O, brave are the haughs o’ Baile-liosan,
And brave are the halds o’ green Magh-luan;
But braver the hames o’ Newtownbreda,
Twined about wi’ the pinks o’ June.
And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,
The heart within is as guid as gold –
Wi’ new fair ballants and merry music,
And cracks cam’ down frae the days of old.
’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,
’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;
’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
Beeking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,
And o’er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba’.
We are travelling too fast; we must pay a decorous farewell to my native town and to another lough which lies close to it. Nobody quite knows who wrote this first poem or song.
SWEET OMAGH TOWN
Ah! from proud Dungannon to Ballyshannon
And from Cullyhanna to Old Ardboe
I’ve roused and rambled, caroused and gambled
Where songs did thunder and whiskey flow.
It’s light and airy I’ve tramped through Derry
And to Portaferry in the County Down
But with all my raking and undertaking
My heart was aching for sweet Omagh Town.
When life grew weary, aye, and I grew dreary
I set sail for England from Derry Quay
And when I landed, sure ’twas fate commanded
That I to London should make my way
Where many a gay night from dark to daylight
I spent with people of high renown
But with all their splendour and heaps to spend sure
My heart was empty for sweet Omagh Town.
Then further going my wild oats sowing
To New York City I crossed the sea
Where congregations of rich relations
Stood on the harbour to welcome me
In grand apparel like Duke or Earl
They tried to raise me with sword and crown
But with all their glamour and uproarious manner
My lips would stammer – sweet Omagh Town.
And when life is over and I shall hover
Above the gates where Saint Peter stands
And he shall call me for to install me
Among the saints in those golden lands
And I shall answer ‘I’m sure ’tis grand sir
For to play the harp and to wear the crown
But I, being humble, sure I’ll never grumble
If Heaven’s as charming as sweet Omagh Town.’
That other lough, small and unpretentious, a couple of miles from the town is called, modestly, Lough Muck. But the name is not, by any means, intended to lower it to the level of a mudbath. It was fine to swim in, and the best place in the world in which to catch perch. The original name was, needless to say, Loch na Muice, the Lake of the Pig, that mythological pig which, slumbering on the enchanted ocean, misled the Milesians.
Lough Muck lay slumbering there, like the monstrous pig, but doing no harm to anybody. A relative of mine, however, considered calmly that it brought enchantment to all who looked on it. He was a man called Frank McCrory, a Shavian, a Wellsian, and a man of music who could play everything from the ‘cello to the ocarina. In his youth (about 1919) he had even been a famous footballer. He wrote songs for the neighbourhood and he worked up this fantasy about two boys from the town who had been drinking a bit, wandered off and were bemused by the enchanted lake …
THE TREACHEROUS WAVES OF LOUGHMUCK
Me and Andy one ev’nin were strollin’
As the sun was beginning to set
And when just outside Drumragh new graveyard
A young Loughmuck sailor we met.
He brought us along to his liner
That was breasting the waves like a duck
And that’s how we started our ill-fated cruise
On the treacherous waves of Loughmuck.
(Repeat last two lines for chorus)
As our ship glided over the water
We all gazed at the landscape we knew
First we passed Clanabogan’s big lighthouse
Then the Pigeon Top came into view.
But alas as we sped o’er those waters
Soon we all were with horror dumbstruck
For without any warning a big storm arose
On the treacherous waves of Loughmuck.
The storm came on with thunder and lightning
And the big waves lashed mountains high
Our ship was tossed hither and thither
Then black darkness came over the sky.
The passengers shrieked out in terror
As our ship Aughadulla rock struck,
Me and Andy was all that was saved from the wreck
On the treacherous waves of Loughmuck.
People talk of the great Loch Ness monster
And to see it they come young and old
But the monsters we saw that wild evenin’
Leave the Loch Ness boy out in the cold.
Sharks, sea-lions, whales, alligators
With mouths that could swallow a truck
Oh the sights that we saw as we waited for death
On the treacherous waves of Loughmuck.
There we were like two Robinson Crusoes
Miles away from Fireagh Orange Hall
Though we starved on that rock for a fortnight
Not a ship ever came within call.
At last we decided to swim it
Though we don’t like to brag of our pluck
After swimmin’ for two days we reached Creevan Bay
On the treacherous waves of Loughmuck.
There we lay on that beach quite exhausted
Till a man with a big dog drew near
He shouted out, ‘Hi, clear away out of that.
’Faith I want no drunk Omey boys here!’
He said we’d been drinkin’ and sleepin’
Since the clock in his parlour four struck
And that was the end of our ill-fated cruise
On the treacherous waves of Loughmuck.
It has just occurred to me that I may have taken on an impossible task: to move round Ireland to the ultimate goal of Tyrrellspass, and to move in an orderly way, remembering and reciting as I go. That thought comes as I struggle with the following odd and informative verses, presented to me about thirty years ago when I was writing a newspaper column. I had mentioned the love that Mayo people have for their own placenames, as in the song:
Ballina, Ballinrobe, Baal and Bohola,
Newport, and Foxford a few miles below.
Then on to Inishteague and down to Manulla,
You’ll always find true friends in the County Mayo …
And I wondered if, in that respect, Mayo people surpassed those of any other Irish county. A friend of mine, a Dublinman, suggested that I set up an inter-county competition in place-name balladry and have broadcast, to encourage the competitors, Father James B. Dollard’s ‘Song of the Little Villages’. Here are some of the verses:
The pleasant little villages that grace the Irish Glyns,
Down among the wheat-fields, up among the whins,
The little white-walled villages crowding close together,
Clinging to the old sod in spite of wind and weather:
Ballytarsney, Ballymore, Ballyboden, Boyle,
Ballingarry, Ballymagorry by the banks of Foyle,
Ballylaneen, Ballyporeen, Bansha, Ballisodare,
Ballybrack, Ballinalack, Barna, Ballyclare.
The cosy little villages that shelter from the mist
Where the great Western Walls by ocean spray are kissed.
The happy little villag
es that cuddle in the sun
When blackberries ripen and the harvest work is done.
Corrymèela, Croaghnakeela, Clogher, Cahirciveen,
Cappagharne, Carrigaloe, Cashel and Coosheen,
Castlefin and Carrigtwohill, Crumlin, Clara, Clane,
Carrigaholt, Carrigaline, Cloughjordan and Coolrain.
The dreamy little villages where, by the fire at night,
Old Shanachies, with ghostly tales, the boldest hearts affright.
The crooning of the wind-blast in the wailing banshee’s cry,
And when the silver hazels stir they say the fairies sigh.
Kilfenora, Kilfinane, Kinnitty, Killylea,
Kilmoganny, Kiltimagh, Kilronan and Kilrea,
Killeshandra, Kilmacow, Killiney, Kilashee,
Killenaule, Kilmyshall, Killorglin and Killeagh.
Leave the little villages, over the black seas go,
Learn the stranger’s welcome, learn the exile’s woe.
Leave the little villages but think not to forget,
Afar they’ll rise before your eyes to rack your bosoms yet.
Moneymore, Moneygall and Moyne,
Mullinahone, Mullinavat, Mullagh and Mooncoin,
Shanagolden, Shanballymore, Stranorlar and Slane,
Toberheena, Toomeyvara, Tempo and Strabane.
On the Southern Llanos-north, where strange light gleams,
Many a yearning exile sees them in his dreams.
Dying voices murmur, past all pain and care:
‘Lo! the little villages, God has heard our prayer.’
Lisdoonvarna, Lisadell, Lisdargan, Lisnaskea,
Portglenone, Portarlington. Portumna, Portmagee,
Clonegall and Clonegowan, Cloondara and Clonae,
God bless the little villages and guard them night and day.
There’s more. But even the most eloquent and energetic elocutionist might rest content with that much for his partypiece – a portion of an alphabet of Ireland – and so might his audience.
I can close my eyes and hear, in my garrison home town, the pipes of the British Army playing long lines of unfortunate soldiers to the railway station on their way to Europe in 1940. The tune went with William Allingham’s ‘The Winding Banks of Erne’. How many of those fellows had ever heard of or seen Belashanny? How many of them ever came back?
Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born;
Go where I may I’ll think of you, as sure as night and morn;
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;
There’s not a house or window, there’s not a field or hill,
But east or west, in foreign lands, I’ll recollect them still;
I leave my warm heart with you, though my back I’m forced to turn –
So adieu to Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne!
No more on pleasant evenings we’ll saunter down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.
The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,
Cast off, cast off – she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;
Now fore and aft keep hauling and gathering up the clew,
Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.
Then they may sit with pipes alit, and many a joke and yarn. –
Adieu to Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne!
The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,
When all the green-hilled harbour is full from side to side,
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,
From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills grey;
While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,
The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue, gaze calmly over all,
And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern; –
Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and all that pull an oar,
A lugsail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve League, that ocean-mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep;
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand,
Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand;
Head out to sea, when on your lee the breakers you discern! –
Adieu to all the billowy coast and winding banks of Erne!
Farewell, Coolmore – Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run
From inland to see with joy th’Atlantic-setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;
To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish;
Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;
The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn –
And I must quit my native shore and the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek,
And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek;
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow,
The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below;
The Lough that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green;
And Castle Caldwell’s stretching woods, with tranquil bays between;
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern; –
For I must say adieu – adieu to the winding banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day;
The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay;
The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn;
Along the riverside they go, where I have often been –
O never shall I see again the happy days I’ve seen!
A thousand chances are to one I never will return –
Adieu to Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet,
And the fiddle says to boys and girls, ‘Get up and shake your feet!’
To seanachas and wise old talk of Erin’s days gone by –
Who trenched the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie
Of saint or king or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power,
And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour.
The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn –
Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Port,
Round the Abbey, Moy and Knather – I wish no one any hurt;
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall and Portnasun,
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.
I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me;
For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends 111 bear in mind, and often fondly turn
To think of Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne.
If ever I’m a moneyed man, I mean, please God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were passed;
Tho’ heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather grey
New faces rise by every hearth and old ones drop away –
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside;
It’s home, sweet home, where’er I roam, through lands and waters wide.
And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return
To my native Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne
.
Long ago, when I listened with the utmost reverence to William Butler Yeats reading his poetry out loud on the radio, I was young enough almost to think that I could make a better job of it myself. The odd thing is that over the years his voice still echoes most memorably. But never did I hear him read the strange poem that follows.
There is no record, as far as I know, that the great poet himself ever did the arduous Lough Derg pilgrimage, but he did defend the tradition of pilgrimage against the remarkable Rev. Cesar Otway, who saw it all as degraded superstition. Reason, it seems, was in the early nineteenth century trying to creep into Ireland. Yeats, as a young man, thought that Otway showed little respect for an ancient custom that had been hallowed by the verse of Calderon and the feet of centuries of pilgrims. However, it was Otway who, in an odd way, gave a first chance to a young writer by the name of William Carleton. And Carleton’s story ‘The Lough Derg Pilgrim’ found its echoes in the Yeats poem.
THE PILGRIM
I fasted for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
And what’s the good of women, for all that they can say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
Round Lough Derg’s holy island I went upon the stones,
I prayed at all the Stations upon my marrow-bones,
And there I found an old man, and though I prayed all day
And that old man beside me, nothing would he say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
All know that all the dead in the world about that place are stuck,
And that should mother seek her son she’d have but little luck
Because the fires of Purgatory have ate their shapes away;
I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to say
Was fol de rol de rolly O.
A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the boat;
Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched rightly out,
As I Rode by Granard Moat Page 4