The History of the Bodhrán.

The word Bodhrán is said to mean Deafening or Thunderous Drum.  The history of the Bodhrán is shrouded in mystery and subject to speculation. Is it an ancient Irish instrument or did it originally arrive on our shores from some far off place?  Some historians believe that its roots in Africa and arrived here from Spain, others believe that it had its origins in Asia and arrived here with the Celts.  There is evidence of the use of an instrument very similar to a Bodhrán that was used in agriculture and this was called a Wight or Wecht in Ulster and a Dallán in the south west of Ireland. This was used by agricultural workers to separate grain seed from the chaff or shells. Grain was poured into the hollow section of the Bodhrán on a breezy day, the light shells were blown away by the wind and the heavy grain was left behind. Sometimes workers would raise the Bodhrán above their heads and jump up and down to agitate the grain. It was said that the Bodhrán hung above the fireplace and in winter after the harvest was finished for the year the farm labourers being short of money and unable to buy musical instruments used whatever they had to hand or could make from bits and pieces. The grain winnower was used as a drum during musical seisúns.

Another use for the Bodhrán was during harvest festivals and by the Wren boys and Mummers to make noise in order to announce their arrival on the scene.

The Bodhrán is a frame drum made from a circle of wood (ash) upon this we have the stretched skin of an animal. Usually that of a goat but you may also find Bodhrán that use the skin of a horse, pony, sheep, or dog. At first glance it reminds you of a sieve similar to that used to sift sand and it is easy to understand the confusion when someone asks the question “did it evolve from a working instrument into a musical instrument or was it the other way round?”  In fact you will still see it used for both purposes in third world countries today.

The majority of these drums are used purely in religious or cultural festivals, and it is only in countries such as Ireland, the Basque country and Spain, where they are an integral part of musical entertainment. And it is only in Ireland that the frame drum has reached a high degree of sophistication. It was first introduced into modern Irish Traditional Music by Seán Ó Riada. He inserted arrangements for the Bodhrán into the music of his group Ceoltóiri Chualann. They later became known as the Chieftains.

The Bodhrán is very similar to another frame drum from Cornwall which was also used for harvesting grain. It is called a Crowdy Crawn (Croder crawn) and is mentioned as early as 1880.  It is a wooden hoop covered with sheepskin and is used in Cornish Traditional Music.  The Crowdy Crawn originated as a tool for gathering and measuring grain in the same way that the Bodhrán evolved from the Dallán.

A frame drum is played by either striking it with your bare hand or with a piece of wood called a tipper, beater, or cipín. Originally tippers may have been fashioned from pieces of bone; however, today they are made from ash, holly, or hickory.  The drum is usually played in a seated position, held vertically on the player's thigh and supported by his or her upper body and arm (usually on the left side, for a right-handed player), with the hand placed on the inside of the skin where it is able to control the tension (and therefore the pitch) by applying varying amounts of pressure and also the amount of surface area being played, with the back of the hand against the crossbar, if present. The drum is struck with the other arm (usually the right) and is played either with the bare hand or with a tipper.  Never play the drum when it is too soft or limp. Keep the drum when not in use in a case in a cool place so that the skin can relax. You can then bring it to playing tension by gentle and expert use of a heat of your choice (I have used gentle heat applied by a small travelling hair dryer).  If the skin is too tight, use a little water on the inside of the skin (not the outside) and give it a few minutes to work. Never use Beer or Guinness - save that for drinking. I also do not recommend tightening the skin with hand pressure - only if there is no other means of heating available. My Bodhrán is tuneable so I no longer have this problem.

Bodhrán players are generally regarded with derision by other musicians and there may be real reasons for this. The Bodhrán is considered by many as an easy instrument to play, especially those who have aspirations of becoming a ‘musician’ without any of the hard work or practice and they will use it as a passport in order to enter a seisúns. Unfortunately they are usually dreadful and should be removed as quickly as possible. However, when played properly the Bodhrán becomes the heartbeat of the music and when played alongside a flute there can be no more beautiful and haunting sound. The Bodhrán is usually used to follow the sound of other musicians and not to lead but there are a couple of songs that can be accompanied solely by the Bodhrán. One of which I have printed below.

The Bodhrán Song
(Brian O'Rourke - MÓC Music)

Oh I am a year old kid
I'm worth scarcely fifteen quid.
I'm the kind of beast you might well look down on
But my value will increase
At the time of my decease
For when I grow up I want to be a bodhrán.

If you kill me for my meat
You won't find me very sweet.
Your palate I'm afraid I'll soon turn sour on.
Ah but if you do me in
For the sake of my thick skin
You'll find I make a tasty little bodhrán.

Now my parents Bill and Nan,
They do not approve my plan
To become a yoke for every yob to pound on
Ah but I would sooner scamper
With a bang than with a whimper
And achieve reincarnation as a bodhrán.

I look forward to the day
When I leave off eating hay
And become a drum to entertain a crowd on
And I'll make my presence felt
With each well-delivered belt
As a fully qualified and licensed bodhrán.

And 'tis when I'm killed and cured
My career will be assured
I'll be a skin you'll see no scum nor scour on
But with studs around my rim
I'll be sound in wind and limb
And I'll make a dandy, handy little bodhrán.

Oh my heart with joy expands
When I dream of far-off lands
And consider all the streets that I will sound on
And I pity my poor ma
Who has never seen a Fleadh
Or indulged in foreign travel as a bodhrán.

For a hornpipe or a reel
A dead donkey has no feel
Or a horse or cow or sheep that has its shroud on
And you can't join in a jig
If you're a former grade A pig
But you can wallop out the lot if you're a bodhrán.

So if e'er you're feeling low
To a session you should go
And bring me there to exercise an hour on.
You can strike a mighty thump
On my belly, back or rump
But I thank you if you'd wait till I'm a bodhrán.

When I dedicate my hide,
I'll enhance the family pride
And tradition is a thing I won't fall down on
For I'll bear a few young bucks
Who'll inherit my good looks
And be proud to know their old one is a bodhrán.

And I don't think I'll much mind
When I've left himself behind
For the critter can no longer turn the power on
For with a celtic ink design
Tattooed on my behind
I can be a very sexy little bodhrán

Now I think you've had enough
Of this rubbishy old guff
So I'll put a sudden end to my wee amhrán
And quite soon my bloody bleat
Will become a steady beat
When I start my new existence as a bodhrán.

So as we say “Sin é” (that’s it). That is my understanding of the history of the Bodhrán. You may agree or disagree but I hope you find it of interest.

 Top image = Bodhrán by Bernie Prendergast.

Bottom image =  A Shebeen near Listowel attributed to Bridget Maria Fitzgerald and dates  c. 1842.

Crossroads in Irish folklore.

Crossroads have played a very important role in the folklore of many cultures. They were often used as burial places for unbaptised children, murderers, executed criminals, and suicides.  It was believed that the crossroads would confound or confuse restless spirits and stop them from returning to haunt the living. It was because this ground was unconsecrated and was seen as separate from the everyday world. Such outcasts were not intended for the forgiveness of heaven and so they were buried in a place that would condemn their spirits to wander for eternity. It was suggested that this was because the crossroads form a Christian cross but this does not hold true as the belief in the power of crossroads predates Christianity and you will find similar superstitions regarding crossroads in many cultures which are not Christian.

May be it was for this reason that crossroads have become associated with ghostly legends, magic, and paranormal activities.  They have long been of interest to those who gather information on the paranormal as events of this nature are said to occur on ancient highways and byways especially where they cross.  Whether or not these events are real or imagined does not matter as there are stories in every culture concerning devils, demons and deals done with the devil so I would suggest that there may just be a grain of truth in their origins.  There was once a tradition of putting wooden crosses on bushes by the roadside where the roads met at a crossroads and if a funeral procession passed by then the pall bearers would place the coffin down for a few minutes.  Crowing hens, regarded as unlucky, were abandoned at the crossroads. If you had warts these could be cured by rubbing them with a stone and leaving it at the crossroads, if someone picked up the stone then they took over your warts.  There are stories concerning deals done with the devil, in modern times Robert Johnson the famous blues musician claimed to have met the devil at the crossroads and signed over his soul to play the blues and gain mastery over the guitar. He died at the age of 27 and became one of those poor unfortunates that have become known as members of the 27 club. I have written a post about the 27 club if you wish to know more.

In Ireland the sweeping of crossroads was carried out, this was a practice associated with witches who would meet at crossroads to carry out certain rituals.  Traditionally the crossroads was looked upon as a no-man’s land belonging to no one. A place that was thought of as being neither here nor there, a place beyond the real world where normal rules did not apply.  It was here that people could make contact with the spirit world and shrines, crosses and standing stones are a common feature of crossroads throughout Europe.  At Samhain spirits were thought to gather and walk in procession to visit the homes of their relatives and that if you were to stand at the crossroads at midnight you would see them passing.  Some legends even suggest that if you were to listen carefully you would hear the names of those about to die on the wind as it blew across the feet of the corpses on the way to the house of the one whose name was heard.

Gibbets were often placed at crossroads. A gibbet is an instrument of public execution; it is in this instance, a gallows-type structure from which the dead or dying bodies of executed criminals were hung on public display in order to deter others from following their way of life.  At one time live gibbeting took place; the condemned were placed in a cage like structure that hung from the arm of the gibbet. They were left to die of thirst.  This type of execution seemed to be reserved for those convicted of treason, murder, highwaymen, pirates and sheep stealers.  It may be of interest to know that Oliver Cromwell was gibbeted after his death, when monarchists disinterred his body during the restoration of the British monarchy.  The practice of burying suicides and criminals at crossroads was repealed by an Act of Parliament in 1823.  It has been suggested that this was at the request of George IV who had been delayed by a crowd gathered for a burial at the crossroads of Hobart Place and Grosvenor Place. The spectators were watching the burial of a suicide called Abel Griffiths, by this time suicide was regarded with greater sympathy and although frowned upon by the church the populace now didn’t consider it to be self-murder. However, following abolition suicides could only be buried in graveyards between 9-00pm and midnight and no ceremonies were allowed.

There is a sad story concerning a crossroads on the Icknield Way near the Cambridgeshire and Suffolk border in England I mention this only because Ireland was under British rule and so their laws were imposed upon us and this story is now part of the folklore of crossroads.  There is a neatly tended patch of ground where flowers are planted and looked after.  It is known locally as The Boy’s Grave.  Folklore tells us that a young shepherd boy believed he had lost one of his master’s sheep, afraid of being accused of its theft and hanged or transported and the shame that may bring to his family he hanged himself. When the sheep were counted it was found that none were missing. Having taken his own life he was buried at the crossroads, people tend to his grave to this day.  His name is not known nor is his death mentioned in local records.  However, through archaeology and historical research the burial of criminals and suicides at rural crossroads illustrates the practice and there is now a great deal of evidence to support the theory.

 

A more pleasant feature of Irish country life was the custom of holding dances at the crossroads. People dance on specially erected timber platforms and enjoy the open air, scenery, meeting friends and making new ones and enjoying the music provided. It was during the 16^th and 17^th centuries that crossroads dancing became popular. However, the clergy condemned it so the Gaelic League introduced the first Ceilli in 1697 and this let dancers dance indoors under supervision.  Interestingly the Ceilli was not held in Ireland but in London.  Traditional Irish culture continued in secret until the 1700s. It was a time in Irish history when dancing was prohibited by the English so the Irish would meet on country roads, particularly where they crossed.  They would bring food, drink, and musical instruments and keeping an eye out for approaching soldiers they danced their country dances. It was around 1750 that attitudes began to become less strict and this allowed Irish dance to flourish.  There used to be a tradition where dance was taught by the Dance Master, a Dance Master would travel around the country staying in villages in order to

teach dance steps. To have a Dance Master staying in your village was a cause of immense pride and boasting by the community

. 

However, we cannot blame the British for the Public Dance Hall Act of 1935.  This little piece of legislation enacted by the Irish Dáil had a severe and detrimental effect on the traditional music, dance, and storytelling of rural Ireland.  Before this legislation Irish culture was an important part of rural Ireland and centred on house dancing and dancing at the crossroads.  It was here that our art flourished, but along came the pressure to regulate.  This came from a number of different sources, most notable among them was the Catholic Church. They had been campaigning for years claiming that house dancing led to sin and corruption, here now was a chance for the government to bring in legislation and tax the profits of regulated dance halls.  It now meant that all dance halls had to be licensed for public dances, however, house dances could not be regulated and so they were exempt. The view of the Gardaí and the clergy was that such dances should be illegal this led to a great number of local people being prosecuted and the dancing in houses and at crossroads began to die out, and with them went our traditional way of life.  Even farmers stopped holding harvest dances as a way of thanking their farmhands for all their hard work gathering in the crops.

The house dances and crossroads dances were not the target of the legislation.  Nevertheless, the clergy and Gardaí continued to apply the act as if it did outlaw these activities, and although they were not the only factors in the demise of the country dances, they were at any rate the only agents of change who consciously and deliberately set out to do away with our traditions.  The Act was not to blame, but its agents, encouraged and assisted by the clergy, certainly were.

It is good to see that today the house dances and dancing at the crossroads are being revived. We no longer look for approaching soldiers, only motor cars. 

Incidentally the phrase “Comely maidens dancing at the crossroads” was never in fact uttered by DeVelera as some would have you believe.  

Here I will leave you at the crossroads and if you wish to learn more about the history of the crossroads there are many good sources to consult.

I went down to the crossroad

Fell down on my knees

I went to the crossroad

Fell down on my knees

Asked the Lord above, “Have mercy now,

Save poor Bob, if you please”.

Crossroad Blues by Robert Johnson (1911-1938)

Collectors of Irish folk songs

Edward Bunting and Thomas Moore: Their role in Irish Traditional Music.


Edward Bunting 1773-1843. Born in Armagh.

He was an organist employed to notate the music played at the 1792 Belfast Harp Festival. There he lived with the McCracken family and associated with many of the members of the United Irish Society who had initiated the event. The purpose of the festival was to preserve the remnants of the Gaelic harp tradition for posterity. He was so taken with the group he decided to devote a large proportion of his time to the collection and publication of Irish music. In 1792 he toured County Mayo with Richard Kirwan founder of the Royal Irish Academy collecting a number of airs. His first publication appeared in 1796 and contained sixty six tunes (General Collection of the Ancient Irish Music 1796).

Bunting was the first that we know of to gather music from musicians in the field. He planned to include Gaelic text with his music but this was not successful. He provided tunes that lacked authenticity in relation to their original as he was aiming his publications at a particular market, the amateur musicians of the middle and upper classes. In 1809 he published the General Collection of the Ancient Music of Ireland. After 1809 he does not appear to have undertaken any major tour or collection. He spent most of his time working on what he had already collected. His final collection was published in 1840 (The Ancient Music of Ireland). These collections were revolutionary for their time, although later commentators have faulted Bunting's approach to a form of music with which he was unfamiliar. He died on 21st -December-1843 and is buried in Mount St. Jerome cemetery in Dublin.

Several collectors continued and extended Bunting's work during the nineteenth century, with George Petrie's Ancient Music of Ireland (1855); and Patrick Weston Joyce's Ancient Irish Music (1873) and Old Irish Folk Music and Songs (1909) being the most significant.

Thomas Moore 1779-1852. Born in Dublin.

Moore was born on 28 May 1779 at 12 Aungier Street, Dublin. Moore learned how to play the piano while eaves-dropping on his sister’s lessons. He had a gift for recitation and was frequently called upon by his family to entertain in the home. He was one of the few Catholics to enter Trinity College Dublin where he associated with many of those involved in the 1798 rebellion although he was not involved. He was a friend of Robert Emmet, whom he greatly admired and this consolidated his already nationalistic leanings. Another friendship he made in Trinity was with the collector Edward Hudson, they shared an interest in politics and music. Hudson got many of his airs from harpists and would play them for Moore on the flute.

More moved to London in 1799 where he became endeared to polite society. He was a fine conversationalist and after dinner singer so he was invited to all ‘high quality’ gatherings where he was to make many useful connections. In 1808 he began publishing the first of his Irish Melodies and this proved highly successful both critically and financially. However, by 1819 he was virtually bankrupt. He was a friend of Lord Byron and was appointed his literary executor and wrote his biography (the first of many) upon Byron’s death.

In 1822 he returned to his wife’s home in Wiltshire (he had lived on the continent from 1819-22). Here in his wife’s home he was to spend the rest of his life having survived his five children. He continued to write but eventually stopped due to mental illness and was granted a government pension in 1835.

Irish Melodies appeared between 1808 and 1834 in ten successive volumes and have ensured his place as one of Ireland’s ‘National’ poets. He was often criticised for pandering to the tastes of London society which was far removed from the reality of eighteenth and nineteenth century Ireland.

. An easing of the penal laws against Roman Catholics in 1793 allowed him to enter Trinity College, Dublin, with view to a legal career. A close friend was Robert Emmet, whose death inspired him to write 'O breathe not his name', but Moore stayed aloof from the United Irishmen. Another friend, Edward Hudson, awakened his interest in Irish music, and both were moved by the Irish airs of Edward Bunting.

In 1799, Moore entered the Middle Temple in London. It was his talents as a singer and pianist, however, which made him an immediate favourite of London society; when his translation of the Odes of Anacreon was published in 1800, he was able to dedicate it to the Prince Regent. In 1803, through the influence of Lady Moira, Moore became admiralty registrar in Bermuda, but soon appointed a deputy and returned to London.

In 1808, he published his first volume of Irish Melodies, with music by Sir John Stevenson; the tenth and last appeared in 1843. Many melodies, such as "The last rose of summer" and "Believe me if all those endearing young charms", were love songs, but patriotic ballads such as "The harp that once" and "The minstrel boy" were acceptable to the English as to the Irish. Moore had a regular income from the melodies, in return for his willingness to perform them, but his other writings proved less enduring, even though seven editions of his long oriental poem "Lalla Rookh" (1817) were published within a year.

In 1819, Moore fled to France to escape a debtor's prison after his deputy in Bermuda had stolen £6,000, but was able to return in 1822. He published biographies of Sheridan in 1825, Byron in 1830, and Lord Edward Fitzgerald in 1831, and an unusual novel-cum-history, Memoirs of Captain Rock (1824). His latter years were spent in the village of Sloperton, in Wiltshire where he died on 25 February 1852.

Top image Thomas Moore.
Lower image Plaque to Edward Bunting, St George's Church, High Street, Belfast, October 2009.

Irish Highwaymen.

Captain Gallagher - Highwayman.

Captain Gallagher was one of the last wholesale robber captains in Ireland. Born in Bonniconlon he was reared by an aunt in Derryronane near Swinford. Captain Gallagher was a romantic figure in the same league as Robin Hood or Dick Turpin. He was a folk hero who was champion of the oppressed lower classes who suffered much injustice at the hands of the rich.

He and a small band of bandits operated with blunderbusses within an extensive area stretching from Bonniconlon to Swinford and including Attymass, Lough Talt and Foxford. Their deeds were bold and utterly fearless. Robberies were committed on the public roads and in open daylight; residences of the gentry were plundered almost nightly, and no place was considered safe unless strongly guarded.

He was such a notorious figure that his deeds are recalled in folk history throughout the region up to the present day. All of the accounts in folklore make reference to his generosity to the poor and his athletic ability in escaping from the Redcoats. Up to the present day people point out some of his famous hideouts, one in the Ox Mountains near Rooskey is referred to as “Leaba Rudaigh”.

Nearer to Swinford people will tell you he hid out in Ballylyra Wood close to the present day Knock International Airport. He is reputed to have had a residence on Glass Island, close to Pontoon (circa 1817-1818). Prior to his death there was a 500 guineas reward offered for his capture.

There is a story told of a shop in Foxford that was being robbed regularly and its owner could never find the culprit at work. Although he hired a guard to protect the property it was still being robbed almost nightly. Captain Gallagher offering his services to apprehend the thief, hid in a large chest in the corner of the shop. The guard arrived and it was not long before he began to pillage the store. When Gallagher got the chance he leapt out of the box and captured the guard who had been the thief all along.

On another occasion a woman was coming from the fair in Tubbercurry having sold her last cow in order to pay her rent to the local landlord. Nightfall was approaching as she passed through the Windy Gap near Lough Talt when she spotted a shadow in the distance. As they met, the person spoke and asked her where she was going in such a hurry. She replied that she was trying to reach home before dark in case Captain Gallagher robbed her. On hearing this the man smiled and gave her the price of the cow and the money with which to pay the rent. He told her to go away home and tell them that Captain Gallagher was not as bad a rogue as he was made out to be.

On another occasion Gallagher escaped through the window of a house as a party of military accompanied by a magistrate entered the front door. The daring captain, on reaching the ground, crept around to where the magistrate’s horse was fastened, and, loosening him, rode off at full speed, and the next day returned the animal, with his thanks, to the magistrate for the use of so good a beast at such a pinch.

Following narrow escapes Captain Gallagher was finally captured. His band had already been arrested near Westport but Gallagher managed to escape. There are many tales as to where he was actually captured, but much of the evidence seems to point to the small mountainside townland of Rooskey on the border of Attymass and Foxford.

According to local legend he was staying in a local house while recovering from an illness. He was given a meal, which had been laced with poteen, after which he fell asleep. The family then got to work and put him to bed in the “cailleach” bed beside the fire .His ankles and wrists were tied with flax ropes and a message was sent to the Redcoats in Foxford, who in turn alerted Ballina, Swinford and Castlebar. Captain Gallagher already bound was taken to Castlebar to be hanged after ‘a hasty, sham trial’.

Gallagher pleaded with his executioners and promised if spared he would lead them to his hidden treasure that was buried under a rock in Ballylyra Wood. His captors did not fall for this ploy however and went ahead with the execution. As soon as the nasty business of the day was finished they fled to Ballylyra in search of the hidden treasure but found that there were as many rocks in the wood as there are fish in the sea. After searching for three days all they found was a jewel-hilted sword. His buried gold is still supposed to be buried in the wood, seven foot from the river beside a tree.

His execution was reputedly the last public hanging to take place on the hanging tree opposite Daly’s Hotel on the Mall in Castlebar in 1818.

The following is an account of his execution taken from a late nineteenth century author:

He died fearfully. He and his ‘Secretary’ (Walsh) having shaken hands and kissed on the gallows, were flung off together. Walsh died at once, but Gallagher’s rope broke, and he was precipitated to the ground; he got a glass of wine, and was again shoved out on the trapboard by the executioner, seated like a tailor, his legs having been broken by the fall.

Irish Songs of Highwaymen.

Many of the most famous of the folk songs of Ireland deal with the less savoury members of society. Like Robin Hood in England, these gypsies and highwaymen have become folk heroes, immortalized in song. Three of the most famous of these songs are:

• Whiskey in the Jar
• The Newry Highwayman
• The Wild Rover

Whiskey in the Jar.

“Whiskey in the Jar” is easily one of the most famous folk songs of Ireland. It tells the tale of an unnamed highwayman who robs a military or government official (usually Captain Farrell, but other names are common). He brings the loot home to his sweetheart (usually Jenny, but sometimes Ginny or Molly) who betrays him to the law.

Although the exact date of its creation is unknown (its earliest printing was 1855), “Whiskey in the Jar” is easily over 300 years old. Alan Lomax, one of the most influential musicologists of the 20th Century, believed that “Whiskey in the Jar” partially inspired John Gay when he wrote “The Beggar’s Opera,’ written in 1728.

The use of the term “rapier,” a long, thin, sword used in the 16th and 17th Centuries dates the song to that era. “Rapier” could also refer to a “rapaire,” an Irish short spear used in that era by highwaymen and Jacobite sympathizers.

“Whiskey in the Jar” was also a popular tune in Colonial America due to its protagonist being an adversary of British officials. Similar to England and Ireland, Colonial Americans took pleasure in the exploits of some highwaymen, especially the ones who struck a Robin Hood-like pose by targeting wealthy land owners--something more common in song that in reality.

“Whiskey in the Jar” has been covered by such diverse musicians as:
• Jerry Garcia and David Grisman
• Thin Lizzy
• The Pogues
• Burl Ives
• Metallica
• The Limeliters

The Newry Highwayman (The Rambling Boy)

“The Newry Highwayman” is a far-travelled song that has taken on many different names over the years. The earliest printed version comes from 1830, but some versions of the song mention “Fielding’s Gang,” a reference to the Bow Street Runners-- London’s first police force, created in 1750.

“The Newry Highwayman” is about a young man from Newry, in Northern Ireland. At the age of 17 he gets married, and in order to keep his wife “both fine and gay” becomes a highwayman. He robbed his way successfully to London, where he is eventually taken and executed.

As mentioned above, “The Newry Highway” is a folk song that has taken many other names. Other names that it goes by are:
• The Rambling Boy
• Wild and Wicked Youth
• In Newry Town
• Newlyn Town
• The Flash Lad
• Adieu, Adieu

The Wild Rover

Although “The Wild Rover” is generally believed to be of Irish (or possibly Scottish) origin, this has recently come into dispute. There is German folk song with an identical tune as “The Wild Rover.” The question remains as to which came first.

Regardless of its origin, “The Wild Rover” has become an immensely popular drinking song around the world and especially in Ireland, ironic since that it was originally written as a temperance song.

Perhaps due to its popularity as a drinking song, “The Wild Rover” has been used, modified, and parodied countless times by football and rugby clubs. Many of the lyrics are not suitable for publication here.

Some other Irish folk songs involving rogues and highwaymen include:

• The Black Velvet Band
• The Wild Colonial Boy
• The Night Before Larry was Stretched
• Reilly’s Daughter
• Rakes of Mallow

Like many cultures, the Irish have their own songs about the rogue, the tramp, those from the other side of town. And like many, the Irish are not afraid to tip a few back to salute them.

The Parting Glass.

The Parting Glass.

Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all

Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

If I had money enough to spend,
And leisure time to sit awhile,
There is a fair maid in this town,
That sorely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own she has my heart in thrall,
Then fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with you all.

The song was printed as a broadside in the 1770s, although the song is doubtless older than its 1770 appearance. It was known at least as early as 1605, when a portion of the first stanza was written in a farewell letter, as a poem now known as "Armstrong's Goodnight", by one of the Border Reivers executed that year for the murder in 1600 of Sir John Carmichael, Warden of the Scottish West March.

"Armstrong's Goodnight"

This night is my departing night,
For here no longer must I stay;
There's neither friend no foe of mine
But wishes me away.

What I have done through lack of wit,
I never, never can recall;
I hope you're all my friends as yet;
Good night. And joy be with you all.

The song is also known as Good Night and Joy Be With You All.

Sam Henry collected The Parting Glass in Ireland in 1938. In Folksongs of Britain and Ireland, Peter Kennedy relates it to the Manx song Te Traa Goll Thie (It's Time to Go Home).

This is a beautifully touching song to sing at a funeral for it is a true reflection of the joys of life. In many ways an Irish mans celebration of life.

The Spinning Wheel.

The Spinning Wheel

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning
Bent o'er the fire her blind grandmother sitting
Crooning and moaning and drowsily knitting.
Merrily cheerily noiselessly whirring
Spins the wheel, rings the wheel while the foot's stirring
Sprightly and lightly and merrily ringing
Sounds the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

Eileen, a chara, I hear someone tapping
'Tis the ivy dear mother against the glass flapping
Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing
'Tis the sound mother dear of the autumn winds dying.

What's the noise I hear at the window I wonder?
'Tis the little birds chirping, the holly-bush under
What makes you shoving and moving your stool on
And singing all wrong the old song of the "Coolin"?

There's a form at the casement, the form of her true love
And he whispers with face bent, I'm waiting for you love
Get up from the stool, through the lattice step lightly
And we'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly.

The maid shakes her head, on her lips lays her fingers
Steps up from the stool, longs to go and yet lingers
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother
Puts her foot on the stool spins the wheel with the other

Lazily, easily, now swings the wheel round
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her
The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her lover.

Slower... and slower... and slower the wheel swings
Lower... and lower... and lower the reel rings
Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving
Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.


Image: Lady at the Spinning Wheel. Artist: English School January 1885. Monnogramed 'CB'

The Old Turf Fire.

The Old Turf Fire.

Oh, the old turf fire, and the hearth swept clean
There’s no one quite so happy as meself and Mary Keene
With the baby in the cradle, you can hear her mother say
“Won’t you go to sleep, Alana, while I wet your Daddy’s tay”

Now, I’ve got a little house and land, as neat as it can be
You’ll never see the like of it, this side of Moneylea
No piano in the corner, and no pictures on the wall
But I’m happy and contented in my little cottage hall.

With, the old turf fire, and the hearth swept clean
There’s no one quite so happy as meself and Mary Keene
With the baby in the cradle, you can hear her mother say
“Won’t you go to sleep, Alana, while I wet your Daddy’s tay”

Now, the man that I work for, of noble blood is he
But one thing I’ll be telling you - we never can agree
He has big towering mansion, he has castles great and small
But I wouldn’t trade for anything my little cottage hall

With, the old turf fire, and the hearth swept clean
There’s no one quite so happy as meself and Mary Keene
With the baby in the cradle, you can hear her mother say
“Won’t you go to sleep, Alana, while I wet your Daddy’s tay”

Now the old folk sit around the fire, bent with years
As they watch us tripping lightly, just smiling through their tears
So sadly they are dreaming of their youthful heart’s desire
In those far off days of long ago, around the old turf fire

With, the old turf fire, and the hearth swept clean
There’s no one quite so happy as meself and Mary Keene
With the baby in the cradle, you can hear her mother say
“Won’t you go to sleep, Alana, while I wet your Daddy’s tay”


There is a great version of this song performed by DruidSong. Go to their website and you can listen to it. http://druidsong.bandcamp.com/track/the-old-turf-fire.

The Bodhrán Song.

The Bodhrán Song
(Brian O'Rourke - MÓC Music)

Oh I am a year old kid
I'm worth scarcely fifteen quid.
I'm the kind of beast you might well look down on
But my value will increase
At the time of my decease
For when I grow up I want to be a bodhrán.

If you kill me for my meat
You won't find me very sweet.
Your palate I'm afraid I'll soon turn sour on.
Ah but if you do me in
For the sake of my thick skin
You'll find I make a tasty little bodhrán.

Now my parents Bill and Nan,
They do not approve my plan
To become a yoke for every yob to pound on
Ah but I would sooner scamper
With a bang than with a whimper
And achieve reincarnation as a bodhrán.

I look forward to the day
When I leave off eating hay
And become a drum to entertain a crowd on
And I'll make my presence felt
With each well-delivered belt
As a fully qualified and licensed bodhrán.

And 'tis when I'm killed and cured
My career will be assured
I'll be a skin you'll see no scum nor scour on
But with studs around my rim
I'll be sound in wind and limb
And I'll make a dandy, handy little bodhrán.

Oh my heart with joy expands
When I dream of far-off lands
And consider all the streets that I will sound on
And I pity my poor ma
Who has never seen a Fleadh
Or indulged in foreign travel as a bodhrán.

For a hornpipe or a reel
A dead donkey has no feel
Or a horse or cow or sheep that has its shroud on
And you can't join in a jig
If you're a former grade A pig
But you can wallop out the lot if you're a bodhrán.

So if e'er you're feeling low
To a session you should go
And bring me there to exercise an hour on.
You can strike a mighty thump
On my belly, back or rump
But I thank you if you'd wait till I'm a bodhrán.

When I dedicate my hide,
I'll enhance the family pride
And tradition is a thing I won't fall down on
For I'll bear a few young bucks
Who'll inherit my good looks
And be proud to know their old one is a bodhrán.

And I don't think I'll much mind
When I've left himself behind
For the critter can no longer turn the power on
For with a celtic ink design
Tattooed on my behind
I can be a very sexy little bodhrán

Now I think you've had enough
Of this rubbishy old guff
So I'll put a sudden end to my wee amhrán
And quite soon my bloody bleat
Will become a steady beat
When I start my new existence as a bodhrán.


Within the confines of traditional singing, song-writing has undergone something of a renaissance in recent years with the bard of old being replaced by a new breed of versifier. Nothing escapes the poet's wrath and/or amusement. This little gem is from the pen of Brian O'Rourke who has consistently shown that he is a master of the humorous song.