The Irish standard., 1886-06-05
THE BURIAL OF JILLEN ANDY.
4 Powerful and Pathetic Poem by 0'Dono-
van Rossa Which He Who Reads
Gan Never Forget.
A VICTIM OF THE FAMINE OF ~,
"Ihis Load Of Clay Will Break Her Bones,
I fear, For When Alive She
Wasn't Over Strong"

When O'Donovsn Rossa was in pris-
On in England he wrote the powerful
and deeply pathetic poem OF "Jillen
Andy q study from Irish life which
he who reads can never forget. In his
''Prison Life,'' Rossa says: t'Jillen
Andy lived at the other side Of the
street in Rosscart,erry when Z was a
child. Her husband, Andy Hayes, was
a linen weaver and worked for my faith
er ere was born. He died, too, before
I came into the world, but When / did
come think / formed the acQuain tance
Of tIillen as SOON as did that of uy
mother. .Tilien was left widow with
four helpless children, and all t1e
neighbors were kind to her. The eldest
OF the SONS listed, and the first sight (
got Of a red coat was when he came
home OH farlough. The other three
sons were Charley, Thade and Andy.
Charley died in '65. Andy 'listed, and
died in Bombay, and Thade and his
mother fell victims to the famine of AZ.
Thade met ME one day, and spoke TO
me as ] state in the following lines. I
went TO the graveyard with him. J.
dug, and ha shovelled up the earth till
tbe grave was about two feet deep.
Then he talked about it being deep
enough, chat there would be too great
a load on her, aud that he could stay
up aud "watch'' her for some time. By~
and~bY we saw four or five men coming
in the church gate with door On their
shoulders bearing the cottinless Jillen,
She was laid III the grave. Eler head
did not rest firmly or the stone on
which IL was pillowed, and as it would
turn. aside and rest on the cheek when
r took my hand away from it, one OF
the men asked me to hand him the
stone. ( did SO, and covering 1t with a
red spotted handkerchief he took out OF
his pocket, he gave it to me again, and
J. settled JilIen's head steadily on it..
Then / was told to loose the strings;
to take outa pin that appeared, to lay
her apron over her face, and come up.
TO this day I can see how softly the
man handled the shovel, how quietly
he laid the earth down at her feet, how
the heap kept rolling and creeping up
until it covered her head, and how the
big men pulled Gheir hats over their
eyes"
JILLEN ANDY.
'SCon,e to the graveyard If you're not afrsid,
Nm going to dig my mothers grave, she'a
dead,
And want some one that will bring the spade.
For Andy's out of hone &nd churi5e's sick in
bed
Thatie ANDY was g. simple spoken fool.
WITH whom ia early days loved to stroll,
He'd often take me Oh his back 70 school,
And make the master laugh himself, he was
50 ilroll.
In songs and ballads he took great delight,
And prophecies OF Ireland yet being freed,
And singing them by our freside at night,
Learned songe frcru Thade before learned
to read.
And have still "by heart" his "Colleen
Fhune,"
Els "Crcppy Boy his "Pnoanix Of the
Hail."
If could sing in prison cell--ur sing at all.
He'd walk the "ee1iest' place moonlight
night,
He'd whistle in the dark-even in bed.
Ia fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quite
AS fearless Of ghost as any ghost of Thade.
Now in the dark churchyard we work away,
The shovel in his hand, IN mine the spade,
And seeing Thade cry I cried myself that day,
For Thade was fond of me and I was fond OF
Thade.
But after twenty years why now will such
A hubtling spring up to my eyeGds start?
All: there be things that ask not leave to
The fountain of the eyes or feelings Of the
heart.
This load of clay will break her bones, fear,
For when alive she wasn' over strong.
Well dig no deeper, Lean watch her here,
A month OR SO, sure nobody will do me
wrong"
Four men bear Jillen on door--'tie light,
They have not much of Jillen but her frame.
No mourners come, for It's believed the sight
OF any death or sickness now begets the
same. e
And those brave hearts that volunteer to
touch
Plague-stricken death are tender as they're
brave,
They raise poor Jillen from her tainted couch,
And shade their swimming eyes while laying
her in the grave.
I stand within that grave, nor wide nor deep,
The slender wasted body at my feet,
What wonder is it if strong men will weep
Ger amine-stricken Jillen in her winding
sheet.
Her head I try 70 pillow on stone.
But twill hang one side, as If the breath
OF famine gaunti into the corpse had blown,
And blishted in the nerves the rigid strength
OF death.