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Dear grateful,

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Let us cease our idle chatter,

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Let the tears bedew our cheek,
For a man from Tallangatta
Has been missing for a week.
Where the roaring flooded Murray
Covered all the lower land,
There he started in a hurry,
With a bottle in his hand.

And his fate is hid for ever,
But the public seem to think
That he slumbered by the river,
'Neath the influence of drink.

And they scarcely seem to wonder
That the river, wide and deep,
Never woke him with its thunder,
Never stirred him in his sleep.

As the crashing logs came sweeping,
And their tumult filled the air,
Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping,
`'Tis a wake in ould Kildare.'

So the river rose and found him
Sleeping softly by the stream,
And the cruel waters drowned him
Ere he wakened from his dream.

And the blossom-tufted wattle,
Blooming brightly on the lea,
Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle
Going drifting out to sea.

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(How M'Ginnis went missing)

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To all & sundry,

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A light musical interlude with some of my favourites ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=es5fqw3wAxc

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... and something a little more spiritual ...

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mrVZHPikqM

The mother was standing sorrowfully
next to the cross, tearful
as her Son was hanging.

Whose soul, groaning,
sad and sorrowful,
the sword has pierced through.

Oh, how miserable and afflicted
was that blessed
mother of an only Son.

She lamented and grieved,
the holy mother, when she saw
the pains of her glorious Son.

Who is the man that would not weep
were he to see the mother of Christ
in such distress?

Who would not be made sad
at the thought of Christ's mother
grieving with her Son?

For the sins of his people
she saw Jesus subjected to
torments and lashes.

She saw her sweet Son
dying, deserted
as he gave up his spirit.

O mother, thou fount of love,
make me feel the force of your grief
so that I may mourn with you.

Make my heart burn
with love for Christ the God
so that I may be reconciled with him.

Holy mother, grant this favour,
imprint the wounds of the Crucified
deeply within my heart.

Your wounded Son,
who deigned to suffer so much for me,
may he share his pains with me.

Let me truly weep with you,
and suffer with the Crucified
as long as I live.

To stand beside you at the cross
and join with you in lamentation,
is my desire.

O Virgin, pre-eminent among virgins,
do not be bitter towards me,
let me weep with you.

Let me bear the death of Christ,
let me share in his passion,
and contemplate his wounds.

Let me be wounded with his wounds,
intoxicated by the cross
and the blood of your Son.

Though I burn and am aflame,
may I be defended by you, O Virgin,
on the day of judgement.

Let me be protected by the cross,
fortified by the death of Christ,
strengthened by grace.

When my body dies,
let my soul be granted
the glory of paradise.
Amen.

(Stabat Mater, Pergolesi)

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Shira,
I am a much older widower with a big family.

All of my children remember their deceased mother and hopefully they will remember me and be guided by the aims and principals we each, and together, tried to instil in them by both upbringing, education and example.

I know that those features I learned from my parents (probably the only husband and wife team to ever be life members of the same mainly female secular well known charity) and one or two other role models are a major part of the guiding influences in my life.

So we all leave behind us some of the influences which were part of our character.

Chance and nature can bring life to an early undeserved abrupt end so always seek to provide care and guidance for those you might unexpectedly leave behind.

We don't need an afterlife and I cannot think of anything worse than the religious concepts for such an existence.

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Looking for Shira ...

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Now look, you see, it's this way like,
You cross the broken bridge
And run the crick down till you strike
The second right-hand ridge.

The track is hard to see in parts,
But still it's pretty clear;
There's been two Injin hawkers' carts
Along that road this year.

Well, run that right-hand ridge along --
It ain't, to say, too steep --
There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong
Where blokes went out with sheep.

But keep the crick upon your right,
And follow pretty straight
Along the spur, until you sight
A wire and sapling gate.

Well, that's where Shira's old grey mare
Fell off and broke her back;
You'll see her carcase layin' there,
Jist down below the track.

And then you drop two mile, or three,
It's pretty steep and blind;
You want to go and fall a tree
And tie it on behind.

And then you pass a broken cart
Below a granite bluff;
And that is where you strike the part
They reckon pretty rough.

But by the time you've got that far
It's either cure or kill,
So turn your horses round the spur
And face 'em up the hill.

For look, if you should miss the slope
And get below the track,
You haven't got the whitest hope
Of ever gettin' back.

An' half way up you'll see the hide
Of Shira's brindled bull;
Well, mind and keep the right-hand side,
The left's too steep a pull.

And both the banks is full of cracks;
An' just about at dark
You'll see the last year's bullock tracks
Where Shira drew the bark.

The marks is old and pretty faint
And grown with scrub and such;
Of course the track to Shira's ain't
A road that's travelled much.

But turn and run the tracks along
For half a mile or more,
And then, of course, you can't go wrong --
You're right at Shira's door.

Ain't no guarantee you'll find her there
She's discreetly disappeared ...


(adapted from "The Road to Hogan's Gap")

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I know why Shira ain't around
And even why she can't be found
Not much good just waitin' for
She's hung this sign upon her door …

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqdtzJvliMk

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