Back in the 1970s, my friend Tommy Keane, the great Waterford-born uilleann piper now living in County Galway, kindly gave me a cassette tape that contained dozens of these recordings. It had so many wonderful songs that I almost wore out the tape over the next few years. One of the songs kept re-running in my mind on a regular basis. It was by no means the best song in the collection but, for some reason, I was drawn to it and decided I had better learn it. It seemed like it was missing a verse so I added a new one to flesh it out.

Some years later, my uncle, Paddy Clancy, heard me singing it and asked what it was. He knew it sounded very familiar and then he remembered where he had heard it before. He said, “Do you know that was your great-grandfather’s favorite song. He used to sing it all the time.” Needless to say, I was astonished. How strange that, out of all those songs, that was the one that stuck with me the most. This recording is from the 2010 Clancy Legacy CD that I did with my first cousins, Aoife and Dónal Clancy.

Lyrics:

THE FLOWER OF KILKENNY

Traditional, arranged & adapted with new words and music ©Robbie O’Connell 1985 (BMI)1

I once loved the flower of Kilkenny
And a beautiful creature was she
I loved her far better than any,
And I know that young darling loved me.

CHORUS
She's the beautiful Flower of Kilkenny
Shall I gaze on her fair face no more?
I have roamed through the world and seen many,
But there's none like my Eileen, a stór

I remember the first time I met her,
And I thought that her heart I’d pursue.
And no man could have felt any better
When she swore she would always be true.

As she left me she gave me a token,
And that was an outburst of tears.
And the words that were generally spoken,
They remained in my memory for years.

For this was the last of the token,
That she gave with a fond loving will;
And the words that were generally spoken,
They remain in my memory still.

I’ve always enjoyed children’s songs. In fact, the first LP record I ever wore out, back in the 1950s, was Ed McCurdy’s Children Songs. My uncle, Paddy Clancy, who ran Tradition Records in New York at that time, had brought some copies back to Ireland for the family. Nearly thirty years later, I was delighted to actually meet Ed McCurdy at the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem reunion concert at Lincoln Center. I think he was surprised and pleased to hear that a bunch of kids in a small Irish town had grown up with his music. I occasionally still sing one of those songs, “I Had a Horse”, when I’m in a silly mood.

Lyrics:

DINOSAUR EGG

© Robbie O’Connell 1988 Slievenamon Music [BMI]1

As Jack was playing out back one day, well what do you think he found?
But a strange looking object shiny and hard that was buried underneath the ground.
Well he wondered what it might be, he'd never seen such a thing before.
"I think I know," said Jack to himself, "it's an egg from a dinosaur!"

Dinosaur egg, dinosaur egg!
Never seen such a thing before,
Dinosaur egg, dinosaur egg!
An egg from a dinosaur!

So Jack called up the science museum and he called up the government too.
And they sent inspectors round to his house to run off a test or two.
They dug up all the front yard and a great big hole in the back.
And, in the end, it looked like the house had been hit by a missile attack!

Dinosaur egg, dinosaur egg!
Never seen such a thing before,
Dinosaur egg, dinosaur egg!
An egg from a dinosaur!

But when the results of the test came in it was not what they thought at all.
For Jack had made a huge mistake, it was just an old football.
But Jack he was not worried, for he was no ordinary fool.
Where once they had a yard full of weeds, they now had a swimming pool.

Dinosaur egg, dinosaur egg!
Never seen such a thing before,
Dinosaur egg, dinosaur egg!
An egg from a dinosaur!

All nine of us were enjoying a post-concert nightcap in the hotel bar in Quito, Ecuador. We seemed to be the only customers in the long, narrow bar, probably because it was too expensive for the native clientele. The token air conditioner did little to relieve the clinging humidity so we made an effort to cool off with local beer, not very effective, but a good excuse. Our group consisted of six Green Grass Cloggers, three of whom were also old time musicians, along with fiddler Susie Gott. They all hailed from North Carolina. The Irish legation consisted of our fearless leader—banjo player and singer, Mick Moloney—and me.

We were discussing our departure for Nicaragua on the following morning when Moloney was paged. This was unusual so late at night, and as he went off to take the call, we wondered if something was wrong. The tour, which was organized by the National Council for the Traditional Arts, had begun three weeks earlier, and we still had two weeks to go. As musical ambassadors of the USA, we sometimes did two or three performances a day, but we also got to hang out with local folk musicians and dancers almost everywhere we went. Sometimes after a show the local musicians would take us to a Peña, a sort of folk nightclub featuring regional performers. They were the kind of places we would never have found on our own, and the music was always excellent.

Most of our concerts were free and the admission fee for the others was so low we were assured of a good-sized audience just about everywhere. So far, the tour had gone smoothly, and we were enjoying every moment of it.

Our first stop had been Uruguay, an eighteen-hour flight from the USA. The capital city, Montevideo, felt so European that we could have been in Spain. Statues of heroes on horseback proudly ruled every square. The first night we sauntered out of our hotel around 9pm looking for nightlife, but it seemed like the whole city had gone to bed. However, by 11pm, as we were returning, it suddenly turned into happy hour. The streets echoed with the shouts and whistles of jubilant teenagers cruising the streets. All the bars and restaurants instantly filled up and stayed that way the next five hours. “Someone should have told us,” we complained as we traipsed back to our hotel too tired now to party.

Our first concert in Montevideo was a great success. The theme of our show was the Appalachian Tradition and its Antecedents. We played a mixture of old-time Appalachian songs and dances interspersed with Irish and Scottish songs and tunes. We were concerned that people would not understand our songs so we had the lyrics translated and printed in the programs. People from Ireland, the Appalachian Mountains and South America all shared a common background of economic hardship and political repression so our audiences had no trouble identifying with our songs, which echoed these themes.

The following day we set off confidently into the hinterland for another show in Paysandu, a small provincial town that seemed like it was still in the 1930s. There weren’t many cars, but the ones we saw were antique American models from the era of the black and white gangster movies, and we were amazed by the genius of the local mechanics who could still keep them running.

A few days later, we flew north to Bolivia. The airport in La Paz is more than 13,000 feet above sea level, and as you step off the plane you feel light headed and disoriented. Although musicians often aspire to a similar state of intoxication, this time it was accompanied by a slight nausea, which took all the fun out of it. We were housed in the Sheraton Hotel in La Paz. This was a five star hotel; far superior to any Sheraton I had ever seen. For about $20 per day we could live like royalty. Meals and drinks were so cheap it seemed sacrilegious not to take advantage of it. We were warned that drinking alcohol was the worst thing we could do for the altitude sickness so we adjourned to the bar and discussed it over a few beers. We all agreed that they were wrong.

Living in such style quickly lost its luster when we stepped out into the streets and markets of La Paz. The poverty all through South America was shocking; the contrast between affluence and subsistence was distressing. There seemed to be no middleclass, just disgustingly rich and disturbingly poor. It was easy to see why there were so many coup d’etats and why folk heroes like Che Guevara were so popular. As we drove through the streets, young males continually gave us the finger. The local version, thumb extended between the index and middle fingers, was new to us but there was no mistaking the intent of the gesture. As Americans we were seen as symbols of foreign imperialism, and comparing the dismal conditions that the natives lived in to the decadent opulence enjoyed by visitors to their country, it was hard to blame them.

One morning we set off for a boat trip on Lake Titicaca. We followed winding roads up out of La Paz into the Altiplano, seeing nothing but an occasional llama and a few bowler-hated Aymara women. Even though we were 14,000 feet above sea level, snow-capped peaks stretched into the clouds ahead of us. A small motorboat was waiting to take us to Suriqui Island, about an hour’s journey out into the lake. On the shore there were several of the traditional local boats made from the papyrus reeds that grew in abundance nearby.

In the 1970s, Swedish explorer Thor Heyerdahl had built papyrus boats like these but much larger, for the famous Ra Expedition. He sailed across the Atlantic from Egypt to South America to prove that the ancient Egyptians could have made the journey. The first expedition failed when the papyrus craft became waterlogged after a few days. Research soon proved that the molecular structure of the papyrus plants in Egypt had changed over the past 3000 years, but the papyrus in Lake Titicaca was identical to that used by the ancient Egyptians. So Heyerdahl traveled to Bolivia and brought the papyrus and the local boat builders back to Egypt for another attempt. The success of the Ra II Expedition made worldwide headlines and the boatmen on the lake are extremely proud of that.

When our boat reached the island, swarms of begging children surrounded us. It was difficult to give change to some but not others. We felt guilty and privileged when confronted by such overt poverty, but mostly we felt a sense of helplessness.

Suriqui was home to a celebrity. Paulino Estaban had built papyrus boats for Thor Heyerdahl and sailed the Atlantic with him. When I asked him what it was like crossing the Atlantic Ocean, he mimed cowering in terror of the massive waves, and swore he would never venture out of Bolivia again. Now he owned a ramshackle gift shop where he sold models of the Ra boats to tourists. Being a big fan of both Heyerdahl and model boats, I bought several models in different sizes. Paulino was eager to have his photograph taken with us, and proudly posed with his wife and two llamas, symbols of his wealth and importance.

Apart from a few puffy white clouds, the sky was a deep blue as we sailed back to shore. The snow-capped Andes jutted through the clouds into the heavens and created a sense of being on top of the world. I’m not sure whether it was the altitude or the bottle of brandy we shared on the boat, or both, but I’ll never forget the feeling of elation and lucidity on that lake. Back on the mainland, we were treated to a dinner of fried lake trout, which had been caught since we left, and I have never since tasted fish that good anywhere.

Once again, we journeyed to some of the provincial cities. Cochabamba was best known as the cocaine capital of Bolivia; and as foreigners we were eyed with suspicion and made to feel unwelcome. I had my camera confiscated by the local police in the city park, but after much pleading and explaining in a mix of English and the few words of Spanish I knew, I managed to get it back. Back at the hotel, I discovered that they had confiscated the film. I was later informed that a simple bribe of a dollar would have solved the problem instantly. Not being a seasoned traveler, that solution had never occurred to me.

Our next concert was in Santa Cruz, in the lowlands. It was in a nineteenth century Opera house fronted by a vast tree-lined square. We arrived in the afternoon for a sound check only to discover that a massive right-wing political rally was underway in the square. My first thought was that we had stumbled upon a film set but our driver assured me that it was real.

This was a complete throwback to Nazi Germany. Flags bearing swastikas hung all around the park. Flatbed trucks, rigged with massive loudspeakers, blocked the entrance to the theater. The guttural ranting of the politicians was like footage from a documentary of the Third Reich. Thousands of agitated voices roared their approval or disapproval. It was a scary scene, almost surreal. We elbowed our way through the throng and made it to the stage door. Relieved to get safely inside, we discovered that the event outside was a commemoration of a massacre that had taken place in the theater years before when a score of political figures in the audience had been gunned down in the middle of a show. This was not good news. One of our gigs in La Paz had been postponed because of an assassination attempt against the US ambassador. The police in Cochabamba had been less than friendly and now we had a Nazi rally and massacre commemoration to deal with. I think it safe to say we were a little uptight that night. However, the concert went on without incident and, with great relief, we all celebrated our survival back in the hotel that night.

A few days later, we were in a hotel in Guayaquil in Ecuador arguing over iguanas. A couple of the cloggers had gone out exploring early in the morning and came back filled with excitement about the iguanas they had seen in the park a few blocks away. I went rushing off to see them, but not a single iguana could I spot. I was sure I had been set up and a great laugh was being had at my expense. When I got back to the hotel I accused them of lying to me. They explained that the iguanas’ natural camouflage made them difficult to see at first, but if you sat still and looked at the trees you would see them. I was even more suspicious now of a practical joke but they persuaded me to try again. So, back at the park, I sat on a bench and stared at the trees. Suddenly, I saw one. Then, I saw another and another. It was like a Gestalt puzzle. Once your eyes and brain adjusted you could see them everywhere, like miniature dinosaurs sitting in the trees. It was a thrilling sight and I was grateful that I had not missed it.

After Guayaquil, we moved north to Quito whose only claim to fame seemed to be its gold jewelry and Panama hats. It appeared that the best hats were made here and not in Panama, so we did our tourist duty and stocked up. Twenty years later I still have one that I use when I’m fishing.

The proximity to the equator and the high altitude made sunburn a real danger here but we did not know that at first. Mick got the worst sunburn I have ever seen after only a half hour at the hotel pool. Irish skin is ill equipped for these equatorial regions and he was lucky that he did not have to be hospitalized.

Now we were waiting in the bar for Moloney to return from his phone call and hoping that our plans to fly to Managua next day were not in jeopardy. Relations between the governments of the USA and Nicaragua had been tense for some time because of US backing for the Contra war, which in 1985 appeared to be escalating. When Mick returned he told us that the plans had all changed. He had just received word from the US embassy in Quito that the Reagan Administration had imposed a trade embargo against Nicaragua and the government there would not allow us to go to Managua. We were sorely disappointed at this development. We had been looking forward to visiting this little David, so troublesome to the U.S. Goliath, and wanted to see for ourselves what was going on. Now we were in Limbo. Our next scheduled country on the tour was the Dominican Republic, but they were not expecting us for another ten days. What was going to happen to us? Where would we go next?

Next morning at breakfast, Mick surprised us all. He had just received another call to say that our visit to Nicaragua was still on. The word from the embassy was that the Sandinista government had concluded that as cultural ambassadors, we posed no threat to their regime. So, after hastily packing bags, we were carted off to the airport.

Flying through the Andes in a propeller plane is not the most relaxing way to travel. The aircraft was like an antique bus with wings and as noisy as a hundred lawnmowers. Peering through the scratched windows, the mountain peaks looked close enough to stretch your arm out and touch them. I had to banish stories of plane crashes and cannibalism from my mind.

The other unnerving aspect of the flight was the body odor, which literally took our breath away. The majority of the passengers were rural South Americans, many of them women sporting the bowler hats that had become so familiar to us in Bolivia. They were dressed in the native style of many multicolored layers of wool. You expected to see live chickens in cages beneath their seats. It would appear that personal hygiene is not highly regarded in this region. Unlike the Irish farmer who took a bath once a year, whether he needed it or not, these people obviously suffered from hydrophobia. I had experienced some smelly feet on Aer Lingus flights over the years but that seemed like Eau de Cologne in comparison to the odor that assaulted our nostrils now. In an attempt to escape the near lethal pong of our fellow passengers, we wandered up and down the aisle, like pearl divers holding our breath as long as possible and desperately trying to keep from gagging. We were eventually forced back to our seats by our impending and very welcome approach to the Managua airport. Through the windows we could see dozens of anti-aircraft guns lined up along each runway. Welcome to Nicaragua!

The customs officers were rude. They tore our clothes out of the bags and flung them around the table. They seemed to be angry with us gringos for visiting their troubled country and they were determined to find something wrong. They made no effort to repack our bags and tried to rush us on before we had any time to do it ourselves. Carrying an American passport was not the way to endear you to these people, but finally, after many questions, arguments, examinations and delays, we were in our minibus on route to the Intercontinental Hotel.

The streets of Managua were deserted apart from a few eighteen-year-old soldiers in battle fatigues patrolling, with machine guns slung over their shoulders. I had played concerts in Belfast during the “Troubles” but despite the unease and the threat of car bombs, the streets were still bustling with shoppers, and life seemed relatively normal. These empty silent streets reminded me of Thurles in County Tipperary, when a Munster Hurling final was underway, and I wondered if everyone had not slipped away to a big soccer match.

The Intercontinental Hotel was home to dozens of foreign reporters who were there to cover the Contra war, a hundred miles or so to the North. The lobby was filled with press people, coming and going, day and night. Maybe this was because of the newly imposed embargo, but it felt like everyone was waiting for something dramatic to happen. Tragedy is always news, and the reporters were gathered like hungry animals waiting for someone to fill the feeding trough. They were affable and cynical, at the same time, as we chatted, and everyone we spoke to seemed to think that US policy in the region was misguided, even those from the conservative press.

After we settled in we were taken to the US Embassy for a “briefing.” This consisted of a warning to stay away from areas of combat and beware of interacting with the local people, or buying drugs. In keeping with official US policy in the region, they informed us that we were the good guys and these Sandinistas were no good communists. I asked if it wasn’t un-American for our government to try to overthrow the freely elected Sandinista government. After all, weren’t they the legitimate representatives of the people, and hadn’t they replaced a brutal dictatorship? Shouldn’t America be supporting Democracy, not undermining it? In answer, they cited irregularities at the polling booths as the justification for U.S. interference. I found this answer unacceptable at the time but hilarious fifteen years later during the Florida recount in the 2000 presidential election. Ah well, what do I know? I’m just a humble musician.

Our first concert was in the local arts and culture center, unlike any such center I had seen before. It was a derelict building, the ruins of the Grand Hotel that had been destroyed in an earthquake in 1972. All that remained was the ground floor, which had been roofed and made structurally safe. Multicolored ornate batiks hung from the ceilings, strange Indian paintings covered the walls; but my favorites were the carved wooden figures that looked as if they had melted and assumed rounded and twisted shapes. A glimpse of further treasures ahead appeared now and then through jagged gaping holes in the stone walls. Outdoors, there was a huge stage, in what was formerly the pool area, while the auditorium, which held about a thousand seats, was under cover, in the now defunct ballroom of the hotel. The whole place was like a colorful garden that had bloomed on a pile of rubble and, as all good art is meant to do, it created a sense of awe.

Our first show began at dusk. A massive yellow moon rose slowly up before us like a huge spotlight. It was so big that you could see individual craters on its surface. As soon as we began to play, darting shadows suddenly flickered through the arc of the stage lights. Bats! Dozens of them appeared in front of us, beside us, behind us, everywhere. They seemed particularly agitated by the sound of the banjo. I guess if the joke “Welcome to Hell, here’s your banjo,” is true, at least I won’t have to worry about bats when I get there. We quickly developed an expertise in avant-garde choreography as we bobbed and dipped while we played our instruments and the bats dive-bombed us. Maybe the little critters were irritated by the music but the audience was enthusiastic and friendly. To our relief there were no shouts of “Yankees, Go Home!” We performed there for two nights to sold-out houses and by the second night we even grew accustomed to the bats and only ducked our heads occasionally.

During the day, we went to visit some of the local sights, including a live volcano in Masaya not far from the city. A wooden viewing platform on the crest of the crater enabled us to see right down to where the lava bubbled and smoked and belched out spirals of thick grey smoke. I watched fascinated as hundreds of bright green parrots wheeled through the smoke plumes to their nests, which clung to the walls of the crater. They were attracted, no doubt, by the free central heating. The vivid flashes of green wings amid the grey smoke of the crater were an unexpected and memorable sight.

Nearby, in Masaya, we found an open-air market where we could shop for souvenirs. Wandering through colorful stalls filled with local produce and crafts, we were astounded to hear a voice call out, “Hey, Moloney! How are they all in Limerick?” A stranger rushed over to shake Mick’s hand and explain that he was an ex-patriot Chilean dissident who had lived for two years in Limerick, Ireland, Mick’s hometown. He had fled to a reconciliation center there when his life had been threatened by the Pinoche regime. Still unable to return safely to Chile, he had settled in Nicaragua where he felt more at home. He had recognized Mick from a photograph in the newspaper promoting the concert and they had a great chat about mutual acquaintances. It is said that the world gets smaller everyday and here was proof indeed.

Some people take photographs as mementos of their travels but, although I usually bring a camera, I find that writing a song about the experience can be a powerful way to preserve memories. Songs and smells are like a time machine taking you back to a particular place or time. I jotted down some thoughts and ideas as we traveled around and when I got home I wrote a song to try to capture the feelings of our Nicaraguan sojourn. I subsequently recorded it on a CD called The Love of the Land.

Several years later, at a folk festival in Pennsylvania, I ran into Trish Miller, one of the clog dancers from that tour. She told me that one night not long before, while she and her husband John were driving home from a gig in up-state New York, she was astounded to hear Full Moon Over Managua on the radio. She hadn’t been aware that I had written the song, and she said she cried as all the memories of the South American tour came flooding back.

Lyrics:

FULL MOON OVER MANAGUA

© Robbie O’Connell 1987 Slievenamon Music (BMI)2

In the Casa Grande garden, we sat at evening time
Politely making small talk while the waiters poured more wine.
And it seemed like some old movie that I saw so long ago
Until I looked out through the chain link fence at the city down below.

CHORUS:
There's a full moon over Managua, and the wind is in the trees,
The stars are shining clear tonight, there's music on the breeze
The palm tree silhouettes against the sky look like a painted scene
As I wonder to myself who really is the enemy.

And up in the Northern mountains, not so many miles away,
Silent eyes watch through the night waiting for the break of day
And the smell of burning wheat fields still lingers in the sky,
With the silence sometimes broken by the crack of rifle fire.

I saw a woman rocking on her porch, her eyes as hard as steel,
A machine gun cradled in her arms where a baby might have been.
She said that though she hadn't much, at least it was her own,
And she'd rather die than go back to the way it was before.

I never will forget the night, at the ruins of the Grand Hotel,
The cloggers danced their hearts out, and we gave the music hell.
And the bats flew like mosquitoes as the moon rose overhead,
And we knew that we would never all have such a night again.

A brae is a steep bank or a hillside. The term is commonly used in Scotland and Northern Ireland though not much in the south of Ireland. The Skreen referred to in the song is thought to be Ballinascreen in County Derry, now known as Draperstown although there is also a Skreen in County Sligo and a Screen in County Wexford.

There have been many recordings of it in the past seventy years in Ireland, Scotland, and England. The ones I am most familiar with are Mick Hanly, on his classic 1976 album, A Kiss in the Morning Early and Altan on their 2000 album, Another Sky.

It seems that it was once a longer song as there appear to be gaps in the narrative. One Scottish version has these additional verses:

But when your heart was mine, young man,
And your hand upon your left breast,
You’d have made me believe by the fause oaths you swore
That the sun aye rose in the west.

I will never believe a man any more,
Let his hair be white, black or brown.
Save he were on the top of a high gallows tree
And swearing he’d wish to come down.

In this adaptation, I made some slight changes to the melody. This recording is from the 2010 Clancy Legacy CD that I made with my cousins, Aoife and Dónal Clancy. We were joined on this track by Shannon Heaton on flute and Oisín McAuley on fiddle.

Lyrics:

THE VERDANT BRAES OF SKREEN

Traditional, arranged and adapted with new music by Robbie O’Connell ©2010.

As I walked out one evening fair
By the verdant braes of Skreen
I set my back to a hawthorn tree
To view the sun in the west country
The dew on the forest green

A lad I spied by our burn side
And a maiden by his knee
And he was as dark as the very brown red
And she all whey and wan to see
All whey and wan was she

"Come sit you down on the grass," he said.
"On the dewy grass so green
For the wee birds all have come and gone
Since I my true love have seen
Since I my true love seen."

"Oh I'll not sit on the grass," she said.
"Nor be a love of thine
For I hear that you love a Connaught maid
And your heart's no longer mine," she said
"And your heart's no longer mine."

"And I'll not heed what an old man says
For his days farewell nigh gone
And I'll not heed what a young man says
For he's fair to many's the one," she said.
"For he's fair to many's the one."

"But I will climb a high, high tree
And I'll rob a wild bird's nest
And back I'll bring whatever I do find
To the arms that I love best," she said.
"To the arms that I love best."

Fans of the great Martin Carthy may be familiar with the melody as his Dancing at Whitsun uses a similar tune. Roxanne and I have been singing this since the mid 1970s. We are joined on this recording by the wonderful uilleann piper, Tommy Keane, who sings the bass harmony. This recording comes from my Close to the Bone album, released on Green Linnet in 1982.

Lyrics:

A WEEK BEFORE EASTER

Traditional, arranged and adapted by Robbie O’Connell © 1982 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

A week before Easter, a morn bright and clear
Oh, the sun it shone brightly and keen blew the air
I went to the forest to gather wildflowers
But the forest would yield me no roses

The roses are red the leaves they are green
Oh the bushes and briars are a joy to be seen
And the small birds are singing and changing their notes
Down among the wild beasts in the forest

The first time I saw my love she was dressed all in white
Made my eyes run and water fair dazzled my sight
But now she has left me and shown me false play
For she's gone to be wed to another

The last time I saw my love she did in the church stand
With a ring on her finger and a glove in her hand
And I thought to myself that I could have been that man
But she’s left me and gone with some other

The parson that married them aloud he did cry
All you that forbid it I would have you stand nigh
And I thought to myself I've a good reason why
But I had not the heart to forbid it

Oh dig me my grave, dig it long, wide and deep
And cover it over with flowers so sweet
And I lay me down for to take a long sleep
For that’s the best way to forget her

During prolonged winter storms the island could be cut off for weeks on end. In 1947, a young man contracted meningitis and bad weather prevented any medical help getting to him before he tragically died. This brought national attention to how precarious life on the island had become and the Irish Government decided to begin evacuating the remaining residents in 1953. The last family left in January 1954.

It was during one of my visits there that I began wondering what those final years on the island were like. There is a tangible sense of loneliness and isolation amid all the stunning beauty of the place. I imagined what it must have been like for a young woman longing for the return of her husband who had gone off to hopefully set up a new life where she could join him.

Several of the islanders wrote books about the joys and challenges of life on the Great Blasket. The three best known are The Islander by Thomás Ó Criomhthain, Peig by Peig Sayers, and Twenty Years A-Growing by Muiris Ó Súilleabháín. There is a wonderful interpretive centre, Ionad an Bhlascaoid, in Dunquin, that gives fascinating accounts of life on the island over the years. I highly recommend a visit, if you are in the area. There are also boat trips to the island from the pier in Dunquin during the summer months.

After I had written the song, I had a feeling that the second part of the tune was very similar to something else. It took a while for me to realize that it resembled part of an old Irish air, Eibhlí Gheal Chiúin Ní Chearbhaill. My first thought was to change the melody but it fit so well that I decided to leave it.

This recording is from the second Green Fields of America CD released in 2009 on Compass Records.

Lyrics:

THE ISLANDER’S LAMENT

© Robbie O’Connell 2000 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

For every hour I am parted from you
Oh how my heart will be grieving
And each night I lie all alone in my bed
It's only myself I'm deceiving
For love cannot conquer the pain that I feel
And time can't remove all the heartache
It's only the taste of your kisses so sweet
That can make life worth living for my sake

No bird in the forest nor beast in the field
Can know of the joy you are bringing
Your beauty is all in this world that I need
When I'm with you my heart will be singing
I'll count every moment while you are away
And savour the sweet taste of sorrow
That your parting kiss has bestowed on my lips
And I'll pray that I'll see you tomorrow

I'd sail every ocean to see you again
I'd instantly brave any danger
I'd roam through the world for one night in your arms
For I cannot abide being a stranger
So come back my love on the turn of the tide
And promise no more you'll be leaving
For one kiss is all I require from your lips
To inherit the garden of Eden

For every hour I am parted from you
Oh how my heart will be grieving
And each night I lie all alone in my bed
It's only myself I'm deceiving
For love cannot conquer the pain that I feel
And time can't remove all the heartache
It's only the taste of your kisses so sweet
That can make life worth living for my sake

Songs, like certain foods, also have a limited shelf life. You can love a song for years but then, just like milk eventually turns sour, you hear it just once too often and you go off it. Oddly enough this usually happens with the best songs. Because they are good songs to begin with they get played more often and then suddenly one day your ears reach saturation point and you never want to hear it again.

“Danny Boy,” is undoubtedly the world’s best-known and best-loved Irish song. Its melody is an adaptation of a traditional Irish tune, known as the “Derry Air” or sometimes the “Londonderry Air.” There are several theories about where and when it originated but many musicologists now believe that it is a variant of a tune written by Rory Dall O’Cathain, (Blind Rory Keane), a legendary Irish Harper who died in 1712. The original Gaelic words have been lost but in 1913 when Fred Weatherly, an English songwriter added new lyrics, it quickly became one of the most popular songs of all time. However, for me, it hit “saturation point” when I was about fourteen. Admittedly, mine was an unusual case. Growing up in a small hotel in Ireland where wedding receptions were a major part of the business, I heard hundreds of wedding singers mutilate the song almost every week. Every time they would reach for the high note at the end, I would picture a pole-vaulter hovering over the twenty foot bar, striving to defy gravity, for as long as possible before dropping to the ground like a deflated balloon. Then the audience, like an enthusiastic home crowd at the Olympic games, would roar their appreciation for the valiant effort.

Sad songs in general are a two edged sword for a performer. It is ironic that the better a sad song is received, the more difficult it is to follow it. It is hard to climb out of the emotional trough it creates and bring the audience back to a lighter mood. Another problem is that people hearing a sad emotional song for the first time may be greatly moved but those who have heard the song many times before may develop an urgent need to go to the toilet. This kind of ambivalence puts those who sing for a living in an awkward position. It is challenging to sing a song, knowing that some of the audience is cringing while others are enjoying it.

I was unaware of such subtleties when I first came to the USA as a college student and found work singing in Irish pubs. Everywhere I traveled, I was inundated with requests for Danny Boy. Actually, it was more of a demand than a request.

“Sing Danny Boy!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know it.”

“What do you mean you don’t know it? Of course you know it.”

“No, I’m afraid I simply do not know the song.”

“You’re not Irish. You can’t be Irish. You don’t know Danny Boy?”

And so it went, night after night. They almost attacked me when I gave my standard response. At one point, with an eye to my safety, I actually tried to learn it but I quickly discovered that I did not have the range to sing it properly. The last thing the world needed was another bad rendition of Danny Boy so I decided instead to write a song about not singing it. In truth it would be fairer to say that the song wrote itself.

The first night I performed “You’re Not Irish” in a noisy pub in Boston, I was a little apprehensive about how the audience might react. In writing the melody, I deliberately mimicked the musical style of familiar Irish-American songs and also included some of those titles in the lyrics. I feared they might get mad at me for desecrating some of their favorite songs but luckily, some people immediately picked up on the vaudeville rhythm of the tune and started clapping along. Others just heard the familiar words, like Toora Loora Loora that seemed to blend in with the beer and the general buzz in the place. However a handful of people caught the satire in the song and smiled knowingly. I was delighted to see it working on all the different levels and I thought that at last I had the antidote to the Danny Boy request. Alas, I was sorely mistaken. For many years, I finished my concerts with “You’re not Irish.” But, unfortunately for me, it turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy. Invariably, as I left the stage, some wit would call out for Danny Boy as an encore and the audience would crack up. So the Danny Boy fans had the last laugh after all.

Lyrics:

YOU’RE NOT IRISH

© Robbie O’Connell 1987 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

When first I came to the USA with my guitar in hand
I was told that I could get a job singing songs from Ireland
So I headed up to Boston, I was sure it would be alright
But the very first night I got on the stage, I was in for a big surprise

CHORUS
They said “You’re not Irish, you can’t be Irish, you don’t know ‘Danny Boy”’
Or ‘Toora Loora Loora’ or even ‘Irish Eyes’
You’ve got a hell of a nerve to say you came from Ireland
So cut out all the nonsense and sing ‘McNamara’s Band’”

To tell the truth I got quite a shock and I didn’t know what to say
So I sang a song in Gaelic, I thought that might win the day
But they looked at me suspiciously and I didn’t know what was wrong
Then all of a sudden they started to shout“ Now sing a real Irish song”

The next day I was on my way, for Chicago I was bound
I was ready to give it another try and not let it get me down
From the stage they looked quite friendly but I’d hardly sung one word
When a voice called out from the back of the room and what do you think I heard?

Now I’ve traveled all round the country, but it’s always been the same
From LA to Philadelphia, and from Washington to Maine
But sometimes now I wonder if it’s a secret society
And it doesn’t matter wherever I go, they’ll be waiting there for me.

Saying, “You’re not Irish, you can’t be Irish, you don’t know ‘Danny Boy”’
Or ‘Toora Loora Loora’ or even ‘Irish Eyes’
You’ve got a hell of a nerve to say you came from Ireland
So cut out all the nonsense and sing ‘McNamara’s Band’”

When I first went to the USA, I found it strange that so many people told me they were Irish even though they had never set foot in Ireland. Having spent more than half my life living in the USA, I think I understand it now. The confusion appears to lie in the difference between ethnic and national identity. Many people in the USA identify with the ethnicity of their immigrant ancestors, just as many people in England identify as Irish and many in Northern Ireland identify as English. It seems like a vestige of some deeply embedded tribal instinct. We are all inhabitants of planet Earth yet we tend to only identify with small portions of it. It’s a complex issue but it seems to come down to which tribal affiliation is strongest and which cultural heritage was most present in our formative years.

I wrote Two Nations following a panel discussion at the Augusta Heritage Arts Center in Elkins, WV in the mid 1980s. There were six of us panelists, all Irish-born instructors making our living as Irish musicians in the USA. We were asked by the moderator how we all came to be doing this. It was an intriguing topic for us because it was something that we had never discussed among ourselves and we were fascinated by each individual story. However, when it came time for questions from the audience we were stunned by one particular query. One man, who appeared to be trembling with anger, asked why we native born Irish looked down our noses at the American born Irish. We all vehemently denied that his assertion was accurate as we certainly didn’t feel that way.

However, on my long drive home I was thinking it over and I realized that there was a grain of truth in what he said. The “Irish American” culture that we saw at festivals, with all the green hats and leprechauns, seemed inauthentic and kitsch to us. It was the stage Irish version of our culture invented by Vaudeville and nourished by Hollywood. We found it just as offensive as African Americans, or other ethnic groups, found the way their culture was portrayed in the media. In short, we saw it as a form of racism. The subtle distinction was that we didn’t blame the Irish Americans for it but felt they had been unwittingly duped by it. So maybe we did feel a bit culturally superior or at least a bit more genuinely Irish. Since I had two children born in Ireland and two in the USA, it got me pondering about national identity. All of them are Irish passport holders so how could some be considered more Irish than others.

I also remembered my own reaction as the first wave of Americans began to appear in Ireland, in the 1960s, when affordable flights became widely available. It didn’t matter if you were from Texas or Alaska, to the Irish you were a “Yank.” To my young eyes, these visitors seemed like they were from another planet and to them we seemed like we were still living in the nineteenth century. We were both partially correct. Ireland was just beginning to shake off the medieval mores of religious domination and America seemed so liberal and secular to us. Funny how things have completely reversed in 60 years.

Having grown up in a small country hotel with a bar, I was well aware that, apart from religion, the main flashpoint for public argument was the Irish civil war. Even though it was included in our school curriculum, the details of the conflict were rarely taught, fearing it was still too sensitive a topic after only forty years. Some families were still known as Free Staters and some as anti-treaty supporters so it was a topic judiciously avoided.

As I sang the song at venues around the States, it frequently led to interesting post concert discussions about national identity. One man told me that the exact thing that happened in the song also happened to his brother. I believed him as it seemed to me more likely than not that it could happen.

This recording is from my 1989 CD, The Love of the Land. It also appears on my 2002 CD, Recollections.

Lyrics:

TWO NATIONS

© Robbie O’Connell 1987 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

My name’s James Michael Ryan and in Southie I was born.
Named after that great man who once made Boston town his own.
My father came from Kerry and my mother from Mayo,
And I longed to see the land they left so many years ago.

My father always told me that he’d take me there some day,
But I was only seventeen on the night he passed away.
He took one bullet in the leg and another in the jaw,
Killed in the line of duty, in the service of the law.

He always said I should be proud to be an Irishman,
That I should never be put down by any other man.
And in his will he set aside some money, just for me,
To travel back to Ireland when I would reach eighteen.

I read every Irish book I found as my excitement grew.
I read about 1916 and the treaty and ’22.
When the plane touched down on Irish soil, I said a silent prayer
And I thought about my father and I wished that he was there.

Those first few days In Kerry they were like a dream come true.
I’d never seen fields so green or even skies so blue.
My cousins made me welcome and they took me all around
And we laughed about our accents and the funny way we sound.

Then one evening in a pub where we’d been drinking all the day,
Somebody asked me what I thought about the IRA.
I said that 1921 was when it all began,
When Collins signed the treaty that divided up the land.

Then someone said that I’d some nerve to say a thing like that.
And what the hell would I know, I was just a Yankee brat.
I told him I was Irish and as good a man as he.
I’d a right to my opinion and that he need not agree.

For a moment there was silence, then a glass fell to the floor.
“You Bloody Yank” was all I heard as he pushed me out the door.
Now I’m not sure what happened next, I was in a blinding rage,
But I left him in a pool of blood when the crowd pulled me away.

My cousins said, next morning, that it wasn’t wise to stay.
And if that other man should die, I’d be surely sent to jail.
So, against my will, they put me on the first plane going home,
For to run away is something that I’d never done before.

Now, I’m a cop in Boston like my father was before.
Like him, I don’t think I’ll be back in Ireland anymore.
But there’s two great Irish nations though, 3000 miles they span
And though I’m across the ocean I am still an Irishman.

With a heavy heart, I stood in the rain waiting to board a greyhound bus to New York. This was the beginning of a long journey back to Ireland via JFK airport to start my third year at University College Dublin. Roxanne Vigeant, whom I had met six weeks earlier and fallen madly in love with, had just dropped me at the bus station. I didn’t want to get on the bus but my visa was about to expire and I was overdue back at college.

It has been the most eventful summer of my life. I had arrived in New York city at the end of June on a J-1 student work visa, expecting to find a summer job in the city as I had the previous year. After several unsuccessful days searching for work, I went out to Queens to visit my first cousin, Michael O’Brien. In the previous few years, he had made his living playing music in Irish pubs between New York and Massachusetts and he suggested that I should try doing that too. I had been doing gigs in Ireland, and a few in England, since I was about fifteen but it seemed to me that American venues were out of my league and besides I had no reputation or contacts there.

Then Michael called his friend, Jack Durkin, who owned the Limerick Pub in Lowell, MA and it turned out he needed an Irish singer for his pub. The next thing I knew, I was performing four nights a week in Lowell. To my amazement and delight, the gig came with a free apartment. This was so much better than I could have done in the city. I was all set except for one important detail—I had to find the material to fill four forty-five minute sets. This was twice as much as I had ever done before so I had to hustle to increase my repertoire. I knew a lot of the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem songs from the early ‘60s but more recently I had been into singer/songwriters like James Taylor, Paul Simon, Cat Stevens, and Neil Young. I had a few Ewan McColl songs and some other English and Scottish folk songs but I had none of the songs that were popular with Irish Americans. That deficiency would eventually be my undoing.

The pub on Market Street was narrow with a long bar running almost the full length of the building. There was a tiny platform stage in the back corner, barely big enough for one person. From Thursday through Sunday from 9:00 PM to 1:00 AM, I perched on a stool on the little stage and managed to get through four forty minute sets each night

The first couple weeks went fairly well although some of the patrons were not happy that I didn’t sing songs like “Danny Boy” or “Who Put the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder.” I genuinely did not know those songs and I had no desire to learn them. One night a man approached the stage where I was performing and stuffed a few dollars through the sound hole of my guitar. He then sat directly in front of me and kept requesting songs I didn’t know. I was annoyed by his violation of my space and his arrogance in trying to bribe me and I probably didn’t hide it. When the set ended, he complained to the manager, a surly, ex-marine, with a crew-cut, named Hank. Upon my arrival, he had taken an instant dislike to me and I did not warm to his drill sergeant demeanor. I wasn’t fired on the spot but I was told I wouldn’t be back the following week. This was a serious setback as it meant losing the apartment as well as the job. I didn’t have any means of transport either so, as George Clooney’s character in O Brother, Where Art Thou says, I was “in a tight spot.”

Fortunately, I had been befriended by Dave, a music loving hippy from Tennessee who was a regular at the pub. He had introduced me to his hippy friends and drove me around on my days off. I had heard of another Irish pub in Framingham, about an hour’s drive to the south. My uncle, Bobby Clancy, had played there as had Paddy Riley, Shay Healy, and several other people I knew or knew of. I gave them a call and, once again, Fortune smiled on me. They were looking for a singer for the month of September. Not only was it a step up as a venue, it had a much nicer apartment, just a few miles away, and it paid better than the Lowell gig. Dave kindly drove me to Framingham and I was installed in the apartment a few days before the gig started. I still didn’t have transport so I had to take a taxi to the gig and I usually got a lift home from the owner or one of the bar staff. I think Bill Haughey, the proprietor, got a bit of a shock when he saw how young I was. I was twenty-one but probably looked younger. The first afternoon I arrived and walked up to the bar, the barman tried to card me. I just looked at him and said, “I’m the fucking band.”

Liam’s Irish Tavern was a classy operation at that time. The pub was on the second floor with a good restaurant below. The clientele was mostly comprised of couples and families who went out to dinner and stayed on for some music. It often felt more like a concert setting than a pub. The regulars seemed to be familiar with some of the songs and I got off to a great start. It got a little rowdy on Friday nights but by then I was learning to cope with it.

One night a very pretty girl, sitting with a group of people, seemed to know all the songs I was singing so on my break I wandered over to their table. “How come you know all the songs?” I asked her with genuine curiosity. She told me her name was Roxanne and that she had been going there, on and off, for a couple of years, either with her parents or a friend. She had met Bobby Clancy and Paddy Reilly and had even babysat for Shay Healy’s kids. That night she was the designated driver for friends, one of whom, Jack, was celebrating a promotion. She said she also played guitar and sang. It soon transpired that we had both learned the same first songs on guitar and liked a lot of the same music. We were having such a great chat that I almost forgot to get back on stage for my next set.

At the end of the night, they invited me to join them as they continued the party at Jack’s apartment nearby. Roxanne and I ended up playing songs together until the wee hours. We arranged to meet again on my day off and she drove me around to see the brilliant New England fall foliage which was just beginning to appear. It was an exceptional year for the seasonal color display brought on by a couple of frosty nights and a long dry spell. I quickly fell in love with rural Massachusetts and was soon totally smitten with Roxanne as well. She took me on a memorable trip to Sturbridge Village when the fall colors were at their peak. I was overwhelmed by the variety of vibrant colors and the pleasant feel of the crisp sunny days. After that we ended up spending all our spare time together.

When my month-long gig ended, I moved to her apartment in Stow. I worked on songs during the day while she was at her job in Maynard. I wrote a song called “Stowaway,” inspired by my situation, but I think it is now languishing in a pile of old cassettes somewhere in the attic. My final two weeks passed in a happy blur of contentment slightly marred by the knowledge that my time there was running out. At some point, Roxanne used the expression, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” I had never heard it before but it seemed like the perfect title for a song. I filed it away in the “musical ideas” compartment of my brain and not long afterwards I wrote the song.

That Christmas, Roxanne came to visit me in Ireland and we had a wonderful time. By early February, I couldn’t endure being apart any longer and, against my parent’s wishes, caught a plane back to Boston. A little over a year later, we were married. Within a few months, Roxanne quit her job and joined me on stage. We spent the next two years performing at Irish music venues around New England and as far afield as Chicago, IL and Washington, DC. We recorded “If Wishes Were Horses” on a 45 rpm single with “The Ferrybank Piper” on the B side. A slightly amended version of the song later appeared on my Recollections Vol. 1 CD and that is the version used here.

Lyrics:

IF WISHES WERE HORSES

© Robbie O’Connell 1973 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

II had started painting pictures just to pass away the time
But the colors all were changed for me when your eyes looked into mine
And the pictures have all faded now and I'm singing lonesome songs
'Cause you touched me much too deeply and I know I can't stay long

Chorus
But if wishes were horses and beggars could ride
I would always be with you, always here by your side
I would stay
And I'd never go away

Now all the flowers are dying and the leaves are on the ground
The cold winds they are blowing and the winter's coming down
And soon I will be leaving you though my heart will stay behind
My thoughts will all remain here, you'll be always in my mind

The rain is softly falling and the streets are cold and grey
I keep thinking now if only I could stay another day
But the pictures are forgotten now and the songs have passed us by
Leaving only memories and time to say goodbye

On 7 August, 1932, the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) opened a new sports field, named the Maurice Davin Memorial Park in honour of a famous local athlete who had successfully represented Ireland in international weight throwing competition and co-founded the GAA. To mark this great occasion, a prestigious football match, the Munster Senior Football Final was scheduled to be played that day. Normally, a provincial final would be attended by thousands of people so the people of Carrick were full of great expectations for weeks ahead.

In those days, private transport in that rural area consisted mostly of a donkey and cart or one of the newfangled bicycles which had become all the rage for those who could afford it. Motor cars were still a rarity so special trains were laid on from around the country to transport the expected multitudes to Carrick.

The population of the town, at that time, was less than 5000 so they had to figure out how they were going to cope with the anticipated arrival of thousands of football fans. The pubs stocked up on beer and whiskey and several were spruced up with a fresh lick of paint. Preparations began weeks ahead and expectations were high that they could not only cope with the invasion but also profit from it. Restaurants were practically nonexistent so scores of local people volunteered to open their houses up as temporary restaurants for the day. Signs appeared all over saying “Ham Sandwiches On Sale Here.” It was said that there wasn’t a pig or a chicken safe for miles around.

When the big day arrived, the local brass band was waiting in the town park, near the station, to serenade the arrival of the first trainload of visitors. Flags were flying, kettles were boiling, the air was rich with the smell of freshly boiled ham. To their astonishment, when the first train screeched to a halt and the doors opened, only a handful of people stepped out. The same thing happened when the subsequent trains arrived. The excitement of the budding entrepreneurs quickly changed to despondency as they realised they had overloaded larders and hardly any customers. With heavy hearts they wandered home to figure out what they were going to do with all the surplus of food.

No one really knows why there was such a low turnout. Most likely, it was the unfamiliar new venue in a town that never held a big match before or simply a case of poor advertising, or both. In addition, Kerry was a long way off so maybe people considered it too far to travel. With heavy hearts, the locals trudged off to the match and had the added indignity of watching Kerry trounce Tipperary by 3 goals and 10 points to 1 goal and 4 points.

That night the pubs were filled with well fed local people drowning their sorrows and totting up their losses. The term “Ham Sunday,” soon became part of the local vocabulary and is still in use today. “Ah, another Ham Sunday,” can still be heard in and around Carrick when any event fails to meet expectations.

I recorded this, in 1982, on my first album, Close to the Bone on the Green Linnet label. The track used here is from the 1998 CD Robbie O’Connell, Humorous, Songs, Live on the Celtic Media label, recorded at the legendary Old Vienna Kaffeehaus, in Westborough, Massachusetts.

Lyrics:

HAM SUNDAY

© Robbie O’Connell 1977 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

It was back in the year of nineteen thirty-two
That a great event happened in Carrick-on-Suir
A big match was planned for the new Davin Park
And Kerry and Tipp were the teams to take part.
The news of this match it was carried all round
‘Twas thought droves of people would flock to the town
And the word it came down from the GAA club
There’d be thousands of people all looking for grub.

And everyone thought, here’s a chance to get rich
We could make a small fortune on an old ham sandwich
We could charge what we want and it wouldn’t be hard
There’ll be so many here they’re all bound to be starved.
So the butchers and bakers got busy straight off
To make sure everyone would have more than enough
And the valley was full not of reels and of jigs
But the smell of fresh bread and the squealing of pigs.

And when the great day, it at last came around
And an air of excitement pervaded the town
The brass band was out and they marched through the park
Just waiting for someone to signal the start.
There were lookouts and runners in great agitation
To warn when the first train pulled into the station
There were signs up all over proclaiming quite clear
The best ham sandwiches are on sale here.

Oh the streets were all full as the tension it rose
And the men were all out in their best Sunday clothes
With the children all waiting this great sight to see
While the women stayed home boiling kettles for tea
There was one poor man full of such anticipation
When he heard what he thought were the sounds of invasion
That he stumbled and fell down the stairs in a fright
But ‘twas only some farmer in parking his bike.

“Oh they’re coming, they’re coming,” someone cried, “They’re here!”
And the people got ready to raise a loud cheer
But no one understood and no one could explain
Why only two people stepped off of the train
So they waited around till the next train came in
And they couldn’t believe it was empty again
Then the most of them left and went off to a pub
To decide about what they would do with the grub

Well they argued all day till the match it was over
About what they ought to do with the leftovers
And they all were agreed, ‘twas a wicked disgrace
Every dog in the town had a smile on his face
There were hams in the pantries and hams on the shelves
‘Twas said that some people made pigs of themselves
There was still loads of ham when a week had gone by
But not even a dog could look one in the eye.

And now to conclude and to finish this song
For I’m sure I’ve already been singing too long
Every song has a moral of that there’s no doubt
And this one’s no exception as I’m sure you’ll find out
So remember Ham Sunday, it could be your salvation
Make sure you’re not caught in the same situation
For it’s all very well being prepared that I’ll own
But you’re better off cutting it close to the bone

One morning in 1992, as I was perusing the Boston Globe at the breakfast table, my eye was caught by a little article tucked away in a corner of the front page. It described how the Vatican had apologised for their treatment of the astronomer Galileo Galilei 350 years before. In his Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems, published in 1632, Galileo outraged the Vatican by endorsing the proscribed Copernican theory that the earth revolved around the sun. The following year, he was summoned before the inquisition and accused of heresy.

The heliocentric model of the universe, proposed by Nicolaus Copernicus shortly before he died in 1543, was considered heretical because it challenged the account in the Scriptures. I always thought that he had been excommunicated from the church but I have since learned that he was only threatened with it. Pope Urban VIII had previously been a patron of Galileo’s, and although he was forced to recant his theory, he got off relatively easy with one night in jail and house arrest for life in Siena.

I always knew that the Vatican moved slowly. The present Pope had a boiled egg for breakfast this morning that was ordered by Pope Pius XI in 1926. So waiting 350 years to make an apology, while untimely, was not surprising and quite commendable. I presumed they sent a letter to Galileo in heaven and I imagined how it must have gone.

I recorded it on the CD, Never Learned to Dance in 1993. I was thrilled to be able to get the legendary jazz musician Billy Novick to play clarinet on the track and boy did he nail it. In order to signal that my effort was meant to be seen as comic and not taken seriously, I deliberately put a bad rhyme in the first line. However, one writer missed the point entirely and singled it out as the worst rhyme ever. You win some and you lose some and some go over their heads.

Lyrics:

GALILEO

© Robbie O’Connell 1992 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

Dear Mr. Galileo, please forgive the long delay-o
You see we’ve been quite busy trying to settle an old schism
And of late we’ve had financial and other matters consequential
That demanded prompt attention though it was our best intention
To have let you know much sooner before the recent bout of rumours
That we fear we were too hasty with your excommunication

And in light of further knowledge and much discussion in the college
We’ve reassessed the situation and wish now in expiation
To revoke your former sentence and in a spirit of repentance
To extend our approbation of your cosmic explanation
And again we beg your pardon realizing it's been hard on
A man of your education to have a tarnished reputation

And we trust if in the future your ideas need some nurture
That you’ll have no hesitation to discuss the situation
With our confidential experts and hopefully we may avert
The long deliberation of such sacred litigation
And we send with deepest amity our best wishes for eternity
And we trust your suffering will cease and your soul forever rest in peace.
Amen.

All the versions seem to have derived from an earlier Australian ballad about an actual Irishman called Jack Donoghue who was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1804. He was transported to the penal colony in New South Wales in 1823 for “intent to commit felony.” In 1827, he was arrested and sentenced to hang but escaped on his way from the gaol to the courthouse. In the subsequent two and a half years he became the best known bushranger in Australia. On September 1st, 1830, in a shootout between his gang and a group of police and soldiers, he was killed instantaneously by a bullet from the gun of a trooper named John Muckleston.

Isn’t it interesting how times have changed ? In the nineteenth century, simple intent to commit a felony meant transportation for life to a penal colony, thousands of miles away. In the twenty-first century, you could be convicted of 34 counts of felony and still be elected President of the United States of America.

I got the lyrics of this version from The Penguin Book of Folk Ballads of the English Speaking World and added my own tune. This recording is from the first Clancy, O’Connell & Clancy CD released in 1997. There is an earlier recording of it on the 1986 Moloney, O’Connell & Keane LP, There Were Roses on Green Linnet Records.

Lyrics:

THE BALLAD OF JACK DOLAN

Adapted with new music © Robbie O’Connell 1985 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

It’s of a wild colonial boy, Jack Dolan was his name
Of poor but honest parents, he was born in Castlemaine
He was his father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy
And dearly did his parents love their wild colonial boy

At scarcely sixteen years of age he left his father’s home
And to Australia’s sunny clime a bushranger he roamed
He robbed those wealthy squatters and their stock he did destroy
A terror to Australia was the wild colonial boy

Chorus
So come on all me hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high
Together we will plunder and together we will die
We’ll wander o’er the valleys, we’ll gallop o’er the plains
We’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron chains

In ‘61, this daring youth commenced his wild career
With a heart that knew no danger, no foeman did he fear
He held up the Beechworth mail coach and he robbed Judge McEvoy
Who trembled and gave up his gold to the wild colonial boy

One day as he was rambling the mountainside along
Listening to those little birds, their pleasant laughing song
Up rode three mounted troopers, Kelly, Davis and Fitzroy
They swore that they would capture him, the wild colonial boy

Chorus

Surrender now Jack Dolan for you see we’re three to one
Surrender now Jack Dolan or your life will not be long
Jack pulled a pistol from his belt and shook it up on high
“I’ll fight but not surrender,” said the wild colonial boy

He fired at trooper Kelly and he brought him to the ground
Then turning round to Davis, he received a mortal wound
All shattered through the jaw he lay, still firing at Fitzroy
And that’s the way they captured him, the Wild Colonial Boy.

Ormond Castle, a Norman keep with an attached Tudor House, had been the seat of the Butler family for hundreds of years. It was situated next to the river so that, at high tide, boats could enter the castle yard through a watergate. By the nineteen thirties, the Butlers had long since moved to a more commodious residence in Kilkenny and the castle was falling into ruin.

There was a traditional swimming hole nearby where the ladies of the castle could refresh themselves with the cool river water on a steamy summer’s day. It was known locally as “The Ladies’ Hole,” a name which delighted the adolescent boys of the town who, in the twentieth century had co-opted it as their own. Ireland was a very poor country back then and only the wealthy could afford the luxury of a bathing suit or a second pair of shoes. So swimming togs were not a requirement as it was sheltered by an abundance of sally trees1 planted there for the use of local basketmakers.

One Sunday afternoon, in his haste to cool off, Bobby stripped at the water’s edge and dived in, oblivious to the rising tide. By the time he returned to land his britches were long gone downstream towards Waterford. Swimming nude was an accepted practice in those days but walking through the town in such a state was not. Bobby was trapped. One of his friends was sent home to William Street where there was no answer to his knock on the door, Bobby’s parents taking advantage of the empty house to take a “nap.” So when an upstairs window opened and a head popped out, the friend began shouting, “Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide, Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide,” until the whole street was alerted. It must have made a big impression on one of the neighbours because, for years afterwards, she could periodically be heard gleefully chanting the phrase in her back garden. That may well be the only reason that the story was never forgotten.

In the meantime, a couple of elderly ladies, out for an afternoon stroll, had come upon the scene and donated the loan of a coat so Bobby could preserve his modesty and get home. They were known locally as Browne’s Cows due to their habit of walking in single file rather than side by side, “All in a row, like Brown’s cows.” I was tempted to use their nickname in the song but I feared that it would be too confusing for non-locals.

There is another story from Bobby’s childhood that I love. He hated school and was always looking for an excuse to stay home either by feigning sickness or by some other ruse. One time he came up with a brilliant stratagem. He prized up a floorboard in the garret of his home, hid his shoes between the joists and nailed it down again. The next morning he claimed he couldn’t find his shoes anywhere. The house was searched from top to bottom but no shoes could be found anywhere. Bobby insisted that he couldn’t go to school in bare feet. He was savvy enough to know that his mother would be too embarrassed to let him go out without shoes. His plan was a success but the kicker was that the shoes were never again found.

Lyrics:

BOBBY’S BRITCHES

© Robbie O’Connell 1977 Slievenamon Music2

As Bobby was out for a stroll one day 
‘Twas down by the river he happened to stray,
And some of his friends were there having a swim, 
So he took off his clothes, and he jumped right in. 
He swam and he dived like a water-hen 
All around by the island and back again.
He lay down in the sun to dry his skin 
And he never noticed the tide coming in.

And Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
The water came in and just swept them aside
Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
What is he going to do, O?
					
And when he got up he thought all was well 
It was six o’clock, he could hear the bell
‘Twas time to be heading back home for tea 
But his britches was now gone half-way to the sea 
And not being one to admit defeat
A message was sent home to William Street
Where a head appeared from the bedroom window
And these words came up from the street below: 

Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
He just couldn’t catch them, however he tried
Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
What is he going to do, O?
					
But meanwhile fate had taken a hand 
Two old maids came walking along the strand.
Not wishing to be a witness to sin 
They gave him a cloak to cover his skin.
And Bobby went home and he hadn’t a care 
And all the people came out to stare.
It seemed as if the whole town had turned out 
And the woman next door, she began to shout 

Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
And Bobby’s gone into the bushes to hide
Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
What is he going to do, O?
					
And now the story has reached an end
No harm was done, and a lesson was learned
And Bobby still likes to go out for a swim 
But he always brings a spare britches with him
And the years came on and he passed away 
But no-one will ever forget that day
For every night that the moon was high
The woman next door could be heard to cry 

Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
The water came in and just swept them aside 
Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
What is he going to do, O?
Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
And Bobby’s gone into the bushes to hide
Bobby’s britches gone off in the tide 
What is he going to do, O?

He was born in Faddle Alley in the Liberties of Dublin in 1794. The smallpox he contracted at an early age, left him blind for life. Possibly due to that affliction, he developed a prodigious memory and made his living as a gleeman or street performer, entertaining audiences for decades with his poems, songs and stories. He was the nineteenth century equivalent of a late night talk show host who used irreverent humor to pillory the establishment of the day. He was beloved by the people of Dublin and his songs and stories became part of the folklore of the city.

Several of his songs have survived, the best known probably being “The Finding of Moses,” in which that biblical event is hilariously relocated to a Dublin locale. I will forever associate it with the singing of the great Frank Harte who popularized it in the 1960s. Another song, “St. Patrick Was A Gentleman,” was recorded by Christy Moore, early in his legendary career. “The Twangman,” often associated with The Dubliners, is also attributed to him. There is some speculation that “The Night Before Larry Was Stretched” was also written by Zozimus although that might be a stretch too far.

He eventually became so famous that people began to impersonate him, much to his chagrin as that kind of competition drastically reduced his income. W. B. Yeats tells of Moran’s encounter with one such imposter who competed with him on a wager. That incident is also the theme of my song. The lyrics of the chorus are the actual words he would recite to gather an audience at one of his favourite performance spots such as the Essex Bridge across the Liffey. When he died in 1846, his funeral was said to be the largest ever seen in Dublin. He was buried in Glasnevin Cemetery where his grave, near Daniel O’Connell’s, remained unmarked for over a hundred years until the folk group The Dublin City Ramblers kindly erected a tombstone in his memory.

The recording used here is from my 1989 album, Love of the Land.

Lyrics:

THE LAST OF THE GLEEMEN

© Robbie O’Connell 1985 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

He would stand everyday on the bridge 
With a crowd hanging on every word 
And he'd weave a spell with his stories of old 
And the news of the day that he'd heard 
He would tell any tale they would ask 
Though he'd told them for thousands before 
And then someone would pass 'round the hat 
And he'd sing while they waited for more:

Chorus:
Gather 'round me boys, gather 'round, 
And hear what I have to say 
Before ould Sally brings to me 
Some bread and a jug of tae.

But one day as he came near the bridge 
He could hear his own song in the air 
And a story being told in his very own words 
As he stood there in wonder and fear 
Then in anger he called to the crowd 
Have you no souls at all to be saved! 
That impostor he said, should be thrown off the bridge 
For it's more than a blind man can bear."

The impostor he paid him no mind
As he passed his hat 'round once again
Then he took the old man by the hand
Saying a wager he'd won with his friends
Then a pardon he begged for the jest
All the money he then handed o'er
And he slipped away into the crowd
As the old man, he started once more

Now Dublin's seen many a change 
Since wheels rattled on cobblestones 
And the day of the horse and the pony are gone 
There's no time to stop anymore 
But today if you walk on that bridge 
You can see where he once sang his song 
He was the last of the gleemen of old 
And the name Zozimus still lives on.

Letters were the only affordable means of communication for penniless students like me but there were issues with that too. Letters can get delayed, or cross in the mail, leading to misunderstandings and puzzlement. The arrival of an anticipated love letter could make your day if it said what you hoped for, or ruin it if it didn’t. My college roommate, Donagh Morgan, would sometimes pretend that no mail had arrived for me just so he could see the look on my face when he finally produced the letter. For some people though, like the character in this song, the letters or phone calls never came. It must be a fairly common occurrence as we now have the word “ghosting” to describe that kind of rejection. So I suppose that makes The Road to Dunmore a “ghosting” song.

It first appeared in 1984 on the album Uncommon Bonds by Mick Moloney and Eugene O’Donnell. I recorded it on my Love of the Land album for Green Linnet Records in 1989. Eight years later I did another recording of it with Liam and Donal Clancy on our first Clancy, O’Connell and Clancy CD. Liam had taken a liking to the song after hearing me sing it in Harney’s pub in Dunhill, County Waterford on a very memorable November day in 1996 and insisted we include in on the CD we were then recording. The previous night, Liam, Martin Murray and I had played at the after party of the Waterford premiere of the film Michael Collins. It turned into a session that continued into the wee hours of the morning and next afternoon we were taking the slow road back to Ring when we had a little adventure. I wrote the story of that outing, called The Stampede, as one of my contributions to the anthology, Clean Cabbage in the Bucket: And Other Tales from the Irish Music Trenches, published in 2007. This recording is from the Clancy, O’Connell & Clancy CD released in 1997.1

Lyrics:

THE ROAD TO DUNMORE

© Robbie O’Connell 1987 Slievenamon Music (BMI)

I was walking the road to Dunmore one evening as often I've done,
And my heart was as heavy as stone I was thinking of times that are gone,
When we walked arm in arm on the shore and we watched the waves roll on the sea
Never thinking that there'd come a time they'd be rolling between you and me. 

It's many's the tide now has turned since I stood all alone on the quay
And I watched as you waved your farewell and you left a heart breaking in me;
But if I were a prince or a king and had money and treasure in store,
I'd travel the whole world wide and not rest 'til I'd found you once more. 

It's many's the morning I'd wait for the letters you promised to send
And I counted the hours of each day ‘til we'd both be united again
They say that in time love grows cold and it fades like the morning dew
But time will not alter my mind for I know that I can't forget you. 

I have money enough for one glass but maybe my credit will hold
For in memories I'm rich as a king though they can't warm a heart when it's cold
So I'll drink to the times that are past and the days when we walked on the shore
And to you I will raise up my glass for I know that I'll ne'er see you more.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

I was never a fan of the Protestant work ethic or anything that smacks of Puritanism or Calvinism. I can’t see the point of “death insurance,” spending your life being miserable so you can enjoy the alleged next life. It seems a twisted kind of logic. Heaven has no appeal for me and sounds like a dull place. I love Mark Twain’s take on that: “Heaven for climate, Hell for society.”

Growing up in Ireland, I noticed that the bishop’s residence was always known as the palace. At first it seemed a misnomer since these elevated clerics preached about the nobility of poverty. Then I realized that it was an accurate description since these princes of the church lived in luxury, attended by servants and lording it over their flock. The Vatican is one of the wealthiest organizations in the world having a treasury built up, over the centuries, with the pennies of the poor. Meanwhile, while they preach about caring for the less fortunate, the monetary assistance comes out of the pockets of the faithful, never from their own coffers.

In the secular world, the rich keep getting richer as the real value of wages steadily decreases. Many people work hard their whole lives postponing their aspirations of enjoying life until their retirement only to discover that they can’t afford to retire or that they left it too late to enjoy it. For all the so-called advances in civilization we are drifting back to the political model of the middle ages. Wealth increasingly trickles up to the top while fewer and fewer crumbs fall from the oligarch’s table. The promise of a better standard of living for everyone has turned out to be just another con job. As George Orwell says in Animal Farm, “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” Capitalism is simply Feudalism in a business suit. There has to be a better way.

There is a pronounced difference in the work ethic of Europeans and Americans. Countries like France and Spain have a mandatory minimum of twenty one days paid vacation per year for employees and unlimited sick days. In some cases, a six weeks holiday is not unknown. That’s in stark contrast to the USA where there is no federally mandated holiday time or sick day allowance and most salaried employees work far in excess of forty hours per week and rarely get more than two weeks holiday and that only comes after several years of employment.

The way I see it, life is meant to be lived, not exploited. If societal norms are rigged against you, it’s up to you to find a work-around. The man who is known as an early riser and spends the day in bed has learned how to game the system. Fair dues to him.

It was from my friend since childhood, Gay Brazel, the great guitar and Dobro player from Carrick-on-Suir, that I heard the adage, “If you’re known as an early riser, you can stop in the bed all day.” It immediately got filed in the possible song ideas section of my brain. There was something mischievous and almost subversive about it that appealed to my rebellious side. At some point it surfaced as this light-hearted song. But just as with the platitudes of plutocrats and clerics, appearances can sometimes be deceptive.

THE EARLY RISER

©Robbie O’Connell 1987, Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

Well you've heard of Aristotle and his great philosophy
And you may not guess, but I must confess that it's all just Greek to me
As I lie in bed in the morning, there's one thing I always say
If you're known as an early riser, you can stop in the bed all day.

CHORUS:
For the man who rises early is the man whose life is lost
For he'll never know what he has missed, 'til he's added up the cost
It's too late to put eggs in the nest, when the bird's already flown
If you're known as an early riser, you can sleep 'til the cows come home.

When I see the flowers in the field that can neither reap nor spin
Then I recall how the good book tells the rich man never wins
So if there is an afterlife, I'll be sure to find a place
And if there's not, there's nothing lost, I'll be glad I left the race.

Now the world may go to rack and ruin, but I don't give a damn
For I believe that a bird in the bush is worth two in the hand
And a penny saved is a penny lost for a miser knows no joy
I'd rather sit with a glass in my hand and watch the world go by.

In theory, Nollaig na mBan was a day set aside to honor and thank women for all their work over the previous eleven days of celebration. In practice however, the tradition is not as well observed as it should be—although in recent times it has revived somewhat in that a ladies’ night out to dinner has become a more contemporary version of it.

However, that has no bearing on the Twelfth Day Carol which sticks to the new testament account of the arrival of the Magi, with the wonderfully musical names Jaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. Strangely, it somehow manages to tie the Miracle of Cana, and the baptism of Jesus, to this event. I was drawn to this song by the majesty of the melody and the colorful ornate language of the lyrics.

I took the liberty of editing the text for the recording of it that I did with Jimmy Keane on the Aengus CD, All on a Christmas Morning, likewise for the 2003 recording for the inaugural production of Brian O’Donovan’s “A Christmas Celtic Sojourn”. The text below is the full version.

Lyrics:

THE TWELFTH DAY CAROL

Traditional, adapted and arranged by Robbie O’Connell, 1998.
(The indented verses have been left out of the recorded version.)1

Now to conclude our Christmas mirth, with news of our redemption.
We will end our songs on our Saviour’s birth with one that deserves attention.
Three great wonders fell on this day, a star brought Kings where the Infant lay,
Water made wine in Galilee and Christ baptised in Jordan.

Those Kings must have known what Balaam of old said of a star that would arise,
In Jacob’s land where he foretold the coming of the Messiah.
Jasper, Melchior and Balthazar set out when they saw that new bright star,
Leaving their eastern kingdoms far, to find the new-born Jesus.

    Amazed to see the cottage poor, the stall where He was born in,
    They left their retinue at the door, though great, they entered without scorn.
    The Blessed Babe and mother found, leaving their crowns and sceptres down.
    Adored Him prostrate on the ground and might have spoke as follows:

Oh King of Kings here in disguise whom stars obey and angels serve.
Though wealth and grandeur You despise, You have given us more than we deserve.
Our beds are gold and ivory, our garments rich with broidery.
Beset with pearls and pageantry, whilst You lie in a manger.

    What else might have passed, you may conceive in this fond conversation.
    They bade farewell, taking their leave, home to their habitation.
Farewell good Christians, fare thee well too, many a happy Christmas we wish you.
With a blessed end for to ensue, through the merits of Sweet Jesus.

Sometime at the end of October my mother would begin assembling the ingredients for the cake, some of which, like candied fruit, might be difficult to find initially but she would persevere until she could tick off every item on her list. A careful watch would be kept on certain components, temporarily stored on the highest shelf. Items such as sultanas and the cherries were prone to late night raids by nine year olds who shall remain nameless. A once successful raid on my part, followed by a brazen overindulgence, left me with a lifelong aversion to glacé cherries.

Once the ingredients had been successfully sourced, a day was set aside for mixing and baking. A large cream colored earthenware bowl would take its place of honor on the kitchen table and the sorcery would commence. Butter, sugar and flour were beaten into a creamy mixture then eggs were carefully added, one by one, until a thick sweet paste resulted. It was critically tested against standards of previous years and any necessary adjustments were made.

Then it got really interesting as a bottle of brandy or whiskey would appear. This was a delicate point in the enterprise. A requisite amount of alcohol was necessary for preservation purposes as the finished cake would have to age for a couple of months before being consumed. Too little and the cake might spoil and too much and everyone might get tipsy.1

This was the ideal moment to wander accidentally into the kitchen as tasters might be enlisted until a general approval was reached and the operation could proceed. I prided myself on being expert in that taste test. I would run my finger, which had to be freshly washed, along the rim of the bowl catching just enough of the pungent batter to engulf my taste buds with a fiery burst of divine nectar. The assembled variety of fruits, ground almonds, nutmeg, and who knows what else, were then added and strenuously stirred into the mixture which now had taken on a consistency like concrete in a cement mixer. It was then carefully transferred to a large cake tin lined with greaseproof paper and moved to a preheated oven with the delicacy of a neurosurgeon at the operating table.

Stern warnings were now issued in whispered voices. No doors were to be banged, no sudden moves or shouting was to take place for the next five hours. All children were banished outdoors, regardless of the weather and warned not to return until teatime. Further threats of murder were reiterated should a door be slammed or any heavy object be dropped. Any sudden shock to the atmosphere could cause all the fruit to fall to the bottom of the cake, a Christmas disaster of apocalyptic proportions to be avoided at any cost.

Once the cake was tested for done-ness, it was set to cool. It was then transferred to a tin, anointed with a further blessing of whiskey or brandy and sealed to “mature.”

All that drama was still only stage one. Several weeks later, another day was set aside for the icing and decorating of the cake. First, a quarter inch layer of a semi soft almond paste, or marzipan, was applied to all the visible surfaces of the cake which now sat proudly on a silver colored cake stand awaiting primping, like a princess before a ball. A white royal icing was layered on top of the almond paste and the artistry began. Intricate designs, befitting the descendants of the medieval manuscript illustrators, were added to the top and sides of the cake. A miniature Santa, with a sleigh and reindeer, might be added along with other shiny decorations such as a tiny Christmas tree, a sprig of holly, or little edible silver balls or dragées. Great care and artistic invention was required at this point as an unspoken, unofficial competition in the neighborhood was now in progress. No prizes were ever bestowed, no mention was ever made but notice was taken and reputations could rise or fall depending on the results.

After all that effort, the Christmas cake would sit on the sideboard for weeks leading up to the big day, resplendent in all its glitter and glory. The traditional time to cut the cake was on Christmas day after the requisite feast of roast turkey and stuffing with gravy, breaded Irish ham, mashed potatoes, a buttery blend of carrots and parsnips, along with Brussels’ sprouts for those who thought highly of themselves and mushy peas for the rest of us. The situation was further complicated by the presence of a plum pudding which doubled as a postprandial pyrotechnic display. It was drizzled with warm brandy and set alight giving off a flickering blue flame to the oohs and aahs of all present, regardless of age.

The problem then was twofold. We were usually too stuffed for cake at that point and no one wanted to be the one to destroy such a fine work of art by cutting the cake open. Consequently, it wasn’t unusual for the cake to remain on the sideboard for weeks on end, disguising itself as a mere seasonal ornament. Occasionally, it remained unnoticed for months until it could be rescued and repurposed for early Easter celebrations. All through the long winter nights, that fruit liberally laced with alcohol, had been silently fermenting within its sealed walls of rock hard icing which now rivaled the best concrete for strength and durability. I often wondered why they didn’t build bridges from that icing. They could have lasted a thousand years.

Several times, I was forced to spend a strenuous hour, with a hammer and chisel, chipping away at that adamantine icing seal in an effort to release that beautiful moist intoxicating fruit cake imprisoned inside. It would be the highlight of our Easter celebration, having risen Christlike from its snow white tomb. One dainty slice of that cake with a proper cup of tea and you could fly as high as the angels. Ah, the magic of a Christmas cake, the gift that keeps on giving.

Miss Fogarty’s Christmas Cake was published in Boston in 1883. Written by C. Frank Horn it was later popularized by the McNulty family, the premier New York Irish act from the 1930s to the 1950s. I learned it from my friend and erstwhile musical partner, Mick Moloney, who became fascinated with the vaudeville music of Irish America and subsequently recorded many songs from that era. It has the distinction of being the only song I know of that has a recipe for a chorus. The recording here is from the 2007 “A Christmas Celtic Sojourn” concert produced by Brian O’Donovan for WGBH in Boston. There are several stills in the video taken from the 2010 concert and that can be seen on YouTube.

Lyrics:

MISS FOGARTY’S CHRISTMAS CAKE

Composed by Charles Frank Horn, 1883; Adapted by Mick Moloney, arr. Robbie O’Connell2

As I sat in my window last evening
The letterman was brought round to me
A little gilt-edged invitation sayin’
Gilhooley come over to tea
Well I knew that the Fogartys sent it
So I went just for old friendships sake
And the first thing they gave me to tackle
Was a slice of Miss Fogarty’s cake

CHORUS:
There were plums and prunes and cherries
There were citrons and raisins and cinnamon, too
There was nutmeg, and cloves and berries
And a crust that was nailed on with glue
There were caraway seeds in abundance
Sure t’would work up a fine stomach ache
Ah! t’would could kill a man twice after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty’s Christmas cake!

Miss Mulligan wanted to try it
But really it wasn’t no use
For we worked on it over an hour
But a piece of it wouldn’t come loose
Till Kelly came in with a hatchet
And Murphy came in with a saw
This cake was enough, be the powers
To paralyze any man’s jaws


Miss Fogarty proud as a peacock
Kept smiling and blinkin’ away
Till she tripped over Flanagan’s brogáns
And she spilt the homebrew in her tea
“Aye Gilhooley she says you’re not eat’n
Try a little bit more for my sake”
“Oh no Miss Fogarty,” says I,
“For I’ve had quite enough of your cake!”

Moloney was took be the colic
O’Donnell, a pain in his head
McNulty lay down on the sofa
And he swore that he wished he was dead
And Miss Daly went into hysterics
And there she did wriggle and shake
And everyone swore they were poisoned
From eating Miss Fogarty’s cake

Yes it would kill a man twice after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty’s Christmas cake!

Original Post: December 29, 2006, Bristol, RI

Ten days ago, we finished the last of six Christmas Celtic Sojourn concerts at the Cutler Majestic Theatre in Boston to sold-out crowds. Congratulations to Brian on establishing this as an annual Boston Christmas tradition in just three years. I participated in the first one at the Somerville Theatre in 2003. It was just one show and I never imagined that it could grow so quickly.

It was interesting to get a glimpse of what it is like to be in a theatrical run of a musical or play. There are many hours of technical preparations before the curtain rises; sound checks and lighting cues, prop placement, exits and entrances. All these things have to be planned for twenty musicians, singers and dancers, a task that was handled with impeccable skill and diplomacy by the director, Paula Plum. For a couple of days before the show opened, we did a lot of sitting around and waiting on stage or in the dressing rooms. But there was great camaraderie between the cast and we had a lot of fun as well. The hardest part was seeing so little daylight. There were nine high-definition television cameras there to record the final show so it should be on a TV near you next Christmas. They taped almost three hours of material for a one hour show so hopefully one of my bits will survive the edits.

At one point in the show, Brian and I talked about the Irish Christmas traditions that we miss here in the USA like 26th December, St Stephen’s Day, and the custom of going off with the wren or the “wran” as it is usually pronounced. The Wren Boys can still be seen in many parts of Ireland. In the old days, groups of young men would kill a wren and place the body in a holly bush. They would then dress up in costume and carry the holly bush and wren around to neighbor’s houses and sing the Wren Song outside the door. This usually resulted in an invitation inside for food and drink. Coins were also collected to defray the cost of burying the wren.

The wren, the wren, the king of all birds
St. Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze
Although he was little, his honor was great
Jump up me lads and give us a treat

As I was going to Killanaule
I met a wren upon the wall
Up with my wattle and knocked him down
And brought him into Carrick town

Dreolín, dreolín where’s your nest
‘Tis in the bush that I love best
‘Tis in the tree, the holly tree
Where all the boys do follow me

Up with the kettle and down with the pan
And give us a penny to bury the wren

I followed the wren three miles or more
Three miles or more, three miles or more
I followed the wren three miles or more
At six o’clock in the morning

I have a little box under my arm
Under my arm, under my arm
I have a little box under my arm
A penny or tuppence would do it no harm

Mrs Clancy is a very good woman
A very good woman, a very good woman
Mrs Clancy is a very good woman
She’ll give us a penny to bury the wren

In more recent times, we would forego the wren part and just disguise ourselves with greasepaint and homemade costumes and go wandering around to country pubs singing and collecting money for local charities like Meals on Wheels. We’d often have a convoy of ten or fifteen cars roaming around little villages like Kilmoganny, Tullahought and Ballypatrick.

My uncle Bobby Clancy, Aoife’s dad, was our our fearless leader. He had the ability to persuade even the shyest person to improvise a costume and join in the fun. I remember one year when I was about 7, Bobby appeared at our house in Waterford to take us “off with the wran.” My mother was delighted but my father, who was not an extrovert, adamantly refused to participate. But Bobby was relentless and he finally convinced my father that he could disguise him so that even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. He told him that he didn’t have to sing; all he had to do was collect the money for the Meals on Wheels. So with a blackened face and a floppy woman’s hat and a toga, my father set out with the gang. Still fearing that he might be recognized, he had solicited a promise from Bobby that they would stay well away from any pubs in the city. True to his word, Bobby packed us all in his old black Ford and headed off to the village of Kilmacow in county Kilkenny. We stopped outside a pub and started singing before going in. So far, so good. The pint-drinking patrons received us warmly. My father went around with a tin can collecting money. There was another little room off the main room in the bar and as he stepped through the door, a voice piped up, “How’re you Sean? Did you have a good Christmas?”

He was mortified. I’m sure his face must have turned a bright red beneath the layers of black greasepaint. He wanted to murder Bobby, who found the whole incident highly amusing. I don’t remember what happened after that but I know that my father never again went out with the wren.

During the show’s run, we stayed at Jury’s Hotel in Boston, a ten-minute walk from the theatre. It was a bit like running the gauntlet with all the smokers standing outside on the sidewalk getting their fix. The smoke smells even more toxic outside, maybe because you don’t expect it. It was such a relief to step inside for a breath of fresh air. How things have changed!

I read in today’s paper how iTunes had to shut down temporarily over Christmas as it was swamped with orders. If you just got an iPod as a present, you might be interested to know that my CD Recollections is now available on iTunes.

I will hardly get time to blog again before December 31st, so I’d like to wish you all a very Happy and Wonderful New Year!

The concept of a Celtic Christmas is inherently absurd as the Celts did not celebrate Christmas. However, the winter solstice was a major holiday in the Celtic calendar and our modern concept of Christmas celebrations contains many vestiges of those ancient celebrations. Holly wreaths, mistletoe, Yule logs, and feasting, are all aspects of the ancient world that were appropriated by Christians. Even the Christmas tree was a remnant of the tradition of bringing evergreens indoors to portend the reawakening of life in the natural world. The rebirth of the sun on the solstice corresponded so well to the birth of the savior, that the two traditions were easily blended into a successful hybrid celebration.

Growing up with a love of traditional songs, I naturally gravitate to old style Christmas songs. The Nowell Sing We Clear CDs that I discovered in the 1980s became the soundtrack of Christmas for my family and happily remain so. It just didn’t feel like a proper Christmas until our living room was filled with the rousing voices of John Roberts and Tony Barrand, sadly no longer with us.

So when I needed a new Christmas song for my concerts, I instinctively wrote one in the traditional style. As a child, I was fascinated by the story of the mysterious Three Wise Men following the Christmas star so I did a simple retelling of that with a repeating sing along line. Cherish the Ladies recorded a lovely version of it and a couple of choral groups, among others, have added it to their repertories. How ironic would it be if that was the song that a heathen like me was remembered for? Stranger things have happened.

Lyrics:

ALL ON A CHRISTMAS MORNING

© Robbie O’Connell 1992 Slievenamon Music [BMI]1

Three kings came riding from the East
Just as the day was dawning
The newborn king of kings to see
All on a Christmas morning

A fiery star it guided them
Just as the day was dawning
It brought them unto Bethlehem
All on a Christmas morning

They came unto a stable bare
Just as the day was dawning
And found the newborn infant there
All on a Christmas morning

Then down upon their knees they fell
Just as the day was dawning
The child he sweetly smiled on them
All on a Christmas morning

Three gifts they gave him to behold
Just as the day was dawning
Of frankincense and myrrh and gold
All on a Christmas morning

Three kings came riding from the East
Just as the day was dawning
The new-born king of kings to see
All on a Christmas morning

If you have difficulty viewing this YouTube video, please comment and we will email you a copy of the MP3 or the video, whichever you prefer. At the moment we have challenged a claim regarding copyright as it references a version recorded in 1998 for the Aengus album, All On a Christmas Morning, on RCA Victor. This claim will restrict viewing in certain countries and territories and may last for 60 days. The recording in the video below is from a 2003 studio recording for a different project and therefore should not be restricted.