Tara landowners and supporters at their blockade outside the town. They have stopped all QGC vehicles entering or exiting a site where they plan siesmic testing . QGC have started to build a road around them on private land.
Tara in Queensland is far from the seat of the Ard-Rí na hÉireann, the High King of Ireland. These days it is on for young and old out there as the locals take their stand against the resource buccaneers seeking to cash in on Coal Seam Gas, the current flavour of the year in Queensland.
My Irish heart goes back to girlhood days when thinking of Tara and its goes to that far away sacred place hidden in the Celtic mists of time. I remember this song I was taught at school by the nuns from Ireland. It is a haunting lament for something lost that never will return. I suggest it to the good folk of Tara for their theme song because, if the resource buccaneers are able to to trample over and under our rich agricultural land and heritage and pollute, damage, and co-opt our water in the process, we will have lost something more precious than Tara's ancient halls. We will have lost our life for water is our life - it is the major constituent of who we, physically, are.
So the hearts of Tara in Queensland are indeed indignant - but, as the great poet says, this shows that Freedom lives.
The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that praise no more.
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that praise no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright,
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
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