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The Trimmin’s on the Rosary [poem by John O’Brien]

9 May 2012 · 6 Comments

[Editor: This poem by John O’Brien was published in Around the Boree Log and Other Verses, 1921.]

The Trimmin’s on 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 “hurted hand,”
Or that someone else might make a deal and get “that bit of land”;
Or that Dad might sell the cattle well, and seasons 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,
Every 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 “hurted 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 —
Here’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.

* grumbling, “grousing.”



Published in:
John O’Brien. Around the Boree Log and Other Verses, Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1921

Editor’s notes:
bedad = an Irish exclamation, a euphemism for “By God”
keownrawnin’ = [keownrawning] grumbling; an Irish word, possibly related to cnáimhseáiling (Anglicised as “knawvshawling”) meaning grumbling or complaining
yerra = yerra or arrah is an exclamation, a phonetic representation of the Irish airĕ, meaning take care, look out, look you — ‘Yerra Bill why are you in such a hurry?’ [see: P. W. Joyce. English As We Speak It in Ireland, Longman, Green & Co., London, 1910, page 62]

Filed Under: poetry Tagged With: Around the Boree Log and Other Verses (John O’Brien 1921), Editor’s notes, John O'Brien (1878-1952) (author), poem, SourceIACLibrary

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Christine Muir says

    22 October 2019 at 20:47

    Have always loved this poem! I have trimmin’s on the rosary myself!

    Reply
    • Christine Muir says

      22 August 2020 at 19:48

      So do I!

      Reply
  2. joan leech says

    26 November 2020 at 06:48

    It’s light but so moving. The rhymes are fun. And it reminds me, how when I was a student and staying in Walsh Road with Joe and Bridget, no matter who was in the house, after the 9 o’clock News everybody had to go on their knees for The Rosary and the Trimming were prayers for The Dead. For one visitor, I suspect it was the first and only time he heard it. Go raibh agat.

    Reply
  3. Geraldine Hughes says

    23 January 2021 at 01:14

    Thank you. My Mum recited this poem at the age of 9 in 1937. An archbishop was visiting her school in Armagh and she was chosen for the address. It was especially poignant as she was an orphan from 6 years old and being reared by her sister Annie. At that time it was normally the children of more affluent parents who might have been given the opportunity for such an occasion, but fair dues to Mother Lawlor at the school, she gave Mammy the chance. That opportunity gave Mammy many a happy recollection as she recited it to us as we were growing up. Thank you again. My Mum died 23 years ago and this means a lot to us.

    Reply
    • IAC says

      23 January 2021 at 19:39

      Thank you for sharing your story of your mother and this poem.
      Nice to hear that this poem means so much.

      No doubt there are many stories that your mother could have told. Usually it’s the famous people who have their biographies published; but there are so many more stories waiting to be heard of the ordinary and not-so-ordinary non-famous folk, being anecdotes and tales which can be so rich in depth and interest. Here’s hoping that more people write down the stories about themselves and their families (before it’s too late, when we all pass on).

      Reply
  4. Joan Enright says

    11 February 2023 at 01:33

    Forwarded this to everyone I know. Just beautiful.

    Reply

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