As I Rode by Granard Moat

by Benedict Kiely

  Poor Callanan went off to Lisbon, for the sake of his health and to work as a tutor to the family of an Irish gentleman. He died there.

  He did write well about the sacred coomb of Gougane Barra. And being himself a lonely sort of man he was receptive to that most lonely song: ‘Sé dubhach é mo chás’.

  Whoever wrote it captured agonizingly the loneliness of an unfortunate man on the eve of his hanging in the jail of Clonmel. And Callanan dressed it up in suitable mourning clothes in the English:

  THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL

  How hard is my fortune,

  And vain my repining!

  The strong rope of Fate

  For this young neck is twining.

  My strength is departed,

  My cheek sunk and sallow,

  While I languish in chains

  In the jail of Cluanmeala.

  No boy in the village

  Was ever yet milder,

  I’d play with a child

  And my sport would be wilder.

  I’d dance without tiring

  From morning till even,

  And my goal-ball I’d strike

  To the lightning of Heaven.

  At my bed-foot decaying,

  My hurlbat is lying,

  Through the boys of the village

  My goal-ball is flying.

  My horse, among the neighbours,

  Neglected may fallow,

  While I pine in my chains

  In the jail of Cluanmeala.

  Next Sunday the patron

  At home will be keeping,

  And the young, active hurlers

  The field will be sweeping.

  With the dance of fair maidens

  The evening they’ll hallow,

  While this heart, once so warm,

  Will be cold in Cluanmeala.

  It is a happy memory of mine that it was a talk I had one day with Luke Kelly of the Dubliners that made Luke decide to record The Convict of Clonmel’. Which, as most of us know, he did to perfection. And Luke had also decided to record Callanan’s ‘The Outlaw of Loch Lene’. But, alas, death claimed him before that was accomplished. The fourth and last verse Luke particularly fancied. As who wouldn’t?

  O many a day have I made good ale in the glen,

  That came not of stream or malt – like the brewing of men.

  My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,

  And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.

  Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,

  That I was not near from terror my angel to shield,

  She stretched forth her arms, – her mantle she flung to the wind,

  And swam o’er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.

  O would that a freezing sleet-winged tempest did sweep,

  And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep:

  I’d ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save –

  With her hand round my waist, I’d fear not the wind or the wave.

  ’Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,

  The maid of my heart, the fair one of heaven resides; –

  I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,

  The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.

  And then back, for a while, to Gougane Barra and some memories, out of our own time, that that sacred name inevitably provokes. There is Seán Ó Faoláin’s story ‘The Silence of the Valley’. Then there is the story of Eric Cross, the good Englishman, wandering the roads of Ireland with a horse and caravan, the purchase of which, in Dublin, he had been advised by the novelist Francis MacManus. When Eric got to Gougane Barra whom should he meet but the renowned tailor and his wife. And Cross looked at them and listened to them, and loved them, and wrote a lovely book about them, for which Frank O’Connor wrote the introduction.

  The story of the banning of that book by the idiotic book-censorship of the time is well known. And Seamus Murphy, the sculptor, who did a fine head of the Tailor, told me that the nasty hullabaloo about the book broke the Tailor’s heart and hastened his end. To his memory and that of other merry men who are gone let’s have a few lively verses from Frank O’Connor. Book-censorship is now, mercifully, extinct, so O’Connor’s recall of the three old brothers can’t get this book banned. We hope.

  THE THREE OLD BROTHERS

  While some goes dancing reels and some

  Goes stuttering love in ditches,

  The three old brothers rise from bed,

  And moan, and pin their breeches.

  And one says, ‘I can sleep no more,

  I’d liefer far go weeping,

  For how can honest men lie still

  When brats can spoil their sleeping?’

  And blind Tom says, that’s eighty years,

  ‘If I was ten years younger

  I’d take a stick and welt their rumps

  And gall their gamest runner.’

  Then James the youngest cries, ‘Praise God,

  We have outlived our passion!’

  And by their fire of roots all three

  Praise God after a fashion.

  Says James, ‘I loved, when I was young,

  A lass of one and twenty,

  That had the grace of all the queens

  And broke men’s hearts in plenty;

  But now the girl’s a gammy crone,

  With no soft sides or bosom,

  And all the ones she kist, abed

  Where the fat maggot chews ’em.

  And though she had not kiss for me,

  And though myself is older,

  And though my thighs are cold to-night,

  Their thighs, I think, are colder.’

  And Blind Tom says, ‘I knew a man

  A girl refused for lover

  Worked in America forty years

  And heaped copper on copper;

  And came back all across the foam,

  Dressed up in silks and satins,

  And watched for her from dawn to dark,

  And from Compline to Matins;

  And when she passed him in her shawl,

  He bust his sides with laughing,

  And went back happy to the West,

  And heeded no man’s scoffing.

  And Christ,’ moans Tom, ‘if I’d his luck

  I’d not mind cold nor coughing.’

  Then Patcheen says, ‘My lot’s a lot

  All men on earth might envy,

  That saw the girl I could not get

  Nurse an untimely baby.’

  And all three say, ‘Dear heart! Dear heart!’

  And James the youngest mutters,

  ‘Praise God we have outlived our griefs

  And not fell foul like others,

  Like Paris and the Grecian chiefs

  And the three Ulster brothers!’

  And in the mood promoted by O’Connor’s celebration of that unholy trinity we may happily journey back in time to join Richard Alfred Milliken in the groves of Blarney. Milliken (as my old friend Halliday Sparling tells me) was born in Castlemartyr, County Cork, in 1767, and died in 1816. And, even in Sparling’s time, poor Milliken was remembered only as the author of this: ‘The Groves of Blarney’. Which, even at that, was only a burlesque on, or a caricature of, the poem about Castlehyde written, around 1790, by Barrett the Weaver. Men of sedentary occupations always were, as we may have noticed, great men for the writing. Milliken, alas, has a blot on his scutcheon. He was, in 1798, one of the Yeos and was commended, by whoever ran the show, for doing his job very well. Regardless of which, and, God help us all, it was a long time ago, let’s hear him on The Groves of Blarney’:

  The groves of Blarney they look so charming,

  Down by the purling of sweet, silent streams,

  Being banked with posies there spontaneous growing

  Planted in order by the sweet rock close.

  ’Tis there’s the daisy and the sweet carnati
on,

  The blooming pink and the rose so fair,

  The daffodowndilly, likewise the lily,

  All flowers that scent the sweet, fragrant air.

  ’Tis Lady Jeffers that owns this station;

  Like Alexander, or Queen Helen fair,

  There’s no commander in all the nation,

  For emulation, can with her compare.

  Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder

  Could dare to plunder her place of strength;

  But Oliver Cromwell her he did pommel,

  And made a breach in her battlement.

  There’s gravel walks there for speculation

  And conversation in sweet solitude.

  ’Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or

  The gentle plover in the afternoon;

  And if a lady would be so engaging

  As to walk alone in those shady bowers,

  ’Tis there the courtier he may transport her

  Into some fort, or all under ground.

  For ’tis there’s a cave where no daylight enters,

  But cats and badgers are for ever bred;

  Being mossed by nature, that makes it sweeter

  Than a coach-and-six or a feather bed.

  ’Tis there the lake is, well stored with perches,

  And comely eels in the verdant mud;

  Besides the leeches, and groves of beeches,

  Standing in order for to guard the flood.

  There’s statues gracing this noble place in –

  All heathen gods and nymphs so fair;

  Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus,

  All standing naked in the open air!

  So now to finish this brave narration,

  Which my poor genii could not entwine;

  But were I Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar,

  ’Tis in every feature I would make it shine.

  Francis Sylvester Mahony (Father Prout) had, inevitably, his own version, in several languages, of that song. Here is Prout’s final verse:

  There is a boat on the lake to float on,

  And lots of beauties which I can’t entwine.

  But were I a preacher, or classic teacher,

  In every feature I’d make ’em shine.

  There is a stone that whoever kisses

  O! He never misses to grow eloquent.

  ’Tis he may clamber to a lady’s chamber

  Or become a Member of Parliament.

  A clever spouter he’ll soon turn out, or

  An Out-and-Outer to be let alone.

  Don’t hope to hinder him or to bewilder him

  Sure he’s a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone.

  Father Prout almost always had the last word. But now that we are in the neighbourhood we are compelled (or it is incumbent on us – or coin any phrase that pleases you) to listen to the voice of Barrett the Weaver and what he had to say about Castle Hyde:

  As I roved out on a summer’s morning,

  Down by the banks of the Blackwater side,

  To view the groves and the meadows charming,

  And the pleasant gardens of Castle Hyde.

  ’Tis there you’d hear the thrushes warbling,

  The dove and partridge I now describe,

  And lambkins sporting every morning,

  All to adorn sweet Castle Hyde.

  There are fine walks in those pleasant gardens

  And seats most charming in shady bowers,

  The gladiator, who is bold and daring,

  Each night and morning to watch the flowers.

  There’s a road for service, in this fine arbour,

  Where nobles in their coaches ride

  To view the groves and pleasant gardens

  That front the palace of Castle Hyde.

  If noble princes from foreign places

  Should chance to sail to the Irish shore,

  ’Tis in this valley they should be feasted

  Where often heroes had been before.

  The wholesome air of this habitation

  Would recreate your heart with pride,

  There is no valley throughout this nation

  In beauty equal to Castle Hyde.

  There are fine horses and staff-fed oxen,

  A den for foxes to play and hide,

  Fine mares for breeding, and foreign sheep

  With snowy fleeces in Castle Hyde.

  The grand improvements there would amuse you

  The trees are drooping with fruits of all kinds,

  The bees perfuming the fields with music

  Which yields more beauty to Castle Hyde.

  The richest groves throughout this nation

  In fine plantations you will see there,

  The rose, the tulip and the sweet carnation

  All vying with the lily fair.

  The buck and doe, the fox and eagle,

  They skip and play by the riverside,

  The trout and salmon are always sporting

  In the crystal waters of Castle Hyde.

  I roved from Blarney to Castle Arney,

  From Thomastown to Doneraile,

  And Killishannock that joins Rathcormack,

  Besides Killarney and Abbeyfeale.

  The flowing Nore, the rapid Boyne,

  The river Shannon and the pleasant Clyde,

  But in all my ranging and serenading

  I saw none to equal sweet Castle Hyde.

  For a sedentary and a humble man, Barrett the Weaver had a great vision of glory, and he saw that Castle Hyde had distinct resemblances to a place called Eden, also famous in folklore. But that was the way with the makers of ballads long ago; one place on earth must surpass all others. Wasn’t there a later rhymester who made an old man say:

  The priests have got a book that says

  But for Adam’s sin,

  Eden’s grandson would be there

  And I there, within …

  Howandever! As I often say.

  But pause awhile.

  Which reminds me. There was and old parish priest once, away up in the Sperrin Mountains, who, when he was walking around the church and reading out for the mountain faithful the stories and prayers relating to the Via Crucis, used to say at regular intervals: Pause awhile.

  This was why.

  The way the old prayer-books had it (and perhaps the new ones may still have it) was: first, a little visual picture of the event of that station; what the Ignatian method of prayers would call a Composition of Place. Then followed an out-loud prayer. But in between was simply printed: Pause Awhile.

  Meaning: you were to meditate a bit on what you had seen, or on what had been described to you: ‘Those barbarians fastened him with nails etc.’

  So, here and now, pause awhile and rest. For this is a long and intricate road round Ireland. And that mention of the Sperrin Mountains brings me out of my meditation to hear the soft voice of an old school-friend of mine who still, and happily, survives up in those places. He is, to my ears, singing his favourite song, and in his singing uniting Ireland in a most moving way: from O’Neill’s Sperrins to the deaf glens of Munster. For his favourite song was John Todhunter’s ‘Aghadoe’:

  There’s a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,

  There’s a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,

  Where we met, my love and I, love’s fair planet in the sky,

  O’er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.

  There’s a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,

  There’s a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,

  Where I hid him from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies,

  That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.

  Oh! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,

  On Shaun Dhuv, my mother’s son, in Aghadoe!

  When your throat fries in hell’s drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth,

  For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!

  For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,

 
When the price was on his head in Aghadoe,

  O’er the mountain, by the wood, as I stole to him with food,

  Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.

  But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,

  With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,

  There he lay – the head my breast feels the warmth of, where ‘twould rest,

  Gone, to win the traitor’s gold, from Aghadoe!

  I walked to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,

  Brought his head from the gaol’s gate to Aghadoe,

  Then I covered him with fern, and I piled him on the cairn,

  Like an Irish king he sleeps in Aghadoe.

  Oh! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!

  There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe,

  Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,

  Your own love, cold on your cairn, in Aghadoe.

  V

  And Back to Tyrrellspass

  What was it just now that halted my career on my crazy road round Ireland and set me stamping on the roadside grass to find firm footing, and a faint booming echo? It was the glimmer of old timber, hidden and smothered by the grass, but once a bright and shining platform where the young people of the neighbourhood met to dance: with or without proper parental or clerical supervision.

  And a poem or a song came back to me and set me off back north on a tangent to a place called Callenberg, a close neighbour of Patrick Kavanagh’s Inniskeen.

  Here’s the poem or song. You may dance to it:

  THE DECK BESIDE THE ROAD

  You may talk about your city life and of the latest play,

  And while you are enjoying them you feel both light and gay,

  I care not for your dramas nor for your fancy balls,

  Give me the homely gathering where the Irish tweeds and shawls

  Are sported down in Rosslough, not far from my abode,