21. Stick to the Crathur

Traditional, adapted by Robbie O’Connell ©1989, 1998

For reasons which will become clear, if you read this to the end, this wonderful song always reminds me of Christmas even though it is not a Christmas song. The “crathur,” a Hiberno-English corruption of the word “creature,” is one of many names for poitín, pronounced “potcheen” and anglicised as poteen. It is illicit homemade whiskey sometimes known as moonshine or mountain dew.

The lyrics are a torrent of ornate language in praise of the wondrous qualities of the distilled spirit. The word whiskey is derived from the Irish “uisce beatha” meaning the water of life but the term “poteen” is used exclusively to refer to the home-made variety.

Probably written in the nineteenth century, Stick to the Crathur follows the form of traditional songs in the Irish language. They frequently contained literary flourishes, assonance, and a complex rhyming scheme. It first appeared in print in the mid 1800s in the USA under the title of Paddy’s Panacea. I initially heard it sung by my uncle, Bobby Clancy, who, I believe, learned it from the singing of Johnny Moynihan at one of the many Fleadh Cheoils he attended in Ireland in the 1960s. This version is unusual in that it includes a new verse written by our mutual cousin, Seamus McGrath, from Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary.

In the pre Celtic Tiger lean years in Ireland, whisky was a luxury that few could afford. Fortunately, poteen, a less expensive option due to the absence of excise taxes, was readily available in the remoter parts of the country especially in the run up to Christmas. This was a mixed blessing as sometimes it was improperly distilled which often left it with contaminants that were imputed to cause every ailment from blindness to an early death. However, the twice or triple distilled spirit, made by skilled hands, was reputed to make the lame walk again or even make a lonely farmer propose to his donkey.

Some members of the Garda Siochána, the Irish police force, and the Revenue Commissioners, attempted to gain merit and promotion by vigorously pursuing the intrepid distillers and destroying their illicit stills sequestered in remote mountainous hideaways. While they had the support of the Pioneer Total Abstinence Association, they were roundly reviled for their enthusiastic aggression by the less abstemious members of the populace.

When a still was discovered and destroyed, the law required that a barrel or two of the product be held as evidence until the District Court Judge could make his appearance at the local assizes to dispense justice. For safety’s sake, the evidence would be locked in a cell at the local Garda station to await the scheduled arrival of the judge which might not happen for weeks or months. It was during this period that a most unusual scientific phenomenon occurred. While securely locked in the holding cell, the rate of natural evaporation, traditionally known as the angel’s share, inexplicably increased, and you would be amazed at how precipitously the level of liquid in the barrel could drop.

There has never been a satisfactory explanation of this scientific marvel. However, it coincided with the surreptitious arrival of bottles of a pure clear liquid in the homes of certain publicans whose generous hospitality had benefited those gardaí whose duties involved late night community patrols on the bitterest and stormiest of winter nights.

My father was the proprietor of a small hotel, more like a country inn, conveniently situated in a secluded spot about a mile from town where a stand of tall shrubs could comfortably conceal a vehicle about the size of a patrol car. On those nights not fit for man or beast to be outside, it wasn’t unusual for him to welcome in a couple of half-frozen uniformed men to the warmth of the blazing fire in the residents’ lounge. Furthermore, he stayed up way past his bedtime to keep these guests company and make sure there was no lull in the conversation or unwarranted decline in the level of their pint glasses.

Consequently, every Christmas, a bottle of the finest quality poteen would be carefully secreted in our house to be shared only with the most reliable and trustworthy friends as a special Christmas treat. The high quality of the annual gift never wavered and when I reached drinking age, (usually between fourteen and eighteen in Ireland), I finally got to sample this delightful nectar of the gods. Thus, for me, was born the association of this song with the Yuletide celebrations. Alas, the tradition has lapsed since my father sold the business although a vestige of it remains in the bottle of Black Bush my lovely sister, Alice, gifts me every Christmas.

Lyrics:

STICK TO THE CRATHUR

©1989 The Green Fields of America, ©1998 Robbie O’Connell

Let your quacks and newspapers be cuttin’ their capers
About curing the vapors the scratch and the gout,
With their medical potions, their serums and lotions
Ochone in their notions, they’re mighty put out.
Who can tell the true physic of all that’s pathetic,
And pitch to the devil, cramp, colic and spleen.
You’ll know it I think if you take a big drink
With your mouth to the brink of a jug of poteen.

So stick to the crathur, the best thing in nature
For sinkin’ your sorrows and raising your joys.
Oh what botheration no dose in the a nation
Can give consolation like poteen me boys.

As a child in the cradle, me nurse with her ladle
Was fillin’ her mouth with a notion of pap.
When a drop from her bottle fell into my throttle.
I capered and scrambled right out of her lap.
On the floor I lay crawlin’ and screamin’ and bawling
‘Til me father and mother were called to the fore.
All sobbin’ and sighin’ they feared I was dying.
But soon found I only was crying for more.

So stick to the crathur the best thing in nature
For sinkin’ your sorrows and raising your joys.
Oh lord how they’d chuckle if babes in their truckle
Could only be suckled on poteen, me boys.

Through my youthful aggression, in times of depression,
My childhood’s impression still clung to my mind.
And at school or at college, the basis of knowledge
I never could gulp ‘til with whiskey combined.
And as older I’m growing times ever bestowin’
On Erin’s potation, a flavor so fine.
And how ere they may lecture on Jove and his nectar
Itself is the only true liquid divine.

So stick to the crathur, the best thing in nature
For sinkin’ your sorrows and raising your joys.
Oh lord, ‘tis the right thing for courting and fighting
There’s naught so exciting as poteen me boys.

Come guess me this riddle: what beats pipes and fiddle?
What’s hotter than mustard and milder than cream?
What best wets your whistle? What’s clearer than crystal?
What’s sweeter than honey and stronger than steam?
What will make the lame walk? What will make the dumb talk? 
The elixir of life and philosopher’s stone.
And what helped Mr. Brunel to dig the Thames Tunnel?
Sure wasn’t it poteen from ould Inishowen?

So stick to the crathur the best thing in nature
For sinkin’ your sorrows and raising your joys.
Oh lord, ‘tis no wonder, if lightning and thunder
Was made from the plunder of poteen me boys.

Now, ye maidens pathetic with lovers athletic
For liquid cosmetic, you can’t beat the drop.
With a glow to your cheek, it’ll make your heart leap
It would quieten a stallion or cure an ould cob
From the mouth you would drool, be reduced to a fool
You’d kick up your heels and you’d peel to the buff.
And ’tis you’d be athletic while he’d be pathetic
If only you’d take a few drops of the stuff.

So stick to the crathur, the best thing in nature
For sinkin’ your sorrows and raising your joys.
For there’s nothin’ like whiskey to make maidens frisky
It soon separates all the men from the boys.