Pronunciation of Irish Names at http://www.utm.edu/departments/english/everett/496pron.htm
Rudraige pronounced Roo-ree (Rury).

McCreary is an Irish patronymic name anglicized from the Gaelic Mac Ruaidhrí, from the given name Ruaidhrí (anglicized Rory). Other versions are McCrary, McCreery, McCririe, McCrory.

Rev. P. Woulfe, Irish Names and Surnames. A standard work likely to be found in any genealogy library. Originally published 1923. Special Revised Edition 1992, Irish Genealogical Foundation, Kansas City.

p. 403. MacRUIDHRÍ. Obsolete anglicized spelling M'Rierie; modern anglicized spellings MacReery, MacCreery, MacCreary. A dialectal variant of MacRuaidhrí.

p. 403. MacRUAIDHRÍ. Obsolete anglicized spellings M'Rury, M'Roory, M'Rowry. Son of Ruaidhrí anglicized Rory, Roderick, and Roger. The name of 1) a family who were anciently chiefs of Tellach Ainbhith & Muinntear Birn, in County Tyrone [Ulster] and erenaghs of Ballynascreen, in County Derry [Ulster]; 2) Scoto-Irish family of the same stock as the MacDonnells, who came over to Ireland as gallowglasses about the middle of the 14th century.

P. Hanks and F. Hodges, A Dictionary of Surnames, 1988, Oxford University Press.
p. 357: McCREERY = MacRuidhrí (from Ruaidhrí).
p. 458. RORY Scots & Irish. Anglicized form of the Gaelic personal name Ruaidhrí, originally composed of Celtic elements meaning 'red' (also 'powerful, mighty') and 'rule'. Variants: Rorie, Roger. Patronymics: Rorison, McRo(o)ry, McRury, McCrory, McGrory, McCreery.

C.S. Sims, The Origin and Signification of Scottish Surnames. Originally published Philadelphia, 1862. Copyright 1964 by Ch. E. Tuttle and published by Avenel Books, a division of Crown Publishers.
p. 77. MacRORIE The son of Roderick [should say Rory]. The family are descended from Roderick, grandson of Somerled, Thane of Argyll.

On a Map of Fairy Haunts in Ireland is a location called Tonn Rury in the County of Down.

Irish History year 1170
For marrying the Lady Rose O?Connor, daughter of Rury, King of Connacht, the elder Hugh de Lacy roused the ire of Henry II, and was dismissed from his post as chief Governor of Ireland.

This exerpt from the poem (Baile and Aillinn) was found on the Internet written by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet he lived in London and in Sligo (northern Ireland), where many of his poems are set. Yeates was fascinated by Irish legend and the occult and in the poem we find the source of the legend. "They have heaped the stones above his grave In Muirthemne, and over it In changeless Ogham letters writ Baile, that was of Rury?s seed." Ogham is an alphabetic system of inscribed notches used to write Old Irish, chiefly on the edges of memorial stones, from the fifth to the early seventh century. Baile Rury is said to have died around the time of Christ.

Sligo is a municipal borough of northern Ireland on Sligo Bay, an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean. There are megalithic ruins nearby.

Check the internet source for the full text of the poem.

Interregnum: meaning an interval of time between successor generations. We don't know what the link is between this Irish poem and the Scottish Rury. we do know that if they are connected there are many missing generations.

page 459
The "Annals of the Four Masters" thus notice Rory's death :
"1578. Rury Oge, the son of Rury Caech, son of Connell O'More, fell by the
band of Brian Oge, son of Brian MacGillapatrick. This Rury was the head of
the plunderers and insurgents of the men of Ireland in his time; and for a
long time after his death no one was desirous to discharge one shot against
the soldiers of the Crown."

http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/mlcr/mlcr05.htm
the Ulster exile; Fiacha son of Firaba, who was with the host of Maev, and was looking on at the fight, could not endure to see the plight of the champion, and he drew his sword and with one stroke he lopped off the eight-and-twenty hands that were grinding the face of Cuchulain into the gravel of the Ford. Then Cuchulain arose and hacked the Clan Calatin into fragments, so that none survived to tell Maev what Fiacha had done, else had he and his thirty hundred followers of Clan Rury heen given by Maev to the edge of the sword.

Loch Ruaraidh (LOCH RURY) The Blemish of Fergus
http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/mlcr/mlcr05.htm
Fergus mac Leda was never tired of exploring the depths of the lakes and rivers of Ireland; but one day, in Loch Rury, he met with a hideous monster, the MUIRDRIS, or river-horse, which inhabited that lake, and from which he barely saved himself by flying to the shore. With the terror of this encounter his face was twisted awry; but since a blemished man could not hold rule in Ireland, his queen and nobles took pains, on some pretext, to banish all mirrors from the palace, and kept the knowledge of his condition from him. One day, however, he smote a bondmaid with a switch, for some negligence, and the maid, indignant, cried out: 'It were better for thee, Fergus, to avenge thyself on the river-horse that hath twisted thy face than to do brave deeds on women!' Fergus bade fetch him a mirror, and looked in it. 'It is true,' he said; 'the river-horse of Loch Rury has done this thing.' The conclusion may be given in the words of Sir Ferguson's fine poem on this theme. Fergus donned the magic shoes, took sword in hand, and went to Loch Rury:

This fine tale has been published in full from an Egerton MS., by Standish Hayes O'Grady, in his SILVA GADELICA. The humorous treatment of the fairy element in the story would mark it as belonging to a late period of Irish legend, but the tragic and noble conclusion unmistakingly signs it as belonging to the Ulster bardic literature, and it falls within the same order of ideas, if it were not composed within the same period, as the tales of CuChulain. # 504 - 562

http://www.bartleby.com/250/61.html
Padraic Colum (1881-1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922.
61. The Grave of Rury By T. W. Rolleston

CLEAR as air, the western waters
evermore their sweet, unchanging song
Murmur in their stony channels
round O'Conor's sepulchre in Cong.

Crownless, hopeless, here he lingered; 5
year on year went by him like a dream,
While the far-off roar of conquest
murmured faintly like the singing stream.

Here he died, and here they tombed him
men of Fechin, chanting round his grave. 10
Did they know, ah! did they know it,
what they buried by the babbling wave?

Now above the sleep of Rury
holy things and great have passed away;
Stone by stone the stately Abbey 15
falls and fades in passionless decay.

Darkly grows the quiet ivy,
pale the broken arches glimmer through;
Dark upon the cloister-garden
dreams the shadow of the ancient yew. 20

Through the roofless aisles the verdure
flows, the meadow-sweet and fox-glove bloom.
Earth, the mother and consoler,
winds soft arms about the lonely tomb.

Peace and holy gloom possess him, 25
last of Gaelic monarchs of the Gael,
Slumbering by the young, eternal
river-voices of the western vale.

This is the Roderick O'Connor of English history. After his defeat by the Normans the office of the High King was allowed to lapse in accordance with the terms of the treaty of Windsor. This king was then "Last of Gaelic monarchs of the Gael."

"Ruraidh O'Conchobhar, last king of Ireland, died and was buried in the monastery of St. Fechin at Cong, where his grave is still shown in that most beautiful and pathetic of Irish ruins. All accounts agree in this, but some have it that his remains were afterwards transferred to Clonmacnoise by the Shannon." Author's note.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/war/plantation/bardic/poem01.shtml
After the defeat of the Irish at the battle of Kinsale in 1601, Ruairí Ó Dónaill (Rory O?Donnell) brother of Aodh Rua (Red Hugh) carried on the war, but finally having heard of his brother?s death in Spain he surrendered to the English. In 1603, he went to Dublin and London and returned as Earl of Tyrconnell. Later in 1607 he travelled with the Ulster chieftains to the Continent and he died in Rome in July 1608. This poem by Eoghan Ruadh Mac an Bhaird, chief poet of the O?Donnells, laments his death and its consequences for Ireland.

Excerpt from Bardic poem, Ireland:
Heartrending News

Every man will say
"If Rury´s succession were closed whom should we celebrate tonight, as one through whom we might hope for deliverance?"

1. Title: Compiler: Kenneth W. Rury, Poulsbo, WA, (360) 697-6649
   The sources I have used are too numerous to mention here, but are thoroughly documented in the family tree records. I have contacted by phone and by newsletter at least one member of every geographically dispersed Rury family.
   Extensive Census research at the National Archives, local LDS material, interviews, and letters. Compilation of all known Rury's in the United States from 1644-present.
   Various internet sources have been searched including Social Security records through 1995 and 1930 Census.
2. Text: BAILE AND AILLINN
   by William Butler Yeats
   
   Baile and Aillinn were lovers, but Aengus, the
   Master of Love, wishing them to be happy in his own land
   among the dead, told to each a story of the other's death, so
   that their hearts were broken and they died.
   
   I HARDLY hear the curlew cry,
   Nor thegrey rush when the wind is high,
   Before my thoughts begin to run
   On the heir of Uladh, Buan's son,
   Baile, who had the honey mouth;
   And that mild woman of the south,
   Aillinn, who was King Lugaidh's heir.
   
   Their love was never drowned in care
   Of this or that thing, nor grew cold
   Because their hodies had grown old.
   Being forbid to marry on earth,
   They blossomed to immortal mirth.
   About the time when Christ was born,
   When the long wars for the White Horn
   
   And the Brown Bull had not yet come,
   Young Baile Honey Mouth, whom some
   Called rather Baile Little-Land,
   Rode out of Emain with a band
   Of harpers and young men; and they
   Imagined, as they struck the way
   
   To many-pastured Muirthemne,
   That all things fell out happily,
   And there, for all that fools had said,
   Baile and Aillinn would be wed.
   They found an old man running there:
   He had ragged long grass-coloured hair;
   He had knees that stuck out of his hose;
   He had puddle-water in his shoes;
   He had half a cloak to keep him dry,
   Although he had a squirrel's eye.
   
   O wandering hirds and rushy beds,
   You put such folly in our heads
   With all this crying in the wind,
   No common love is to our mind,
   And our poor kate or Nan is less
   Than any whose unhappiness
   Awoke the harp-strings long ago.
   Yet they that know all things hut know
   That all this life can give us is
   A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
   Who was it put so great a scorn
   In the grey reeds that night and morn
   Are trodden and broken hy the herds,
   And in the light bodies of birds
   The north wind tumbles to and fro
   And pinches among hail and snow?
   
   That runner said: ""I am from the south;
   I run to Baile Honey-Mouth,
   To tell him how the girl Aillinn
   Rode from the country of her kin,
   And old and young men rode with her:
   For all that country had been astir
   If anybody half as fair
   Had chosen a husband anywhere
   But where it could see her every day.
   When they had ridden a little way
   An old man caught the horse's head
   With: "You must home again, and wed
   With somebody in your own land.''
   A young man cried and kissed her hand,
   "O lady, wed with one of us'';
   And when no face grew piteous
   For any gentle thing she spake,
   She fell and died of the heart-break.""
   
   Because a lover's heart s worn out,
   Being tumbled and blown about
   By its own blind imagining,
   And will believe that anything
   That is bad enough to be true, is true,
   Baile's heart was broken in two;
   And he, being laid upon green boughs,
   Was carried to the goodly house
   Where the Hound of Uladh sat before
   The brazen pillars of his door,
   His face bowed low to weep the end
   Of the harper's daughter and her friend
   For athough years had passed away
   He always wept them on that day,
   For on that day they had been betrayed;
   And now that Honey-Mouth is laid
   Under a cairn of sleepy stone
   Before his eyes, he has tears for none,
   Although he is carrying stone, but two
   For whom the cairn's but heaped anew.
   
   We hold, because our memory is
   Sofull of that thing and of this,
   That out of sight is out of mind.
   But the grey rush under the wind
   And the grey bird with crooked bill
   rave such long memories that they still
   Remember Deirdre and her man;
   And when we walk with Kate or Nan
   About the windy water-side,
   Our hearts can Fear the voices chide.
   How could we be so soon content,
   Who know the way that Naoise went?
   And they have news of Deirdre's eyes,
   Who being lovely was so wise --
   Ah! wise, my heart knows well how wise.
   
   Now had that old gaunt crafty one,
   Gathering his cloak about him,
   Where Aillinn rode with waiting-maids,
   Who amid leafy lights and shades
   Dreamed of the hands that would unlace
   Their bodices in some dim place
   When they had come to the matriage-bed,
   And harpers, pacing with high head
   As though their music were enough
   To make the savage heart of love
   Grow gentle without sorrowing,
   Imagining and pondering
   Heaven knows what calamity;
   "Another's hurried off,' cried he,
   "From heat and cold and wind and wave;
   They have heaped the stones above his grave
   In Muirthemne, and over it
   In changeless Ogham letters writ --
   Baile, that was of Rury's seed.
   But the gods long ago decreed
   No waiting-maid should ever spread
   Baile and Aillinn's marriage-bed,
   For they should clip and clip again
   Where wild bees hive on the Great Plain.
   Therefore it is but little news
   That put this hurry in my shoes.
   Then seeing that he scarce had spoke
   Before her love-worn heart had broke.
   He ran and laughed until he came
   To that high hill the herdsmen name
   The Hill Seat of Laighen, because
   Some god or king had made the laws
   That held the land together there,
   In old times among the clouds of the air.
   That old man climbed; the day grew dim;
   Two swans came flying up to him,
   Linked by a gold chain each to each,
   And with low murmuring laughing speech
   Alighted on the windy grass.
   They knew him: his changed body was
   Tall, proud and ruddy, and light wings
   Were hovering over the harp-strings
   That Edain, Midhir's wife, had wove
   In the hid place, being crazed by love.
   What shall I call them? fish that swim,
   Scale rubbing scale where light is dim
   By a broad water-lily leaf;
   Or mice in the one wheaten sheaf
   Forgotten at the threshing-place;
   Or birds lost in the one clear space
   Of morning light in a dim sky;
   Or, it may be, the eyelids of one eye,
   Or the door-pillars of one house,
   Or two sweet blossoming apple-boughs
   That have one shadow on the ground;
   Or the two strings that made one sound
   Where that wise harper's finger ran.
   For this young girl and this young man
   Have happiness without an end,
   Because they have made so good a friend.
   They know all wonders, for they pass
   The towery gates of Gorias,
   And Findrias and Falias,
   And long-forgotten Murias,
   Among the giant kings whose hoard,
   Cauldron and spear and stone and sword,
   Was robbed before earth gave the wheat;
   Wandering from broken street to street
   They come where some huge watcher is,
   And tremble with their love and kiss.
   They know undying things, for they
   Wander where earth withers away,
   Though nothing troubles the great streams
   But light from the pale stars, and gleams
   From the holy orchards, where there is none
   But fruit that is of precious stone,
   Or apples of the sun and moon.
   What were our praise to them? They eat
   Quiet's wild heart, like daily meat;
   Who when night thickens are afloat
   On dappled skins in a glass boat,
   Far out under a windless sky;
   While over them birds of Aengus fly,
   And over the tiller and the prow,
   And waving white wings to and fro
   Awaken wanderings of light air
   To stir their coverlet and their hair.
   And poets found, old writers say,
   A yew tree where his body lay;
   But a wild apple hid the grass
   With its sweet blossom where hers was,
   And being in good heart, because
   A better time had come again
   After the deaths of many men,
   And that long fighting at the ford,
   They wrote on tablets of thin board,
   Made of the apple and the yew,
   All the love stories that they knew.
   
   Let rush and hird cry out their fill
   Of the harper's daughter if they will,
   Beloved, I am not afraid of her.
   She is not wiser nor lovelier,
   And you are more high of heart than she,
   For all her wanderings over-sea;
   But I'd have bird and rush forget
   Those other two; for never yet
   Has lover lived, but longed to wive
   Like them that are no more alive.