde of Leon alone with his new family.

Outside, Lawrence took in a deep lungful of the earthy smell of the damp leaves and grass under the melting snow.

“Who were they?” Peter asked him as they rode away.

Lawrence smiled. “No one special. But they did give me shelter, so I left them well stocked for wood and left a man to help. The father’s leg is broken.”

He made the sign of the cross and looked affectionately over at his son. “Merry Christmas, Peter.”

His son smiled. “And to you, Father.”

May you know the happiness you deserve in this world. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Nan

Two Flash Christmas Stories and an Old, Old Longer One by Nan Hawthorne

Silent Night

This and the following story are from a writing group called "Gay Flash Fiction" with weekly prompts that challenge the writer to tell a whole story in under 1000 workds.  Find it at http://gayflashfiction.wordpress.com .

     Andrew stood in the lonely garden planted with piles of snow. The white flakes were
still falling, making the evergreen branches into aerial piles of it. For one minute when one limb relieved itself of its burden, Andrew himself was an impromptu pile of snow.
     It suited him, this feeling of being in a featureless land of white things, even the air so full of big flakes that it seemed white and without dimension.
     Likewise it was quiet. He could hear his boots crunching as he walked, but the
sound was muffled, distant, white noise came from all around. His breath came
out white, adding to the monochromatic wasteland. That is how he felt.
Colorless, featureless, and alone.
     He slowed his pace until the snow falling on the ground behind him filled in all
trace of his passing. He came to the bench where Daniell and he used to sit and
talk about their future. He knew if he looked around and up he would see the
window of what had been their apartment living room. There would be no
Christmas lights, no warm and golden lamplights, and no beloved silhouette
watching to see him in the garden. He did not turn to look.
     Daniel was gone. The apparently inevitable propulsion into Years Together
abruptly stopped. Like the things under the relentless snowfall, they had
ceased to be part of the landscape. Some stupid words, an indiscretion, a fir
of temper. Now it was all done and finished.
     Andrew knew it was too late to save what he had had with Daniel. The proverbial
ax fell and that was all she wrote. He sighed deeply, exhaling m ore white into
the solid block of whiteness. He could not bear to turn to go up to the empty
apartment. He knew he would have t eventually. He supposed he could go out
tonight, drown his sorrows, maybe get some pity sex. Maybe that was what he
should do. At least make feeling sorry for himself pay off.
     Stretching his arms to hear his joints crack, he slowly turned to make his way
to the gate that led out to the street. When he got to the sidewalk he would
choose, left to go home, right to go to the bar. He pulled up the collar of his
coat against the cold.
     "Andrew"" came the voice out of the white.
     "Daniel! What are you doing here?"
     "I came to find you. Let's go upstairs, OK? And start again?"
     Andrew walked into Daniel's long arms and they kissed.

Christmas Shopping

     I took my place in line at World Market while my husband went to the
other line. The woman standing before me turned to glance when she heard
me tell him, “This way whichever line is faster, we are in it.” Her look
was amused, quizzical. I explained, and she turned a hopeful look on me.
“But I have no one to do that with!”
     I grinned and replied, touching her sleeve, “You can be mine.”
     Her eyes widened and she asked, “Really?”
     In that moment I think I fell a little in love with her. That pleasant
hopeful question came from a woman in middle age, with long waving hair
frosted with the white of time. No makeup, practical clothes, and a
sweetness that grabbed a long unexercised part of me.
     I wanted to look into those mascara-less eyes with my own and say, “Oh,
yes. Really.”

Christmas 768 AD

If Richard Sharpe can have a Christmas story, then I guess so can the crew in Lawrencium. I knew nothing about Anglo Saxon holilday traditions when i wrote this. In fact, I didn't know much if anything about Anglo Saxons back when i wrote this in 1968. But the spirit of giving is forever, right?

December 768

     Heather looked sadly at Shannon, who slept peacefully, his head cradled in her arms. "Oh how can ye Shannon, my love?" she thought, and nearly wept to think how, even on Christmas morning, the thoughts tormented her. All she could think of were scene's of Shannon's eyes going to the Queen, love songs to Jo, the melancholy he fell into so often. She loved her husband very much, but was not able to understand his love for the Queen. She tried to force back a sob, but the slight heaving of her chest woke Shannon. His sleepy eyes looked into hers anxiously.
     "What's wrong, dearest?"
     "Oh, nothing. I only coughed;" she did no disguise the thickness of her voice. She turned away from him. "Rub my back, love."
     "Of course, me darlin'" Shannon's eyes grew ominous, and there was no doubt in his mind about the cause of her sorrow.
     At lunch, he caught himself gazing at the Queen. He noticed Lawrence no longer glared at those who gazed at his wife. But he guessed Lawrence felt it, like an acid on his heart.
     Later he was granted an audience with the King. Jo, of course, was there, almost incredibly large with child. This of course, was awkward and uncomfortable for her, but she was proud that she bore Lawrence's child, and was happy it would be big and healthy. When he saw her, Shannon remarked, "Sure, and that one's a boy!"
     Lawrence's eyes twinkled and he threw an arm about Jo, who was delighted. But when Shannon's face grew sad, they simultaneously lost their smiles. "What on earth bothers you, man?" Lawrence asked. Shannon went up to them, and taking Jo's hand, he said, "'I've come to very painful decision. I'm sorry to be telling ye like this, on Christmas, but it is too urgent."
     They listened sadly to his plan.
     In the great hall, that evening, servants rushed about a great tree, set in a corner. It was several feet tall, and very beautiful. They carried puddings, and pastries, capons and beef, jugs of ale and bottles of warm, spiced wine. There was to be no meal tonight, just snacks. All the children of the castle stood around the tree, trying to reach sweets and cookies hung on it, suffering an occasional minor burn or needle prick. Catie and Elaine held hands and gazed up at the star on the tree; Peter jabbered merrily with Seamus; Shannon's nephew Jamie watched Tavish curiously. The royal bastard lay in a cradle by the tree, his big brown eyes wide with excitement, gurgling and laughing, and waving his arms. Servants kept having to push children away from the tree. No gifts were under this tree- all were under private trees.
     Soon all the guests had seated themselves in the hall. It was the usual large company of the Yule season. There were princes, nobles, churchmen and gentry, all eating as if they never had before. Lawrence ate little, and kept thing thinking of past Christmases, "How different it is now," the thought. "So wonderful to have my Jo with me." Purposely, he broke off the feasting to make an announcement a while later. "Please, those of you I name, grant me your company in my chambers, half an hour from now - let's see - Shannon, Heather, Sean, Emily, Lorin, Larisa, Finnegan, Percy, Jocelyn, and Sir Michael, Samir and Rebecca. Bring your gifts and, of course, your children!" All stood as he took the Queen's hand and they left.
     The assembly of fourteen people in Lawrence's spacious apartment was quite gay. A tree was set in a corner, and gifts were set all around it. All ten children, no matter how young, seemed filled with joy. The elders sat on chairs, the babies held by their parents, the tots seated on the floor. The talk was warm and happy. Lawrence requested each of his friends request a boon of him as a gift. Jo asked first. "May we go away somewhere after the child is born?" Then Lorin requested some of Christenlande's newly acquired land for his baby son, John. Sean said he would wait, as did Shannon. Finnegan asked permission to have his wife sent here; Samir requested knighthood, and Rebecca asked for a small room for her own worship, and for those of her tribe in Lawrencium. To the surprise of all, Percy asked for the king's permission to marry Jocelyn! Michael asked for a sword. All requests, of course, were granted, and then gifts were exchanged.
     After much oohing and ahhing, and the glee of the tots, all sat around and talked. Lawrence held Tavish in his arms and talked baby talk to him. Suddenly, Tavish looked up at his father said quite clearly, "Da!" Lawrence was overjoyed! "My God, where did you hear that?! He knows me! What a bright little child! Oh, Da's little angel!" Everyone laughed to see their royal sovereign thus.
     Quite late, all wandered off to bed. Shannon and Heather walked silently to tie room. Once there, Shannon abruptly took his wife in his arms and kissed her passionately. "Heather," he said. I've but one more gift to give you this evening. We leave the first of January for Ireland…
From An Involuntary King: The Stories.  I was 16 when I wrote it.

An Anglo Saxon Twelve Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me
An aetheling with his eye on Dad.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Two Viking raids!

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Three fyrdmen!

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Four earldoms!

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Five Mercian thegns!

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Six querns a-grinding!

On the seven day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Seven Saxon kingdoms!

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Eight witans meeting!

On the nine day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Nine burhs in a day's ride!

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Ten cyning rivals!

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Eleven king's companions!

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Twelve shields o'er lapping!
Eleven king's companions!
Ten cyning rivals!
Nine burhs in a day's ride!
Eight witans meething!
Seven Saxon kingdoms!
Six querns a-grinding!
Five Mercian thegns!
Four earldoms!
Three fyrdmen!
Two Viking raids!
And an aetheling with his eye on Dad.

When Christmas Was Banned in England

Come join in on a presentation on Accessible World.. open to all participants, not just blind people!

Do you know there was a time in England when Christmas was banned. Hard though it is to imagine, during the time of Oliver Cromwell, that is what happened. On the next Classroom Of The Air, Nan Hawthorne, author of several historical novels, will tell us why this decision was made. If you find yourself thinking you couldn't imagine a year without Christmas, the British couldn't either. Did they find ways to celebrate secretly? Why was Oliver Cromwell so opposed to its celebration? Did he live as he expected everyone else to, or was he a contradiction and a law unto himself? What
punishments were meted out to those who violated Cromwell's order? How did parents explain this sad turn of events to children looking forward to decorations and gifts? For how long did this go on and how was this much loved holiday reinstituted?

If we could not celebrate this joyous day, it would be heartbreaking indeed.
With its return, it would gain in meaning and stature as things removed and given back always do.

As you think of the meaning of Christmas, join us for a journey to a time when for a nation, there was no Christmas and a high price paid for disobeying Oliver Cromwell's order

Presenter: Nan hawthorne
E-Mail: hawthorne@nanhawthorne.com.

Group Discussion Leaders
Ruth Ann Acosta,
Email: ruth1244@gmail.com
Sherry Wells
E-mail: sdwells@us.ibm.com

Date: Wednesday,December 14, 2011
Time: 6:00 PM PST, 7:00 PM MST, 8:00 PM CST, 9:00 PM EST and elsewhere in the world Wednesday 02:00 GMT.

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Fahrenheit 416

    Ray Bradbury, author of many well loved and prophetic novels, has long had nothing but contempt for technological developments in media.  he hates the Internet, saying, "There's nothing there!" and has resisted the development of ebooks passionately.  He feels both along with television and no doubt any number of other recent inventions are taking people away from such worthwhile pursuits as reading.
     Ironically, he has h ad to bow to the inevitable.  His book Fahrenheit 451is being released by his publisher as an ebook.  I say ironically because this very fact means that in spite of his prediction, people are reading.
     I have my own perspective on this, as my regular readers (of electronic text) know. 
As a voracious reader who happens to be blind, I have long been stuck with reading what the National Library Services www.loc.gov/nls make available, certainly wonderful but slim pickin's and slow and resource intensive. Thanks to ebooks I can read and read and read. I am myself a novelist, had twice as many credits as I need for my degree in English, and have quite narrow tastes in reading, utterly unserved by NLS. So needless to say when I heard of Bradbury's attitude, it really pissed me off. I know a lot of people who confuse technology with some of its less ideal examples. Ebooks are not television or video games or Facebook. They are what any book was to start with, the product of a mind and imagination. Mr. Bradbury ought to recall that his books, each and every one of them, started out as thought.  (I recall gazing at Candace Robb's head at a Historical Novel Society conference and thinking, "My God, that's where Owen Archer was born.")
     As I tell my friends who insist that only print on paper books are really reading, just as soon as print on paper books start reading themselves aloud to me, I'm there.
     By the way, 416 degrees F is the temperature at which a Kindle or other ereader will catch fire, according to a web site that apparently has something there.

Fahrenheit 451 Kindle Edition

Horrible Histories: Charles II

[Radio Dé Danann] Chicken on a Raft: Ships and Sailors Week

Delicious Chicken on a Raft

(Cyril Tawney)

Skipper in the wardroom drinkin' gin,
Hey yo, chicken on a raft!
I don't mind knockin', but I ain't goin' in!
Hey yo, chicken on a raft!

The jimmy's laughin' like it'd rain,
Hey yo, chicken on a raft!
He's lookin' at me comic cuts again!
Hey yo, chicken on a raft!

Chorus

Chicken on a raft on a Monday morning,
Oh, what a terrible sight to see,
Dabtoes forward and the dustmen aft,
Sittin' there a'pickin' at a chicken on a raft!
Hi, ho, chicken on a raft!
Hey, ho, chicken on a raft!
Hi, ho, chicken on a raft!
Hey, ho, chicken on a raft!

Gave me the middle and the forenoon too,
Now I'm pullin' on a whalin' crew.
Seagulls wheelin' overhead,
I oughter be home in me featherbed!

I had a little girl in Donny-B,
And did she make a fool of me.
Her heart was like a pusser's shower,
Run hot to cold in a quarter of an hour!

We kissed goodbye on a midnight bus,
She didn't cry and she didn't fuss,
Am I that one she loves the best,
Or just a cuckoo in another man's nest?

An amazon girl lived in Dumfries,
Only had her kids in two's and three's,
She's got a sister in Maryhill,
Says she won't but I think she will!

Author M. Kei, Pirates of the Narrow Seas series, offers this glossary of terms in the song: 

Dabtoes are ordinary seamen, from getting their feet wet while swabbing the deck. Dustmen are taking out the trash, ie, heaving it overboard (20th century dustmen were stokers in the engine room. They got the dirty jobs.) These are standard morning chores. The jimmy is jimmy-number-one, ie, the first lieutenant/executive officer. The middle and forenoon are two watches, the middle 0000-0400 and the forenoon 0800-1200, so our narrator is standing watch-and-watch and is no doubt very tired. Comic cuts are orders--our poor narrator is about to be run ragged again. Pusser is the purser, ie, the ship's accountant, famous for cheating the men. Donny-B is Donnibristle, a place name. 

Thanks, M. Kei!

Copyright Dick James Music, Ltd.
Recorded by Tawneyand by the Young Tradition
BR

Gay As a Lord... or Lady: Why Wouldn't There Be Gay People in the Middle Ages?

Originally published 10/1/08.
      One result of the publication of Brandy PPurdy's two excellent books, The Confession of Piers Gaveston and Vengeance Is Mine, is what I felt was a lot of undeseserved vitriol at the portrayal of gay characters in the novels. For instance, this customer rev iew of "Vengeance" from "Brittany":
    

"The entire court seems to be made up of bisexuals, which would be highly unlikely since if this were the case there would be no court since the people making up the court would all be executed for their bisexuality. I complain about this on the grounds of historical accuracy and my own personal moral beliefs. "

     Not sure what Brittany's personal moral beliefs have to do with historical accuracy, but for the record I take issue with the assertion that there would not be bisexual people in the Tudor court. Let me explain.
     A number of surveys have estimated that five percent of the human population is gay, lesbian or bisexual and likely has stayed around this prportion throughout history. I am inclined to support that. Why that is is irrelevant. My own opinion, which I suppose is just as valid or invalid as said Brittany's, is that the expression of human diversity is broad and beautiful, that love is love and love-making is love-making, and the more the merrier. (I actually believe that 100% of himans are born bisexual, but that unlikely to be a poopular opinion with the Brittany's of the world.)
     The particular point I want to address in Brittany's remarks is her assertion that in the Middle Ages bisexuals "would all be executed for their bisexuality." It is true that conviction for homosexuality was punishable by being burned at the stake or other equally grisly punishment, but I just don't believe this was universally applied. There is a wonderful conceit that if all gay people woke up tomorrow morning with purple skin, we would be amazed at how many and who they were. I expect the same could be true in 908, 1208, and 1508 as well.
     An act being against the law does not mean all who committ it are punished. In general I believe people are punished when they piss someone off who is in power or has influence. Certainly people in the upper castes of society, as are most of the bisexuals in Purdy's books, will have far more liberty and relative immunity for "deviant" behavior. We tend to overlook class issues when we talk about historical fiction, but that's a topic for a future essay. The average person tends to have to hide more since they don't have the money or connections to fall back on, but nevertheless a discrete person would probably be able to go through life without being chained to a stake and burned. Then there was this whole career path where heterosixual practice was not only not required but actually frowned upon, that being the clergy. Not that heterosexuality was punished either depending on how high up you rose in the Church.
     The people likely to be most at risk would be in three camps: male prostitutes or others who were indiscrete, people who victimized children, and people who got on the wrong side of someone with their own reasons to want to see them out of the way. My belief is that male prostitutes would have some protection from those who frequented them, at least in terms of whether they were out-ted and punished. Victimizers of young people, gay or straight, are another matter than simply gay people exercising their predilection to love adults of their own gender. As with tagging unmpopular women as witches, denouncing someone as homosexual was a handy way to blow off frustrations of your own or to gain from their disenfranchisement.
     Specific to Purdy's books, the men and women who are gay or bisexual are for the most part the elite, with their own society and rules and immunity from most of the pettiness of their society. In the case of women, it is likely no one even credited them with sexuality or at least regarded it as a threat worth addressing. Remember that noblewomen in jpart of the Middle Ages lived in the women's quarters, sleeping apaart from their mengolk unless required. And they tended to share beds. Are you thinking what I am thinking?
     In short, I believe there have alw2ays been gay people, throughout history, most of whom could fall in love or just have sex without anyone either being the wiser or taking any action about it. My own favorite pair of gay lovers in historical fiction are martin Werther and Ambrose the rebex playe3r in Candace Robb's Owen Archer mysteries. I can't decide if I am more skeptical of their wholehearted acceptance by Owen and Lucy or impressed with Owen and Lucy's socially enlightened attitudes.. but who knows. Infinite variety. All things are possible.

See gay historical fiction at Speak Its Name.

Image: Sir Francis Weston

The Irish in Australia

Australians (Irish: Gael-Astrálach) have played a long and enduring part in Australia's history. Many came to Australia in the eighteenth century as settlers or as convicts, and contributed to Australia's development in many different areas.

There is no definitive figure of the total number of Australians with an Irish background. At the 2006 Census, 1,803,741 residents identified themselves as having Irish ancestry either alone or in combination with another ancestry. This nominated ancestry was third behind English and Australian in terms of the largest number of responses. However this figure does not include Australians with an Irish background who chose to nominate themselves as 'Australian' or other ancestries. The Australian Embassy in Dublin states that up to 30 percent of the population claim some degree of Irish ancestry.

The 2006 Australian Census recorded 650,256 born in the Republic of Ireland.

Demographic history

Around 40,000 Irish convicts were transported to Australia between 1791 and 1867, many for political activity, including those who had participated in the Irish Rebellion of 1798, the 1803 Rising of Robert Emmet and the Young Ireland skirmishes in 1848 in the midst of the Great Famine. Once in Australia, many of these prisoners continued to plan escapes from British military custody — for example, the 1804 Castle Hill convict rebellion, and continual tension on Norfolk Island in the same year also led to an Irish revolt. Both risings were soon crushed. In these decades, the Irish language was the main language of Irish prisoners, and many Irish were flogged or killed by fellow convicts for speaking what was seen as a conspiratorial tongue. As late as the 1860s, Fenian prisoners were being transported, particularly to Western Australia, where the Catalpa rescue of Irish radicals off Rockingham was a memorable episode.

Other than convicts, most of the laborers who voluntarily emigrated to Australia in the 19th century were not drawn from the poorest sector of British and Irish society. After 1831, the Australian colonies employed a system of government assistance in which all or most immigration costs were paid for chosen immigrants, and the colonial authorities used these schemes to exercise some control over immigration. While these assisted schemes were biased against the poorest elements of society, the very poor could overcome these hurdles in several ways, such as relying on local assistance or help from relatives.

The number of Ireland-born in Australia peaked in 1891, when the colonial Census accounted for 228,232. A decade later the number of Ireland-born had dropped to 184,035. Dominion status for the Irish Free State in 1922 did not diminish arrivals from Ireland as Irish people were still British subjects. This changed after the Second World War, as people migrating from the new Republic of Ireland (which came into being in April 1949) were no longer British subjects eligible for the assisted passage. People from Northern Ireland continued to be eligible for this and continued to be seen officially as British. Only during the 1960s did migration from the south of Ireland reduce significantly. By 2002, around one thousand persons born in Ireland — north and south — were migrating permanently to Australia each year. For the year 2005-2006, 12,554 Irish entered Australia to work under the Working Holiday visa scheme.

Orphans

Over four thousand young female orphans from Irish workhouses were shipped to the Australian colonies at the time of the Great Famine (1848–50) to meet a demand for domestic servants. Treated with hostility by Australian public opinion, and often exploited or abused by employers and others, the girls frequently died in poverty. Some, however, made upwardly mobile marriages, often surviving older husbands to experience long widowhoods. The Catholic Church only became involved in the 1870s, when its relief agencies in England were overwhelmed with Irish immigration; still, only about 10% of the resettlements were through Catholic agencies until after World War II. Australian Catholic groups began importing children in the 1920s to increase the Catholic population, and became heavily engaged in placing and educating them after World War II. The practice quietly died out during the 1950s.

Status of the Irish

Walker (2007) compares Irish immigrant communities in the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and Great Britain respecting issues of identity and 'Irishness.' Religion remained the major cause of differentiation in all Irish diaspora communities and had the greatest impact on identity, followed by the nature and difficulty of socioeconomic conditions faced in each new country and the strength of continued social and political links of Irish immigrants and their descendants with the old country. From the late 20th century onward, Irish identity abroad became increasingly cultural, nondenominational, and nonpolitical, although many emigrants from Northern Ireland stood apart from this trend.

For much of the 19th and 20th centuries, Irish Australians — particularly but not exclusively Catholics — were treated with suspicion in a sectarian atmosphere. The outlaw Ned Kelly (1855–80) achieved the status of a national folk hero; ballads, films and paintings have since 1878 kept the feisty robber's tale alive. Kelly, who was hanged for murder, is often viewed romantically as the sort of treatment Irish Catholics in Australia could expect: in reality, however, most of the Irish were urban workers who experienced less official discrimination in Australia than they had at home in Ireland, and many Irish Australians — Catholic and Protestant — rose to positions of wealth and power in the colonial hierarchy. Many Irish men, for example, entered law, the judiciary and politics, while in Ned Kelly's time 80% of the Victorian police were Irish-born, and half of those had served in the Royal Irish Constabulary. In major cities such as Melbourne and Sydney, Irish social and political associations were formed, including the Melbourne Celtic Club, which survives today. The Irish settler in Australia - both voluntary and forced - was crucial to the survival and prosperity of the early colonies both demographically and economically. 300,000 Irish free settlers arrived between 1840 and 1914. By 1871, the Irish were a quarter of all overseas-born.

St. Patrick’s Day

O'Farrell (1995) demonstrates the importance of St. Patrick to the Irish, whether northern or republican, Protestant or Catholic, and how Australian manifestations of the Irish festival evolved. St. Patrick's Day became an expression of Irish identity and was emblematic of Irish culture and traditional separatism that migrated with the Irish to Australia. The early immigrants to Australia from Ireland were mainly members of penal colonies; assemblies or any such expression of Irish culture were not permitted. St. Patrick's Day at first was the exception, because it was not highly political, was ecumenical and was subordinate to the wider recognition of Britain. The situation changed, however, in the 1830s with the growth of wealthy Irish Catholic emancipists and the introduction of Irish Catholic priests. These factors gave rise to conflicts and tensions that were to remain constant thereafter as the rise and decline of domestic Irish political movements influenced the Irish population in Australia. With the outbreak of World War I, imperatives imposed by the demands of war overshadowed Australian Irish sentiment.

Orange

The idea of fraternity and how to organize it was one of 19th-century Europe's invisible exports to the New World. Fitzpatrick (2005) explores the international diffusion of the Loyal Orange Institution, with comparative reference to Freemasonry, its main model. Three alternative explanations are discussed for its appeal outside Ireland: that it facilitated the assimilation of emigrants, transmitted 'tribal' Irish animosities to fresh contexts, or adapted itself to preexisting sectarian rivalries abroad. These hypotheses are tested using evidence from South Australia, where Orangeism flourished in the absence of heavy Ulster immigration. A collective profile of Orange South Australia is derived from lodge records showing age, religious denomination, and occupation, and the appeal of Orangeism is related to local political and religious contexts. In this case, Orangeism was primarily an export of organizational techniques rather than Irish personnel or bigotry.

Catholic Nuns

McGrath, (1995) demonstrates the success of the Catholic nuns who arrived in Parramatta, New South Wales, from Ireland in 1888, noting their group's growth from nine newcomers into a flourishing congregation of over two hundred women within sixty years. By the 1950s this group of women religious was responsible for 24 primary schools, five secondary schools, and two orphanages. In Australia they carried on the Irish tradition of the Sisters of Mercy and lived a monastic lifestyle. Their sparsely furnished bedrooms were referred to as cells. There was little or no heating. The sisters sustained their monastic lifestyle by a spirituality that originates from the 17th-century school of spirituality. Their relationship to the clergy was one of devotion, dedication, and subordination. They kept themselves very much in the shadow of the clergy, reflecting the status of women in the larger population. It was societal pressures from without that eventually led to the decline of the Sisters of Mercy as Australia moved into the 1960s. Radical reevaluations forced a restructuring of the Catholic Church as a whole, and a rethinking of what kinds of service the Church would require in modern times.

Politics

Before 1890, Irish Catholics opposed Henry Parkes, the main liberal leader, and free trade, since both represented Protestant, English landholding and wealthy business interests. In the great strike of 1890 Cardinal Moran, the head of the church, was sympathetic toward unions, but Catholic newspapers were critical of labor throughout the decade. After 1900, Catholics joined the Labor Party because its stress on equality and social welfare appealed to people who were workers and small farmers. In the 1910 elections Labor gained in areas where the concentration of Catholics was above average, and the number of Catholics in Labor's parliamentary ranks rose.

World War I

Irish Catholics comprised a quarter of Australia's population in the early 20th century. They were largely working-class and voted for the Labor Party. The referendum on conscription in 1917, following the Easter Uprising in Dublin, caused an identification between the Irish, Sinn Féin, and the anticonscription section of Labor. Proconscription forces exploited this, denouncing outspoken anticonscription Catholics, such as Archbishop Mannix, and T. J. Ryan, the premier of Queensland, for disloyalty. In general, Protestants, armed with the authority of tradition, championed the idea of Australia as an integral part of the Empire; and Catholics, freed from that authority by their Irish origins and their working-class affiliations, looked to the future by placing Australia first and the Empire second. There was no simple correlation between Catholicism, Protestantism and conscription, but the idea of an anticonscription Catholic-Labor alliance stuck for many years.

Sports

Irish-Catholics have been the nation's largest minority throughout most of Australia's history. Their resistance to the elite Anglocentric establishment has keenly marked the development of sport. Mostly working class, the Irish played sports such as rugby and Australian Rules football, while the Protestant majority often preferred cricket, soccer, and boxing. The tensions and contrasts between these two sporting cultures eventually built the attitudes and beliefs toward games and sports that Australians share today.

The Present Day

At the 2006 Census 50,256 Australian residents declared they were born in the Republic of Ireland. Cities with the largest Irish-born populations were Sydney (12,730), Melbourne (8,950) and Perth (7,060).

At the 2006 Census 1,803,741 Australians declared they had Irish ancestry either alone or in combination with another ancestry; only Australian and English ancestries were more frequently nominated.

According to census data released by the Australian Bureau of Statistics in 2004, Irish Australians are, by religion, 46.2% Roman Catholic, 15.3% Anglican, 13.5% other Christian denomination, 3.6% other religions, and 21.5% "No Religion".

Irish Australian settlement patterns are not significantly different to those of the Australian population as a whole — that is, a third live in New South Wales and a quarter live in Victoria — except that around 22 per cent live in Queensland (compared to only 18 per cent of the general population). Relatively few as a proportion reside in Western Australia (7.6 per cent of Irish Australians compared to 9.9 per cent of the general population).

The 2001 Australian census recorded that persons reporting some Irish Australian ethnicity accounted for 10.7 per cent of all responses in the Australian Capital Territory (42,540 responses), 10.2 per cent in Victoria (469,161 responses), 9.9 per cent in New South Wales (622,944), 9.7 per cent in Queensland (433,354), 7.8 per cent in Tasmania (42,552), 7.6 per cent in Western Australia (171,667), 7.5 per cent in the Northern Territory (18,325) and 6.7 per cent in South Australia (119,063).

918 persons at the 2006 Census reported using the Irish language at home.

Further reading

Jupp, James. The Australian People: An Encyclopedia of the Nation, its People and their Origins (2002)
O'Farrell, Patrick. The Irish in Australia: 1798 to the Present Day (3rd ed. Cork University Press, 2001)
Wells, Andrew, and Theresa Martinez, eds. Australia's Diverse Peoples: A Reference Sourcebook (ABC-CLIO, 2004)

From Wikipedia.