Peter Jones, the song’s composer, came across a bunch of old letters that had survived in his family across several generations, probably sitting in some dusty old attic all that time. The letters were written to his great-great-grandfather, John Hunt, who had immigrated to America from the village of Kilkelly, in County Mayo, in the west of Ireland. They span a number of years, from shortly after the potato famine to almost the turn of the century, and chronicle the family throughout that period. It is a genuine slice of history, and the sense of the loss and separation felt by these Irish emigrants is palpable. Although the story is sad, it is not cloying or sentimental, and it captures the reality of those tragic times in a way that few songs ever have.

The potato famine of 1845-1847 resulted in the deaths of over a million Irish men, women, and children. It also started a massive wave of emigration from Ireland. Subsequent failures of the potato crop over the next few decades made sure that exodus continued. Between 1845 and the turn of the century, an estimated five million people left Ireland, most journeying to America. Many Irish-Americans have told me that their forbearers who had left Ireland never wanted to speak about it. It is hard to blame them when all they had to remember was hunger and hardship. The vaudeville-era songwriters were aware of this and wrote many sentimental songs that idealized the old country. While some of these songs were hugely popular with the Irish Diaspora and also in Ireland, many of the native Irish found them hard to stomach. They created a sentimental, idyllic past that to many people, folksingers in particular, came across as inauthentic or kitsch.

Over a singing career spanning thirty years, the response I received to Kilkelly far exceeded that of any other song in my repertoire. I recorded it, with Jimmy Keane and Mick Moloney, on a television series called Bringing It All Back Home, and, subsequently, it became the title track of that trio’s second album. Over the next few years, I received scores of letters and emails about it. The story is almost always the same. People hear the song and are moved by it. They call the radio or television station to find out who sang it, and then contact me to tell me how much it meant to them. Several people, who heard it while driving, have told me that they became so emotional they had to pull off the road or sit in their driveway until they could compose themselves.

Sad songs, in general, can be 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 is hard to climb out of the emotional trough and bring the audience back to a lighter mood. Another problem is that people hearing sad, emotional songs for the first time may be greatly moved, but those who have heard the song many times before may not be ready to hear it again. This kind of ambivalence can put singers in an awkward position. So for that reason, I used the song sparingly, over the years. Sometimes before a show, someone would beg me not to sing Kilkelly because it was too sad and made them cry, while others would ask to hear it because they loved it, a testament to the power of the song. It must be particularly difficult for those who have recently lost a loved one or are having family difficulties. At first, I almost shied away from learning it because it I was so sad but I ultimately felt compelled to sing it because it was so real.

The great accordionist, Jimmy Keane, added to the poignancy of the arrangement by punctuating some of the verses with his reworked, slowed down version of the reel, Ships Are Sailing, from Francis O’Neill’s Music of Ireland (1903). He thought it was appropriate since Francis O’Neill also emigrated to America in 1860. I think it added a cinematic quality to the track and gave listeners a chance to more fully absorb the storyline. I can honestly say that I never encountered another song that packs such an emotional punch. Kudos to Peter Jones for so exceptionally capturing such a compelling slice of history in song form.

Lyrics:

KILKELLY / LEAVING

Kilkelly ©Peter Jones, Some Sweet Music (BMI)1
Leaving ©Jimmy Keane, Cappal Beag Music (BMI)

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 60, my dear and loving son John
Your good friend the schoolmaster Pat McNamara,
So good as to write these words down.
Your brothers have all gone to find work in England,
The house is so empty and sad
The crop of potatoes is sorely infected,
A third to a half of them bad.
And your sister Brigid and Patrick O'Donnell
Are going to be married in June.
Your mother says not to work on the railroad
And be sure to come on home soon.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 70, my dear and loving son John
Hello to your Missus and to your four children,
May they grow healthy and strong.
Michael has got in a wee bit of trouble,
I suppose that he never will learn.
Because of the dampness there's no turf to speak of
And now we have nothing to burn.
And Brigid is happy, you named a child for her
You know she's got six of her own.
You say you found work, but you don't say what kind Or when you will be coming home.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 80, dear Michael and John, my sons
I'm sorry to give you the very sad news
That your dear old mother has gone.
We buried her down at the church in Kilkelly,
Your brothers and Brigid were there.
You don't have to worry, she died very quickly,
Remember her in your prayers.
And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning,
With money he's sure to buy land
For the crop has been poor and the people
Are selling at any price that they can.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 90, my dear and loving son John
I suppose that I must be close on eighty,
It's thirty years since you're gone.
Because of all of the money you send me,
I'm still living out on my own.
Michael has built himself a fine house
And Brigid's daughters have grown.
And thank you for sending your family picture,
They're lovely young women and men.
You say that you might even come for a visit,
What joy to see you again.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 92, my dear brother John
I'm sorry that I didn't write sooner to tell you that father passed on.
He was living with Brigid, she says he was cheerful
And healthy right down to the end.
Ah, you should have seen him play with the grandchildren
Of Pat McNamara, your friend.
And we buried him alongside of mother,
Down at the Kilkelly churchyard.
He was a strong and a feisty old man,
Considering his life was so hard.
And it's funny the way he kept talking about you,
He called for you in the end.
Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit,
We'd all love to see you again.

There are two popular songs about Slievenamon, one in English by Charles Kickham, who was said to be a distant relative, and another in Irish about a local battle. The former is a nostalgic love song, while the latter is a lament for those massacred in the battle of Carrickmoclear during the 1798 rebellion. It is thought to have been written by the Gaelic poet, Mícheál Óg Ó Longáin, who happened to be in the area at that time.

In addition to the Irish language lyrics, I include here an English translation by Seamus Ennis. I remember him working on it when he was a guest at my parents’ house in the late 1960s where he was a frequent visitor. A few years later, while I was a student at University College Dublin, I went to a concert at Slattery’s on Capel St. to see Seamus perform. I wasn’t sure if he’d remember me since I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years. But at one point in the evening, he sang his translation of “Sliabh na mBan” and smiled directly at me saying, “This translation is the work of a great man.” I knew then that he had recognized me.

SLIABH NA MBAN

Translation of the song by Seamus Ennis…

I hear no verses from thrush or blackbird
and grass grows dimly on the forest path,
the gorgeous maiden with grief is laden
with eternal wailing beating hands bereft.
She cries all pining that the young men
in Ireland nightly no rest can plan.
The troop of rangers, all-plundering strangers
on the sunny side slopes of Sliab na mBan.

I grieve my saying that that day's slaying
should have gone on, Gaels in their hundreds dead,
because the stranger is making game of us
saying pikes for them hold fear nor dread.
Our major came not in time of day break
we weren't prepared with our pikes as one,
but as wild sheep nearing a shepherd shearing
on the sunny side slopes of Sliab na mBan.

The Frenchman's rallying with sharp masts steadying
his top sails, bending at sea a while.
His frequent sea cracks mean out isle he's seeking
and for Gaels who see once more in power and style.
Could I believe that he's not deceiving
my heart wouldn't be weaving like the lark at dawn
to down the stranger and hear the hunt's horn blazing
on the sunny side slopes of Sliab na mBan.

New Ross 'tis known wasn't what beat us woefully
and left the horde of us stretched and weak,
we babes unclothed as cinders smouldering
and those who fought bore it lying by ditch and dike.
I have it sworn now that he who lowered us
we'll be before him with pikes each man
and teach the yeoman to fear the foeman
when we pay the score to them at Sliabh na mBan.

SLIABH NA MBAN

Written by Mícheál Óg Ó Longáin (1766-1837). Arranged & adapted by Robbie O’Connell ©1982, Slievenamon Music (BMI)12

Is oth liom féinig bualadh an lae úd
Do dhul ar Ghaeil bhocht is na céadta 'slad
Mar tá na meirligh ag déanamh géim dínn
Is a rá nach aon ní leo píc ná sleá.
Níor tháinigh ár Major i dtús an lae chugainn
Is ní rabhamar féinig i gcóir ná i gceart
Ach mar a sheolfaí tréada de bha gan aoire
Ar thaobh na gréine de Shliabh na mBan.

<Instrumental break>
 
Is é Ros do bhreoigh is do chloígh go deo sinn,
Mar ar fágadh mórchuid dínn sínte lag.
Leanaí óga 'na smóla dóite
Is an méid a fhan beo dhíobh cois claí nó scairt.
Ach geallaim féin dhaoibh, an té dhein an foghla,
Go mbeamna i gcóir dó le píc is le sleá;
Is go gcuirfeam yeomen ag crith `na mbróga,
Ag díol a gcomhair leo ar Shliabh na mBan.

On that trip and a subsequent one, they also recorded Sarah Makem and Elizabeth Cronin, two of the most influential source singers for the folk revival of the 1960s. Both of them had a huge store of songs and were lovely singers. No doubt inspired by the earlier work of Alan Lomax, Séamus Ennis and Robin Roberts, these collections were hugely important in preserving a large part of our musical heritage. It’s scary to think how many great songs might otherwise have been lost forever.

I was very taken with the song too when I first heard Jean’s recording of it. Waterford uilleann piper, Tommy Keane, (now a long time resident in County Galway), and I worked up this more modal arrangement of it for my Close to the Bone album released on Green Linnet Records in 1982. My guitar was in Open D tuning with the bottom string raised to E but played in a modal A fingering with a capo on the fourth fret.

Lyrics:

WITH KITTY I’LL GO FOR A RAMBLE

Traditional, arranged and adapted by Robbie O’Connell with added verse by Jean Ritchie ©Slievenamon Music (BMI), Geordie Music Pub. Inc. (ASCAP)2

It's with Kitty I'll go for a ramble
Over the mountains wild
Where the blackbirds nest in the brambles
In the home where the eagle chides
Or in some lonely valley
Where the birds in the evening nest
And mine with their prayers would mingle
For the sun to hurry west

Oh, my darling wee lark of the heather
Your voice is as dear to me
As the stars all singing together
Where the mountains sweep down to the sea
And all of Erin's bright treasures
Her beautiful locks and rills
Cannot equal one smile from my Caitlín
My queen of the heathery hills

Oh, I'll buy me the roughest of raiments
To last out the life of man
Let my beard go unkempt and unshaven
Till the reach is a mile and a span
Like the fleece of the grey mountain wether
Let it tumble and dangle around
If I don't get a wife in the heather
I'll try in the new-mown ground

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Fast forward to 1992 and the big celebration of the 30th anniversary of Dylan’s first album at Madison Square Garden with a star studded cast of musical luminaries. The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem and myself were invited to participate in the extravaganza that would be seen on live television by an estimated 500 million people around the globe. We had to pick a Dylan song to perform at the concert and clear it with the organizers in case someone else was planning to do the same one. Liam, surprisingly, picked When The Ship Comes In, rather than the more obvious choices of the above mentioned songs. He knew that it had been written after Dylan saw Bertolt Brecht’s The Threepenny Opera and felt he had an affinity with it. While we were looking through Dylan’s songbook to pick a song, we realized that there were several possible candidates. This led to the idea of possibly doing an album of early Dylan songs, an intriguing if somewhat crazy notion. I worked up versions of Masters of War and The Restless Farewell. Liam worked up, Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie which had the tune of Brennan on the Moor. Other possibilities were Fare Thee Well, based on The Leaving of Liverpool and With God on Our Side, based on Dominic Behan’s Patriot Game.

However, the project fizzled out as the initial enthusiasm waned. Bobby and Paddy didn’t feel that comfortable with the concept and lost interest, although we did record Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie and When the Ship Comes in, on the final group album, Older But No Wiser, in 1995.

Liam liked my arrangement of The Restless Farewell so I recorded it on the first Clancy, O’Connel & Clancy album in 1997. My guitar is in Open D tuning.

Lyrics:

THE RESTLESS FAREWELL

©Bob Dylan 1964, Warner Bros. Arranged and adapted by Robbie O’Connell, Helvic Music 1997.1

Oh, all the money that in my whole life I spent
Be it mine right or wrongfully
I let it slip gladly past the hands of friends
To tie up the time most forcefully.
But the bottles are done
We've killed each one
And the table's full and overflowed
And the corner sign
Says it's closing time
So I'll bid farewell and go down the road.

And every girl that ever I've touched
Oh, I didn’t do it harmfully
And every girl that ever I've hurt
Oh, I didn’t do it knowingly.
But to make amends
And remain as friends
You need the time to stay behind
And since my feet are now fast
And point away from the past
I'll just bid farewell and be down the line

Oh, every foe that ever I fought
The cause was there before we came
And every cause that ever I fought
I fought it full without regret or shame
But the time is not tall
Yet on time you depend and no word is possessed
By no special friend
And though the line is cut
It’s still not the end
I'll just bid farewell till we meet again.

Farewell…

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The song had been a favorite of mine for years so, in the late 1990s, when Liam and Dónal Clancy and I were recording an album of sea songs, The Wild & Wasteful Ocean, it was an obvious choice for inclusion. I first came across this melody, in the 1960s, in an alternate version of the 1798 Irish ballad “The Croppy Boy.” A different version of “The Croppy Boy—“Good men and true in this house who dwell”—used an old Irish air, “Cáilín ó Chois tSiúre Mé,”1 first published as a broadside in Elizabethan times and thought to be the source of Pistol’s remark about, “Caleno custure me” in Shakespeare’s Henry V.

The tune I sing here was also used for several other songs, including the well known barrack room ballad “McCafferty” and “Bob Dylan’s Dream” from the 1963 album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan.

I could never find out who wrote the lyrics of “Lord Franklin” but it first appeared as a broadsheet ballad around 1850 following several years of public interest in the mysterious disappearance of the famous Franklin expedition in the Arctic. Sir John Franklin set out in 1845 with two ships, HMS Erebus and HMS Terror, to search for the Northwest Passage , a theoretical summertime sea lane that linked the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. The economic impact of such a discovery would have been enormous. Stan Rogers also wrote one of his best known songs, “The Northwest Passage,” about a similar quest. When Franklin, or any of his crew, failed to return to England, his wife convinced the British Admiralty to send out several rescue missions but they all returned without success. The song is written from the point of view of a sailor dreaming about Lady Franklin’s distress at her husband’s loss

I remember being riveted to a documentary on PBS back in the 1990s unveiling the recent discoveries about what had happened. The two ships were trapped in the Arctic winter ice. They might have survived if their canned provisions had not been contaminated. Inferior quality cans used to provision the ships caused serious lead poisoning which led to mental deterioration and poor decisions. Some of the crew set out over the ice to seek help from the Inuit but even though they made some contact, their mission failed. Bodies retrieved from the ice a century and a half later showed clear evidence of fatal lead poisoning. Amazingly, the well-preserved wreck of HMS Erebus was discovered in 2014, and HMS Terror was found in 2016. I think the song was probably instrumental maintaining public awareness of the whole affair over the years and prevented it from being lost in the mists of history.

Lyrics:

LORD FRANKLIN

Traditional, arranged & adapted by Robbie O’Connell ©Helvic Music 19982

It was homeward bound one night on the deep
Lying in my hammock I fell asleep
I dreamed a dream, and I thought it true
Concerning Franklin and his gallant crew

With a hundred seamen he sailed away
For the frozen ocean in the month of May
To seek that passage around the pole
Where we poor sailors sometimes must go

Through cruel hardships they mainly strove
Their ship on mountains of ice was drove
Where the Eskimo with his skin canoe
Was the only one that ever came through

In Baffin Bay where the whale fish blow
The fate of Franklin no man may know
The fate of Franklin no tongue can tell
Or Lord Franklin with his sailors they dwell

And now my burden it gives me pain
For long-lost Franklin I’d cross the main
Ten thousand pounds would I freely give
To say on earth that Franklin do live.

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Living abroad for forty years, but frequently visiting Ireland, always left me with a yearning for the Irish countryside. Each time I returned to the USA, it wasn’t so much particular people or particular places that I found hard to leave but the landscape itself. Those rugged Irish vistas have a way of burrowing into your soul and leaving you despondent when you depart. The Comeragh Mountains, the Nire Valley, the Suir River Valley, and the Copper Coast, were all places that left me with a kind of longing for that childlike sensation of connection that can only come from the land itself.

My rental cottage wasn’t far from Ring, County Waterford, where my uncle Liam Clancy lived. We had spent a lot of time together in the nineties, doing concerts and recording, but we hadn’t seen very much of each other in the previous few years. This felt like a great opportunity to catch up. It had always been a family tradition, in the summertime, to go for a picnic in the Nire Valley, a remote beauty spot, in the foothills of the majestic Comeraghs. The forecast, for once, was promising some beautiful weather so I suggested to Liam that we go an a bit of a jaunt to the Nire, for old time’s sake. He hadn’t been there for years either, so he was delighted with the plan. It was a picture postcard day, a clear blue sky, a few puffy white clouds, a perfect temperature and the cheerful sound of bird song everywhere. We spent a most pleasant afternoon enjoying the stunning scenery, breathing in the sweet cool air and soaking up the glorious mixture of sunshine and nostalgia.

When we got back to the cottage, we had both reached a level of relaxation not experienced since childhood. He kindly invited me to his house for dinner. I’d had many wonderful meals there over the years and I was sorely tempted but I had to reluctantly refuse. All through the day, a melody had been forming in my head and I knew that if I didn’t capture it there and then, it would disappear forever. I explained my dilemma to Liam and hoped he understood. When he had headed home, I picked up my guitar and the melody appeared almost fully formed on the first try, a fairly rare occurrence, in my experience.

When I write songs they usually stem from one particular phrase, either musical or lyrical. If I’m particularly lucky, both arrive simultaneously. This time, although the melody was instantaneous, there was no sign of any lyric showing up. For some reason, the line, “One pleasant evening in the month of June,” kept popping into my head. That was from the old song, The Jug of Punch which was the best known song of another of my other uncles, Paddy Clancy. Given the lovely pleasant evening we had just experienced and the time of year, I suppose it wasn’t all that surprising.

No matter how I tried to find for new lyrics to go with the melody, my mind kept returning to that. So, eventually, I decided to embrace it instead of resisting it. I am always fascinated by the different versions of folk songs and the way both the lyrics and the melody morph to suit the predilections of different regions or ethnic groups. I looked up different versions of the song and ended up reworking the lyrics from some of those as well as adding new lines and a new final verse, with a more upbeat ending.

I still love to sing this song. It always brings back fond memories of that lovely day which, sadly, turned out to be the last meaningful time I got to spend with Liam. I feel blessed to have had a chance to share that experience with him. A little over a year later, he was gone.

Lyrics:

A JUG OF PUNCH

Traditional, arranged and adapted with new words and music ©Robbie O’Connell 2008 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

One pleasant evening in the month of June 
As I sat down with my glass and spoon
A small bird sat on an ivy bunch 
And the song he sang was a jug of punch

Refrain:
Radley fol the dee me boys 
Radley fol the day

What more diversion can a man desire 
Than to sit him down by an alehouse fire?
Upon his knee oh a comely wench 
And on the table a jug of punch

Now some drink ale and some drink wine, 
Those lords and ladies like their claret fine
But I'd trade all the grapes in the bunch 
For just one sip from a jug of punch

Those learned doctors with all their art 
Can't cure the pain that lies on the heart
But a woeful thirst you can quickly quench 
When you're snug outside of a jug of punch

And when I'm dead and lie in my grave
No marble tombstone will I crave
Just lower me down with a rope and winch 
And on my heart lay a jug of punch

But I'm not ready for that churchyard cold
Stir up the fire and then bar the door
And all dull cares we will surely drench 
With our glasses full from a jug of punch

I grew up in a house where a session could happen at the drop of a hat, and frequently did. Three or four people and a few drinks was all it usually took to reach ignition point. Even as a toddler, I had been taught a recitation about a mischievous goblin that, much to my chagrin and embarrassment, I would be prevailed upon to perform for visiting relatives. As a chronically shy introvert, I learned to cope with such pressures by only agreeing to do the recitation from the comparatively safe space underneath a table. Oddly, that reluctance to intrude personality into performance was often seen and admired in traditional singers and considered a hallmark of the style. It was always supposed to be about the song and not the singer, a polar opposite from modern commercial fare where it’s almost de rigueur for singers, specially females, to perform in their underwear.

In the 1960s, the folk revival, or the ballad boom as it was known in Ireland, gave a fresh impetus to the amateur singer to develop a repertoire of songs. Around the same time, American country music had become increasingly popular in rural Ireland so it wasn’t unusual to hear traditional Irish songs and country songs sung, side by side, in pubs across the country. Singers like Johnny Cash and Jim Reeves dominated the airwaves and their songs were copied throughout the country, complete with what passed for the American twang.

The upsurge of the Irish showband scene in the 1960s, even led to a hybrid genre known as Country & Irish, as distinct from Country Western. Some of the most successful practitioners of this style such as Big Tom from the Mainliners showband, generated the kind of public hysteria that was only associated with the Beatles and Elvis Presley. I witnessed this spectacle first hand when Big Tom arrived at our little family hotel one evening looking for a meal. The girls who waited on the tables began screaming hysterically and almost had to be sedated before they could calm down enough to serve him. Ironically, he was a modest man who when someone once asked him how he had become so successful replied, “Shit lucky, boy. Shit lucky.”

Meanwhile, as Ireland embraced American County music, people from New York to California were becoming enthralled by the Irish ballads being sung by the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem and others. By 1963 these songs made a return to Ireland too and added to the musical stew that contained so many diverse elements. Little known Australian songs like the Wild Rover and the Black Velvet Band joined in the mix and instantly became “Irish” songs to the ears of the general population. It was a fascinating musical melting pot that became my main musical education.

Memories of such times, partly inspired me to write The Singer. The other motivation was the pitifully small amount of Irish music that was played on RTE, Ireland’s national radio station in the closing decades of the twentieth century. Other than on R na G, the Irish language radio station that began in 1972, there was hardly more than an hour or two of Irish music played weekly on the country’s flagship station, RTE 1. On a visit home to Ireland in the 1990s, I was amazed, and somewhat bewildered, to hear American country songs on R na G being sung in the Irish language but with American accents. The mind boggles. I also found it strange that I could hear more Irish music on the airwaves in the greater Boston area in one weekend than I could hear on RTE 1 in several months.

After WW2, a massive wave of American pop culture spread across the world. Hollywood movies, US television shows, and rock music, in particular, were embraced by countries as diverse as England and Japan. Living in the USA from 1979 until 2019 made me very conscious of the cultural cross pollination that was happening. Having a foot in two different cultures gave me a unique point of view, sometimes enlightening, sometimes frightening. Hearing Irish people sing with American accents and Americans sing with Irish accents was one of the obvious peculiarities but there were more significant aspects that I found troubling. The erosion of respect for the musical heritage of other nations by the American juggernaut caused significant damage to ethnic cultures worldwide.

In Ireland today, the corporate media outlets generally treat our native culture as a nostalgic relic to be dusted off for the tourists, specially around St. Patrick’s Day but kept safely in the background otherwise. Ironically, despite this corporate dismissal, Irish traditional music has never been healthier or more vibrant but only to a small percentage of the population. A study of the sales in Irish music stores showed that the homegrown product rarely rose above 5% of total sales. That included artists as diverse as U2 and the Chieftains and everything in between. Most of the touring Irish musicians make the bulk of their income outside Ireland because that is where the market for it lies. It seems so strange that Irish music has to be exported to find a large audience and maintain its authenticity.

Lyrics:

THE SINGER

© Robbie O’Connell 1988 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

“Well, hello there, how're you doing?" that was all he said at first
Then he moved a little closer saying, "I think I'm dying of thirst"
I asked him if he'd have a pint but he just shook his head
Then he grinned at me and said, "I think I'll have a drop instead"
He asked me where I came from as we had a little taste
I told him not too far from there, though I now lived in the States
I said I was a singer and I wasn't home for long
Did he know anyone who still might a few old songs

CHORUS
He said I'm not much for telling jokes and I never learned to dance
But I could sing the night away if you'd give me half a chance
If I had some lubrication for the muscles in my throat
I'd sing out like a sparrow and I'd never miss a note

So I ordered up another round thinking I had just struck gold
And I asked him if he'd sing a song maybe something kind of old
He said he had a million and a special one for me
He sang "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree"
So I smiled at him, said that was nice, had he any other songs
He suggested that another drop might help his memory on
He asked if I knew Johnny Cash or ever met Tom Jones
Then he sang me forty shades of "The Green Green Grass of Home"

Well I knew I was in trouble but I didn't want to quit
I thought it still might be worthwhile if I hung in for a bit
But the bar had filled with people who were calling out for more
And when he sang "One Day At a Time, Sweet Jesus", I had to go
But I still had to wait through one more Willy Nelson song
Then I made a quick escape and said I had to ramble on
If I wanted to hear old songs, well I knew just where to go
I'd hear them back in Boston, playing on the radio.

To my surprise, I discovered that the actual clipper ship, Flying Cloud, never served as a slaver. She was built in East Boston in 1851 and held the speed record for the voyage from New York to San Francisco for over a hundred years. She was also renowned for having a female navigator, a most unusual occurrence at that time. Her name was Eleanor Creesy and she proved her worth by her masterful navigation of the treacherous waters of Cape Horn on numerous trips transporting precious cargo at the height of the California Gold Rush.1 It appears that the song is a fictitious account of slaving and piracy that was inspired by the temperance tract, The Dying Declaration of Nicholas Fernandez, published in 1829. It seems likely that William Hollander was not written until the 1850s. It was sold as a broadsheet ballad and the author may have used the name of the Flying Cloud to capitalize on the fame of that speedy clipper ship. 2

The song was very popular in Newfoundland where it was also known as Edward Hollander and William Anderson. Thousands of young men from the south-eastern counties of Ireland sailed out to the rich cod fishing grounds on the Grand Banks from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries. Waterford was the home port for many of them, before they decided to settle in Newfoundland. So I wonder if the song originated there and made its way back to Ireland and England via the flotillas of fishing boats, mostly British owned, that made that annual voyage westward every spring. Regardless of where it originated, the song proved to have staying power and was recorded by many fine singers, most notably, Ewan MacColl, Louis Killen and Dan Milner.

For this recording I played the guitar in Open G tuning and double tracked it to get a kind of 12 string effect. Tommy Keane worked his magic with the whistles and producer, Tom Phillips, added some subtle synthesiser parts.

Lyrics:

WILLIAM HOLLANDER

Traditional, arranged and adapted by Robbie O’Connell ©1982 Slievenamon Music (BMI)3

My name is William Hollander,
As you may understand.
I was born in the County of Waterford,
In Erin's lovely land.
When I was young and in my prime
And health did on me smile
My parents raised me tenderly
I being their only child.

My father bound me to a trade
In Waterford's fair town.
He bound me to a cooper
By the name of William Brown.
I served my master faithfully
For eighteen months and more,
Til I shipped aboard the Ocean Queen
Belonging to Tramore.

And when we reached Bеrmuda
I fell in with a Captain Moore,
The skippеr of the Flying Cloud
From out of Baltimore.
And kindly he invited me
On a slaving voyage to go,
To the burning shores of Africa
Where the sugar cane is grown.

And after weeks of sailing
We arrived on the African shore
Five hundred of those slaves, me boys.
From their native isle we tore.
We marched them all along the deck
And stowed them down below.
Scarce eighteen inches to a man
Was all they had to go.

But the plague and fever came on board
And took half of them away.
We carried their bodies up on deck
And threw them in the sea.
Far better for the rest of them
If they had died below,
Than beneath the planter's bully, boys,
All along the Cuban shore.

Oh, we robbed and we plundered many a ship
All down the Spanish Main.
Left many a widow and orphan child
In sorrow to remain.
We fought ‘til Captain Moore was killed
With eighty of his men,
When a chain-shot brought our mainmast down
And we had to surrender then.

It's next to Newgate we were brought
Bound down in iron chains,
For the sinking and plundering of many a ship
All on the Spanish Main.
The judge, he found me guilty,
I was condemned to die.
So, young men a warning take by me,
Lead not such a life as I.

So, it's fare ye well, to Waterford
And the girl that I adore.
No more I'll kiss her lips again
Or squeeze her breast once more.
T’was whiskey and bad company
That made a wretch of me.
So, come all young men, a warning take
And shun all piracy.

The Irish Catholic church, that ensnared me in my formative years, had a much more subtle approach to fundraising. They didn’t need to peddle prayer shawls or perform fake miracles to line their gold-plated coffers. They weaponised shame as the most efficient fundraising method. Whenever they solicited donations from the faithful, the names of the donors and the amounts they contributed would be read out from the pulpit at Sunday mass. The immense potential for embarrassment and shame assured a positive response.

As a strategy, it was as devious as it was effective. It was further supported by the new testament message that only the poor could enter the kingdom of heaven so by taking money from you, they were facilitating your entry into an afterlife of eternal bliss. It never seemed to occur to the members of the flock that if the church luminaries held all the wealth, they were effectively shutting off their own access to heaven. Nonetheless, as business models go, it’s been a proven winner for a couple of millennia.

When I was nine years old, I found a book on world religions in my local library. I was astounded to read about how many of the world religions borrowed ideas from each other. We had been taught that Christianity was the only true religion and that all the others were nonsense. Yet I found that Christianity was based on much of that same nonsense and riddled with contradictions. All non-Christians were doomed to eternal damnation in the fires of Hell by our “all loving God.” Nearly every religion seems to promote the notion that “My God is better than your God.” I realised that one’s religion is mostly based on the geographical location of one’s birth. The divine message might be different but the indoctrination process is strikingly similar.

Morality is often cited as one of the benefits of religious belief but that is a false equivalence. Hypocrisy is a much more evident offshoot of religion. Some of the world’s greatest atrocities were committed in the name of a god. Many of history’s greatest criminals were decked out in religious regalia. Others shamelessly peddled overpriced autographed bibles for personal gain while functioning as a living embodiment of the seven deadly sins.

As a recovered Irish Catholic, I still have residual issues with things like guilt. After seventy five years, I have finally embraced atheism as the only rational doctrine, for me. I dithered between atheism and agnosticism for several years. To say we cannot know for sure if there is or isn’t a god seemed logical at first. However when I considered the thousands of gods that humans have worshipped throughout history, I concluded that they were all manmade answers to the question of existence. The invention a fictitious solution for an existential puzzle may bring comfort to those who embrace it but mythology cannot be equated with reality. All the gods we conjured up were tailored for cultural bias and manipulated by a privileged minority to maintain power and control over the majority.

You may ask, “If there is no God, where did the universe come from?” My answer is, “If there is a God, where did he/she/it come from?” It’s just another version of the chicken and the egg paradox. As Ricky Gervais ironically put it, “Only your God is real. All the others are fake.” So, to quote Iris Dement’s wonderful song, I am content to just “Let The Mystery Be.”1

Lyrics:

BORN AGAIN AGNOSTIC

© Robbie O’Connell 1998 Slievenamon Music (BMI)2

I’m a born-again agnostic, Hallelujah! I’ve seen the light
Well I never thought that it would happen to me ‘cause I lead such an innocent life.
But I felt like Archimedes when he jumped out of the bath.
“Eureka,”  I said and inside my head I was doing some basic math.

I’m going to start my own religion, get my very own TV show.
I’ll go on at dawn every Monday morning when people are feeling low
I’ll tell them not to worry, everything is going to be alright
And all they got to do is send me a check before midnight tonight!

I’m gonna travel all around the country in a gold plated cadillac
I’ll preach for free and sell souvenirs and all kinds of other crap
I’ll retire by the time I’m fifty just to watch my fortune grow
I’ll write a book every year or two and do occasional TV shows.

I’ll compile an album of agnostic hymns in a boxed two CD set
With a third on me if you call toll free before you take another breath.
With Bono and Bob Geldoff, you’re sure to be inspired.
And you’ll also get, absolutely free, the Agnostic Tabernacle Choir.

Oh, I’m a born-again agnostic, Hallelujah, I’ve seen the light
I’ll have my own demesne in the Caribbean and I’ll make it my paradise.
But I  better get started right away, in case someone else gets there first,
‘Cause there’s just no telling what people might do in a godless universe

I learned this version from my first cousin, Declan O’Connell, in Cork. I was drawn to it by the subtle melodic change from the original and the restoration of the “Divil” in the lyrics. Most people sang, “ … and the dear knows who I’ll marry.” in the chorus. However, it’s very likely that the original version had the Gaelic word, “diabhal” pronounced “dee-al,” meaning devil instead of the safely bowdlerised “dear.”

The other obvious difference from the usual version is that it has undergone a gender reassignment. The handsome Johnny of the original has become winsome Molly, something not so unusual in the real world anymore. I added the guitar riff intro and outro for a little melodic and rhythmic variety.

19th century Ballad Woodcut illustrations in the video below are from the Irish Traditional Music Archive Collections.

Lyrics:

I KNOW WHERE I’M GOING

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

I know where I’m going
I know who’s going with me
I know who I love
But the divil knows who I’ll marry

Feather beds are soft
Painted rooms are bonny
But I would leave them all
To go with my love Molly

I know where I’m going
I know who’s going with me
I know who I love
But the divil knows who I’ll marry

She’ll have stockings of silk
Shoes of fine green leather
Combs to buckle her hair
And a ring for every finger

I know where I’m going
I know who’s going with me
I know who I love
But the divil knows who I’ll marry

Some say she’s dark
I say she is bonny
The flower among them all
Is my handsome, winsome Molly

I know where I’m going
I know who’s going with me
I know who I love
But the divil knows who I’ll marry

In those days, Mooney’s Pub in Ring was the place for mighty sessions, specially in the summertime. There were picnic tables outside the pub and many a night, when the pub had officially closed, the session continued unabated outside. When the weather permitted, we often went on until we saw the “normal” people off driving to work around seven in the morning.

After one such marathon session, still feeling no pain, I hurried back to Tom Clancy’s house to pack my bags and join him on the drive to Shannon airport to begin a US tour. Tom, a recovered alcoholic, looked at me askance but didn’t offer any criticism or advice, probably knowing what lay ahead for me. We weren’t long on the road when to my surprise, as time was tight, Tom pulled into a tree lined a lay-by in the foothills of the Comeragh Mountains. He got out to walk around and breathe in the cool morning air for a few minutes before we continued. When I joined him, he explained that he always did this to charge his spiritual battery ahead of a long journey; a lovely personal ritual that I greatly admired.

We picked up Paddy and Bobby in Carrick-on-Suir on our way, and continued on to Shannon. It was only a couple of hours drive but, as my hangover kicked in, it began to feel like an eternity. By the time we boarded the flight I was in bits and hoping it didn’t show. I resorted to the hair of the dog remedy to ease my pain and berated myself for not having more sense. As I sat there feeling sorry for myself, I began thinking about the millions of Irish who had crossed the Atlantic over the year in search of a better life. I realised how trivial my plight was compared to the distress and hardships they endured. I found a pen and a sick bag and started writing these lyrics.

The original version of the song began with the line, “I didn’t sleep at all last night …” Later I changed it so it would make more sense from a US audience. I had given my great friend and legendary accordion player, Jimmy Keane a tape with the early version, along with another song I wrote about his father, The Man from Connemara. He passed those two songs on to Sean Keane who recorded both of them. In each case, I had rewritten the lyrics for both songs for my Never Learned to Dance CD but Sean’s fine recordings are of the earlier versions.

Years later, Mick Moloney, after a trip home to Ireland said. They’re all singing your songs in Ireland but the folk process is already changing them. He didn’t realise that they were earlier drafts of the songs.

Another odd thing happened. Over the years when Tommy Sands and I would meet, one of the first things we asked each other was what new songs we had written. On one such occasion, we both answered a song called Home Away from Home. Both songs are about the experience of being Irish in a foreign land but Tommy’s lovely song is a more serious take on it. His chorus was Home Away From Home, an obvious title, so I decided to call mine, Hard to Say Goodbye to avoid confusion.

Having a different version of the same song can lead to some confusion. On one occasion, when Sean Keane and I were playing at the same festival, he kindly asked if I would join him on stage to sing Home Away from Home with him. Since there was no time to do a run through, I unfortunately had to decline since I didn’t gave time to make the adjustment to his version. Now that I’m living back in Ireland, maybe I should switch back to the earlier version. Life can be very confusing at times. (Editor’s note: Sean Keane performed the version he does with Daniel O’Donnell in November 2021. Link in footnote.)1

This live recording is from a concert at The Old Vienna Kaffeehaus in Westboro, Massachusetts. It was an amazing venue that despite its limited capacity hosted many of the legendary folk acts from 1986 to 1996. If you would like to hear the studio version featuring, Johnny Cunningham on fiddle, Jimmy Keane on accordion, and Tom O’Carroll on banjo, here's a LINK.

Lyrics:

HARD TO SAY GOODBYE (aka HOME AWAY FROM HOME)

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

I'd been back home in Ireland just to visit some old friends
But the days had gone by quickly, it was time to leave again
I'd had so many wild nights in the week or two that passed
I was almost glad that this would be the last.
But I didn't sleep at all that night, I stayed up 'til the dawn
Singing songs and playing tunes 'til everyone was gone
By then it was too late for me to go back home to bed
So I opened up another beer instead.

CHORUS
Back across the ocean to my home away from home
Glad to be returning but sad to have to go
I'd like to find a way to be two places at one time
It's easy going back again but it's hard to say goodbye

I had one bag too many just as I was set to leave
I was loaded down with bacon and with sausages and tea
And I couldn't find my ticket as I'm walking out the door
'Til I emptied all my bags out on the floor.
On board the plane I sip a drink while waiting for the meal
Just trying to keep my head from knowing how my stomach feels
There's a baby right behind me making sure that I won't sleep
And the flight's too full to find another seat

And I'm trying to fill out customs forms but I can't find a pen
I'm swearing softly to myself I'll never fly again
There's a woman right in front of me keeps playing with the seat
And someone nearby never washed their feet
But I fall asleep at last just as the plane is touching down
And I age ten years just waiting for the bags to come around
But finally I make it home and I'm barely settled when
I'm already making plans to go again

Printed on a single sheet of paper, hence the term, Broadsides, they were mostly sold at market fairs and social gatherings, usually for a penny or a halfpenny each. Often adorned with woodcut illustrations of the theme of the song, they appealed to the barely literate in addition to the well read. They were in great demand by singers trying to expand their repertoires. In many ways, they were the precursors of the pop music records that dominated the popular musical culture of the twentieth century.

Quare Bungle Rye has always intrigued me for several reasons. It had an Irish sounding tune but the story seemed more English than Irish. Given the dominance of the British navy in the 1800s, most of the nautical songs sung in Ireland came from England. There were plenty of Irish sailors in the British merchant fleets as well as the Royal Navy so the song might have originated there.

However, the mention of rye whiskey made me think there might be an American connection. Rye whiskey is associated with German and Swiss emigrants who settled in Pennsylvania from the 1700s to the 1900s and are known as the Pennsylvania Dutch. Sailors travel the world and pick up bits and pieces of songs from all over, so sea shanties and sailors’ songs are a mishmash of diverse musical influences, including Irish.

An English song, The Oyster Girl, song #875 in the Roud Collection, is sometimes thought to be a precursor to Quare Bungle Rye but the theme of the sailor ashore being easily duped is a common one, so I’m not sure there’s a tangible connection. Whatever its provenance, the story keeps being retold and is probably found in many different cultures.

I believe my uncle, Bobby Clancy, collected it from a singer in County Kilkenny and both he and his brother, Paddy, used to sing it. In the 1950s, Bobby collected songs from old timers around Carrick-on-Suir and further afield. He liked nothing better than heading out to remote country pubs and starting a session. He was always made welcome because, once he appeared, they knew they were in for a great night. Many of the songs he collected found their way onto the early Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem LPs so although Bobby was not part of the original lineup, he made an important contribution to their repertoire.

I didn’t alter the lyrics for this version but I did rework the melody and change the structure to give it a chorus instead of a refrain. I know that some people consider such alterations as a form of skullduggery, but, like it or not, it’s what is known as “The Folk Process.” Nearly everything needs a little freshening up once in a while. I was tired of the old melody but loved the story so the solution for me was fairly obvious. I hope you like the result.

Lyrics:

QUARE BUNGLE RYE

Traditional, adapted and arranged with new music, ©Robbie O’Connell 2008 Slievenamon Music (BMI)1

Now Jack was a sailor who roamed on the town
And she was a damsel who skipped up and down
Said the damsel to Jack as she passed him by,
"Would you care for to purchase some quare bungle rye?"
Quare bungle rye, laddie, quare bungle rye
Fol the diddle lie raddie rye, raddie rye
 
Says Jack to himself, "Now what can this be?
But the finest old whiskey from far Germany
Smuggled up in a basket and sold on the sly
And the name that it goes by is quare bungle rye"
Quare bungle rye, laddie, quare bungle rye
Fol the diddle lie raddie rye, raddie rye
 
Jack gave her a pound and he thought nothing strange
Said she, "Hold the basket till I run for your change"
Jack peeked in the basket and a child he did spy
"Oh, be damned then," says Jack, " this is quare bungle rye."
Quare bungle rye, laddie, quare bungle rye
Fol the diddle lie raddie rye, raddie rye
 
Now to get the child christened was Jack's next intent
And to get the child christened, to the parson he went
Says the parson to Jack, "What will he go by?"
"Oh, Be damned then," says Jack," Call him quare bungle rye 
Quare bungle rye, laddie, quare bungle rye
Fol the diddle lie raddie rye, raddie rye
 
Said the parson to Jack, "That's a very quare name"
"Oh, Be damned then," says Jack, "in a quare way he came
Smuggled up in a basket and sold on the sly
And the name that he'll go by is quare bungle rye"
Quare bungle rye, laddie, quare bungle rye
Fol the diddle lie raddie rye, raddie rye
 
Now all you young sailors who roam on the town
Beware of those damsels who skip up and down
Take a peek in their basket as they pass you by
Or else they may pawn on you quare bungle rye 
Quare bungle rye, laddie, quare bungle rye
Fol the diddle lie raddie rye, raddie rye

Bunclody was one of mother’s party pieces and is also one of my wife Roxanne’s favourites to sing.1 The cuckoo verse is one of those floating verses that show up in many other folk songs. Jean’s recorded version had only three verses so I added a couple from Bunclody to expand it.

I remember the excitement when Jean visited our house in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary in the early 1960s. She was probably with Diane Hamilton who was a regular visitor and had even bought a small cottage just outside the town. Jean stayed with my aunt Peg who is a wonderful singer herself. I’m sure they had some great song swapping sessions at that time. Peg made a couple of albums on the Folk Legacy label that are treasures, if you can find them.

I was fortunate to be able to get some of my favorite musicians to join me on this. Aubrey Atwater plays mountain dulcimer, Hanneke Block plays fiddle, Eric Wendelken on double bass and mandolin, and Roxanne O’Connell, singing harmony. My guitar is in Open D tuning to emulate the drone of the dulcimer.

Lyrics:

PRETTY SARO

Traditional, arranged and adapted with new words and music ©Robbie O’Connell 2014 Slievenamon Music (BMI)2

Down in some lone valley, in a lonesome place,
Where the wild birds do whistle and their notes do increase,
Farewell Pretty Saro, I must bid you adieu,
But I’ll dream of Pretty Saro wherever I go.

My love she won't have me, so I understand.
She wants a freeholder and I've got no land.
I cannot maintain her in silver and gold,
Nor buy all the fine things  that a big house can hold

Oh if I were a merchant and could write a fine hand,
I’d write my love a letter that she might understand.
I’d write it by the river, where the waters o’erflow
And I’ll dream of Pretty Saro wherever I go.

Oh the cuckoo is a fine bird and she sings as she flies
She brings us good tidings and she tells us no lies
She sucks the young birds’ eggs to make her voice clear
And the more she cries “Cuckoo”, lovely summer draws near.

So it’s fare thee well father and my mother adieu.
My sisters and brothers, farewell unto you
I’ll find some new country, my fortune to try.
When I think on Pretty Saro, I am ready to die.

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’”