Grace Veronica Scannell

Grace Veronica Scannell

April 10, 1928 - April 15, 2010

Grace Veronica Scannell

April 10, 1928 - April 15, 2010

Obituary

Grace Veronica Scannell was born in Brooklyn New York in 1927 to Irish parents John and Grace Kelly. So both mother and daughter were named Grace Kelly, until my mom married.

My mother was a bit of a child prodigy, and sang with the voice of an adult from about age 10. She had a beautiful soprano voice, and was a soloist with the church choir, as well as with various ensembles and was always the star of the party!

My father was a hard working and fun loving NY City cop, retiring after 22 years in the force, to move house to California, with my Nana and grandpa in tow. Both were avid theatre-goers, dancers and appreciators of culture. My father was very athletic, and enjoyed tennis, golf and swimming. They were a very happy couple, and preferred each other’s company for the duration of their marriage.

They originally settled in Riverside, where my father went into Real Estate, and became an appraiser, eventually retiring as head of the Appraisal division for Riverside County. Following retirement, they moved to Palm Desert California, where they lived in a beautiful Country Club until my father passed in 2003.

THE BROOKLYN WILD IRISH ROSE Lyrics and Music by Pat O’Scannell © 1997

I come from the Irish that came to New York
My grandfather came over from somewhere in Cork
‘though I never did meet him; he died of a stroke
when my father was only a child
As the man of the family at the ripe age of nine
Well my father looked up and in very short time
He was walking a beat with the cops fighting crime
With the other Micks down on the Bowry
And my mother was a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose
With her thick chestnut ringlets and everyone knows
She could sing like a bird when the evening would close
Yes, we’re called the American Irish

CHORUS:

You can call me a gypsy, a ramblin’ rover
A child of poverty wrapped up in clover
Well, my people were proud to be when they came over
I’m the daughter of a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose.
You can take your St. Patty’s Day parades and flags
All the wearin’ the green and all the other fads
And believe what you will But you won’t understand,
I’m the daughter of a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose.

Now my Nana Grace Kelly, she spoke with a brogue
Though wherever she got it, there’s nobody knows
She was born here in Brooklyn as the story goes
It came down through the family it seems
And my Nana told stories for all the day long
And she sang in a voice that was both rich and strong
Well she knew all the history; she knew the old songs
She would sing of the Irish that came to New York
And her family, they all came over from Clare
My grandfather John Kelly, whose words they were rare:
‘We’re Americans now, and we don’t really care
what the people are doing in Ireland’

Actual Victorian ballad as sung by my Nana, Grace Kelly:

‘Twas a dark stormy night, and the train rambles on
The passengers had gone to bed
Except for a man with a child in his arms
Who sat there with bowed down head
The innocent one started crying just then
As if its poor heart would break
One angry man said: ‘Let that child stop its noise
For its keeping all of us awake
‘Oh where is its mother, go take it to her’
A kind lady softy said
‘I wish that I could,’ was the man’s sad reply
‘but she’s dead in the coach ahead.’
As the train rolled onward, a father sad in tears
Thinking of the happiness of just a few short years
Now baby’s face bring pictures of
The cherished hope that’s dead
Sure baby’s cries can’t waken her
in the baggage coach ahead ,

Chorus:

You can call me a gypsy, a ramblin’ rover
A child of poverty wrapped up in clover
Well, my people were proud to be when they came over
I’m the daughter of a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose.
You can take your St. Patty’s Day parades and flags
All the wearin’ the green and all the other fads
And believe what you will But you won’t understand,
I’m the daughter of a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose.

When I was just thirty, some ten years ago
Well my parents sent money just so I could go
Though they’d never admit it they wanted to know
What the people were doing in Ireland
When from Dublin to Galway I sat on the train
What I felt in my heart now it’s hard to explain
Generations of people with my family name
Had been reared and had died there that I’d never seen
And my best friend Sue Carney had family there
Though they all came from Cavin, Baliborough was bare
Most had been forced to leave there, and those who had dared
Were in Belfast and Cardiff, in Jersey and Wales
And they opened their hearts and they opened their homes
So wherever we went we were never alone
And they asked for their sisters; for Lily and Flo
Who had come to America years ago

You can call me a gypsy, a ramblin’ rover
A child of poverty wrapped up in clover
Well, my people were proud to be when they came over
I’m the daughter of a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose.
You can take your St. Patty’s Day parades and flags
All the wearin’ the green and all the other fads
And believe what you will
But you won’t understand, I’m the daughter of a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose.

….My Wild Irish Rose, the sweetest flower that grows
you may search everywhere, but none can compare
With my wild Irish rose
My wild Irish rose, the sweetest flower that grows
Some day for my sake she may let me take
A bloom from my Wild Irish Rose…

So you may call me a gypsy, a ramblin’ rover
A child of poverty wrapped up in clover
Well, my people were proud to be when they came over
I’m the daughter of a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose
You can take your St. Patty’s Day parades and flags
All the wearin’ the green and all the other fads
And believe what you will, no you won’t understand
I’m the daughter of a Brooklyn Wild Irish Rose

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16 responses to Grace Veronica Scannell

  1. Dearest Pat – Our hearts are with you during this time of your loss and sorrow. Our hopes are that you find deep comfort from the beauty of the earth, and that you are surrounded by loved ones. Please know that we are available to help in any way…
    With love – Robert and Ceán

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