Pew Sheet – 9th November 2025

The Rector writes ‘ As I mentioned a few weeks ago, the Church in Sanctuary Group will be organising the Online Advent Talks this year.  These talks will begin on at 8pm on Wednesday 26th November. I will email the Zoom link with the Pewsheet the week before. The talks will continue on Wednesdays 3rd, 10th and 17th December. The events at the IPAS Centre in Drogheda shocked me to the core – someone deliberately setting fire to a dwelling containing children!  Now more than ever, as a Parish, we need to educate ourselves on how to help to make sure everyone in our country feels welcome and heard.  Thank you so much to Rowland Newenham, Hilary Dring and Rowland Njoku for putting together what I’d say will be a very interesting series of talks.

The other item I wanted to mention today is the thorny subject of parish finances… the annual financial letter will be on it’s way to you in the next week or so. Our annual ‘Gift Day’ will be held, as usual, on the last day of the liturgical year, the feast of Christ the King, 23rd November.  The familiar little coloured gift envelopes will be available as always and thanks are due to our Honorary Treasurer Helen Arnopp who bears the mental burden of our very tight budget. Please do consider giving what you can on the day. As will be outlined in the letter, along with many of you, the parish is experiencing a tough time financially at the moment.’

Carrigaline Union of Parishes are delighted to host a Whisky night on 21st of November 2025. @8pm.  Introduced and run by Liam Murray, President of The Cork Whisky Society, and presented by Conor Ryan. The International Ambassador for Pearce Whisky.   Tickets are available from Brenda Haubold on 087-6976552. @ a cost of €25 per person.

Numbers are limited so booking is essential. 

If anyone would like to donate a prize for the Raffle on 22nd November , the Charity Whist Drive for St Luke’s Home, please let Henry Forbes know. Thanks you.

Due to demand, there will be another Whist Training Session at 7:30pm on Tuesday next 11th November in the Parish Hall.

November

Monday 10th

           Men’s Coffee 10am

           Carrigaline Court Hotel

Tuesday 11th

           Whist Training Session 7:30pm Parish Hall

Saturday 15th

           Youth Club in the Parish hall 7:30-9pm

Wednesday  19th

           Mothers’ Union 3pm  Parish Hall

Speaker: Brenda Haubold ‘’All things Christmas’

Flower arrangements

Refreshments later as always. All welcome! 

Friday 21st

Whiskey Tasting Fundraiser 8pm in the Parish Hall

Saturday 22nd

Whist Drive in aid of St Luke’s Home, 8pm in the

Canon McCrea Hall in the school

Sunday 23rd

Parish Gift Day

Wednesday 26th

Online Advent Talks begin (8pm each Wednesday)

December

Wednesday 3rd

12:30pm Mothers’ Union Christmas Lunch 

Thursday 4th

Candlelit Christmas, Charity Concert for Anam Cara in St John’s Church, Monkstown

Sunday 7th

Tractor Run 2pm GAA grounds and afterwards in the Parish Hall

Friday 19th

7:30pm Carrigaline Community Carol Service St Mary’s

Sunday 21st

4pm  Nine Lessons and Carols Service St John’s 

Christmas Eve 24th

4pm  Carols around the Crib  St Mary’s

11pm First Eucharist of the Nativity   St Mary’s

Sunday 28th

11am United Christingle Service St Mary’s Church

Random Notes DIX

Many readers of Random Notes will from their school days no doubt remember some of the lines at least from that lovely, wonderful and evocative poem, ‘An Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’  written by Thomas Gray (1716-1771), first published in 1751, the opening lines of which are the oft recited 

‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

         The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

         And leaves the world to darkness and to me.’

Preserved at Mount Rivers, and illustrated herewith is an engraving in mezzotint by John Raphael Smith (1751-1812) of Thomas Gray, ‘from an Original Drawing on the possession of the Revd. Mr. Potter’

[ most probably the Revd. Robert Potter (1721-1804)],  a photograph of a piece of wood said to be ‘From the Yew Tree Stoke Poges Church’., and a postcard view of ‘Stoke Poges Church Porch & Yew Tree.’ 

This tree is by repute that mentioned by Gray in the verse 

‘Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.’

The Church of St Giles, Stoke Poges, Buckinghamshire, has since Gray’s time been re-built, and is now in an area not quite as peaceful and rural as it was once was, but nevertheless

remains a most charming spot. and where both the poet, and his mother are buried.    Little is known about the since lost tree from which this little piece was taken, save that it was, and perhaps still is, considered by many to be most probably that which Gray had in mind when he penned the famous lines; a nice thought to dwell on whatever the truth may be.

 K.L.R. 

Editor : The entire poem is printed below.

in a Country Churchyard          

                                                                              Thomas Gray

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,

The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,

Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;

Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

 Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,

And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;

Along the cool sequester’d vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,

Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.

Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,

He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

The bosom of his Father and his God.