Ye bold defenders of dear old Erin
Come pay attention to what I say.
With pen and paper I will endeavour
To praise our leader in a simple way.
Here in Rathdrum, in the County Wicklow,
This bold defender of Grainne Uaile
First turned his notes in tones melodious
Around the lovely woodlands of Avondale.
By the bright Bay of Dublin, while carelessly strolling,
I sat myself down by a clear crystal steam.
Reclined on the beach, where the wild waves were rolling,
In sorrow, condoling, I spied a fair maid
Her robes changed to mourning that once were so glorious.
I stood in amazement to hear her sad tale.
Her heart strings burst forth, in wild accents deploring,
Saying: ‘Where is my Blackbird of Sweet Avondale?’
To the fair counties Meath, Kerry, Cork and Tipperary,
The notes of his country my blackbird will sing,
But woe to the hour we’ll part light and airy,
He flew from my arms in Dublin to Ring.
Now the birds in the forest for me have no charm,
Not even the voice of the sweet nightingale,
Her notes though so charming set my poor heart alarming
Since I lost my poor Blackbird of Sweet Avondale.
There are other versions, God and Parnell know. But that is the one that I heard sung by Margaret O’Reilly of Gowna. To whom once, in the town of Mullingar, which some fine people say is the centre of Ireland, I once read out all the words of this poem. The man who wrote it, whoever he was, was certainly convinced that he belonged to the Centre and every poet is entitled to praise his hometown. So listen:
AN ODE IN PRAISE OF THE CITY OF MULLINGAR
You may strain your muscles to brag of Brussels,
Of London, Paris or Timbuctoo,
Constantinople or Sebastople,
Vienna, Naples or Tongataboo,
Of Copenhagen, Madrid, Kilbeggan,
Or the Capital of the Russian Czar,
But they’re all inferior to the vast superior
And gorgeous city of Mullingar.
That fair metropolis, so great and populous,
Adorns the regions of sweet Westmeath,
That fertile county which Nature’s bounty
Has richly gifted with bog and heath.
Them scenes so charming where snipes a-swarming
Attract the sportsmen that come from afar,
And whoever wishes may catch fine fishes
In deep Lough Owel near Mullingar.
I could stay forever by Brosna’s River
And watch its waters in their sprarkling fall,
And the ganders swimmin’ and lightly skimmin’
O’er the crystal bosom of the Royal Canal.
Or on Thursdays wander ’mid pigs so tender,
And geese and turkeys on many a car,
Exchanging pleasantry with fine bold peasantry
That throng the market at Mullingar.
Ye Nine inspire me and with rapture fire me
To sing the buildings both old and new:
The majestic Courthouse and the spacious Workhouse,
And the Church and steeple which adorn the view.
Then there’s barracks airy for the military
Where the brave repose from the toils of war,
Five schools, a nunnery, and a thrivin’ tannery
In this gorgeous city of Mullingar.
The railway station with admiration,
I next must mention in terms of praise,
Where trains a-rowlin’ and ingines howlin’
Strike each beholder with wild amaze.
And there is Main Street, that broad and clane street,
With its rows of gas-lamps that shine afar.
I could spake a lecture on the architecture
Of the gorgeous city of Mullingar.
The men of genius, contemporaneous,
Approach spontaneous this favoured spot
Where good society and great variety
Of entertainment is still their lot.
The neighbouring Quality for hospitality
And conviviality unequallled are.
And from December until November
There’s still diversion in Mullingar.
Now, in conclusion, I make allusion
To the beauteous females that here abound:
Celestial creatures with lovely features
And taper ankles that skim the ground.
But this suspends me, the theme transcends me.
My Muse’s powers are too weak by far.
It would need Catullus, likewise Tibullus,
To sing the praise of Mullingar.
And from the wonders of Mullingar we pass on to Granard Moat and the memory of Tyrrell of Tyrrellspass. We do it with the aid of The Ballads of Ireland: Collected and Edited with Notes Historical and Biographical by Edward Hayes.
The Baron bold of Trimbleston hath gone, in proud array,
To drive afar from fair Westmeath the Irish kerns away.
And there is mounting brisk of steeds and donning shirts of mail,
And spurring hard to Mullingar ‘mong Riders of the Pale.
For, flocking round his banner there, from east to west there came,
Full many knights and gentlemen of English blood and name,
All prompt to hate the Irish race, all spoilers of the land,
And mustered soon a thousand spears that Baron in his band.
For trooping in rode Nettervilles and D’Altons not a few,
And thick as reeds pranced Nugent’s spears, a fierce and godless crew;
And Nagle’s pennon flutters fair, and pricking o’er the plain,
Dashed Tuite of Somna’s mail-clad men, and Dillon’s from Glenshane.
A goodly feast the Baron gave in Nagle’s ancient hall,
And to his board he summons there his chiefs and captains all;
And round the red wine circles fast, with noisy boast and brag,
How they would hunt the Irish kerns like any Cratloe stag.
But ’mid their glee a horseman spurr’d all breathless to the gate,
And from the warder there he crav’d to see Lord Barnwell straight;
And when he stept the castle hall, then cried the Baron, ‘Ho!
You are De Petit’s body-squire, why stops your master so?’
‘Sir Piers De Petit ne’er held back’ that wounded man replied,
‘When friend or foeman called him on, or there was need to ride;
But vainly now you lack him here, for, on the bloody sod,
The noble knight lies stark and stiff – his soul is with his God.
‘For yesterday, in passing through Fertullah’s wooded glen,
Fierce Tyrrell met my master’s band, and slew the good knight then;
And, wounded sore with axe and skian, I barely ‘scaped with life,
To bear to you the dismal news, and warn you of the strife.
‘MacGeoghegan’s flag is on the hills! O’Reilly’s up at Fore!
And all the chiefs have flown to arms, from Allen to Donore,
And as I rode by Granard moat, right plainly might I see
O’Ferall’s clans were sweeping down from distant Annalee.’
Then started up young Barnwell there, all hot with Spanish wine –
‘Revenge,’ he cries, ‘for Petit’s death, and be that labour mine;
I’ll hunt to death the rebel bold, and hang him on a tree!’
Then rose a shout throughout the hall that made the rafters ring,
And stirr’d o’erhead the banners there, like aspen leaves in spring;
And vows were made, and wine-cups quaft, with proud and bitter scorn,
To hunt to death Fertullah’s clans upon the coming morn.
These tidings unto Tyrrell came, upon that selfsame d
ay,
Where, camped amid the hazel boughs, he at Lough Ennel lay.
‘And they will hunt us so,’ he cried – ‘why, let them if they will;
But first we’ll teach them greenwood craft, to catch us, ere they kill.’
And hot next morn the horsemen came, Young Barnwell at their head;
But when they reached the calm lake banks, behold! their prey was fled!
And loud they cursed, as wheeling round they left that tranquil shore,
And sought the wood of Garraclune, and searched it o’er and o’er.
And down the slopes, and o’er the fields, and up the steeps they strain,
And through Moylanna’s trackless bog; where many steeds remain,
Till wearied all, at set of sun, they halt in sorry plight,
And on the heath, beside his steed, each horseman passed the night.
Next morn, while yet the white mists lay, all brooding on the hill,
Bold Tyrrell to his comrade spake, a friend in every ill –
‘O’Conor, take ye ten score men, and speed ye to the dell,
Where winds the path to Kinnegad – you know that togher well.
‘And couch ye close amid the heath, and blades of waving fern,
So glint of steel, or glimpse of man, no Saxon may discern,
Until ye hear my bugle blown, and up O’Conor, then,
And bid the drums strike Tyrrell’s march, and charge ye with your men.
‘Now by his soul who sleeps at Cong,’ O’Conor proud replied,
‘It grieves me sore, before those dogs, to have my head to hide;
But lest, perchance, in scorn they might go brag it thro’ the Pale,
I’ll do my best that few shall live to carry round the tale.’
The mist roll’d off, and ‘Gallants up!’ young Barnwell loudly cries,
‘By Bective’s shrine, from off the hill, the rebel traitor flies;
Now mount ye all, fair gentlemen – lay bridle loose on mane,
And spur your steeds with rowels sharp – we’ll catch him on the plain.’
Then bounded to their saddles quick a thousand eager men,
And on they rushed in hot pursuit to Darra’s wooded glen.
But gallants bold, tho’ fair ye ride, here slacken speed ye may –
The chase is o’er! – the hunt is up! – the quarry stands at bay!
For, halted on a gentle slope, bold Tyrrell placed his hand,
And proudly stept he to the front, his banner in his hand,
And plung’d it deep within the earth, all plainly in their view,
And waved aloft his trusty sword, and loud his bugle blew.
Saint Colman! ’twas a fearful sight, while drum and trumpet played,
To see the bound from out the brake that fierce O’Conor made,
As waving high his sword in air he smote the flaunting crest
Of proud Sir Hugh de Geneville, and clove him to the chest!
‘On comrades, on!’ young Barnwell cries, ‘and spur ye to the plain,
Where we may best our lances use!’ That counsel is in vain.
For down swept Tyrrell’s gallant band, with shout and wild halloo,
And a hundred steeds are masterless since first his bugle blew!
From front to flank the Irish charge in battle order all,
While pent like sheep in shepherd’s fold the Saxon riders fall;
Their lances long are little use, their numbers block the way,
And mad with pain their plunging steeds add terror to the fray!
And of the haughty host that rode that morning through the dell,
But one has ‘scaped with life and limb his comrades’ fate to tell;
The rest all in their harness died, amid the thickets there,
Yet fighting to the latest gasp, like foxes in a snare!
The Baron bold of Trimbleston has fled in sore dismay,
Like beaten hound at dead of night from Mullingar away,
While wild from Boyne to Brusna’s banks there spreads a voice of wail,
Mavrone! the sky that night was red with burnings in the Pale!
And late next day to Dublin town the dismal tidings came,
And Kevin’s-Port and Watergate are lit with beacons twain,
And scouts spur out, and on the walls there stands a fearful crowd,
While high o’er all Saint Mary’s bell tolls out alarums loud!
But far away beyond the Pale, from Dunluce to Dunboy,
From every Irish hall and rath there bursts a shout of joy,
As eager Asklas hurry past o’er mountain, moor, and glen,
And tell in each the battle won by Tyrrell and his men.
And tomorrow we may set out from Granard nor make any stop until we get to Omagh or Claramore or Ultima Thule.
Some years ago when I was making a journey to the handsome town of Tyrrellspass I was set to thinking on the landed gentleman who locked up his wife for years and years because she would not sell her jewels (to which he had no legal right) and give him the proceeds.
You’ll find the reflection of that overly possessive husband in Maria Edgeworth’s novel Castle Rackrent, when the impoverished Sir Kit Rackrent marries in London a rich Jewish heiress and brings her back with him to Ireland hoping to benefit by her wealth. When she refuses to be used in such a scurvy fashion, he locks her up and keeps her locked up until he himself meets an untimely end in a duel, and the lady is happily released.
Maria Edgeworth herself thought that her readers, some of them, might not credit the story so she told in a footnote the true story on which it was based, the story of what she called the ‘conjugal imprisonment’ of Lady Cathcart. During her imprisonment her husband was visited quite regularly by the local gentry, and Maria wrote that it was his custom at dinner to send his compliments to his wife, telling her that the company had the honour to drink her health, and asking her if there was anything at table she would like to eat. Her answer always was: ‘Lady Cathcart’s compliments, and she has every thing she wants.’
Her diamonds she had successfully hidden from her husband but there was neither servant nor friend to whom she could entrust them. She had noticed from her window a beggarwoman who came to the house and one day she called to her, threw her the parcel of diamonds and gave her the name of the person to whom she should deliver them. Years later, when Lady Cathcart was freed and her husband dead, she received her jewels safely. Miss Edgeworth was much impressed by that instance of the honesty of the Irish poor and, indeed, she had good reason to be.
Twenty years the poor lady was locked up and it was said that on the day of her liberation she had scarcely the clothes to cover her. She wore a red wig, looked scared and stupefied and said that she scarcely knew one person from another.
That story came back into my mind when, years ago, on the journey to Tyrrellspass I read an historical and archaeological appreciation of the place by Dr Peter Harbison, prepared specially for that visit – not specially for me, but for a party led by Eamonn Ceannt, then General Director of Bórd Fáilte.
Dr Harbison had been writing about Jane, Countess of Belvedere, to whose credit must be laid the original planning and architectural achievement of Tyrrellspass. And he mentioned also that an earlier Countess of the same name had been locked up for twenty years because of the jealousy of her husband.
Howandever: Tyrrellspass, which already had the bones and many of the habiliments of beauty, had, at the time of that journey, been selected by Bórd Fáilte for special attention during an Architectural Heritage Year: to restore ancient buildings and monuments, brighten the face of the place, remove the blemishes left there by what we laughingly call modern living. The work was splendidly done and we come now to a vision of a place that I first dreamed of in the late 1920s when I read about Tyrrell of Tyrrellspass and debated history with Paddy McCillion in my Aunt Kate’s great farmhouse at Claramore by Drumquin in West Tyrone …
Acknowledgments
> The publisher has made every effort to acquire all the permissions needed, and would be glad to hear from any copyright-holders who have not been included. For kind permission to reprint copyright material The Lilliput Press gratefully acknowledges the following:
Maurice James Craig for ‘Ballad to a Traditional Refrain’ and ‘Georgian Dublin’; Oliver D. Gogarty for ‘Leda and the Swan’ by Oliver St John Gogarty; the Trustees of the Estate of Patrick Kavanagh, c/o Peter Fallon, Literary Agent, Loughcrew, Oldcastle, Co. Meath, for ‘Renewal’, ‘Canal Bank Walk’, ‘Spraying the Potatoes’, ‘A Christmas Childhood’ and ‘Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal’ by Patrick Kavanagh; Margaret Farrington and Elizabeth Ryan for ‘Aodh Ruadh O Domhnaill’ by Thomas MacGreevy; David Hammond for ‘Wild Slieve Gallen Brae’; David Higham Associates for ‘Train to Dublin’ and ‘The Closing Album: Dublin’ by Louis MacNeice (from Collected Poems, Faber and Faber); the author and The Gallery Press for ‘Like Dolmens Round My Childhood, the Old People’ and ‘A Lost Tradition’ by John Montague (from Collected Poems)’, Francis Stuart for ‘A Racehorse at the Curragh; A.P. Watt Ltd of London on behalf of Michael Yeats for ‘The Pilgrim’ and ‘A Prayer for My Daughter’ by W.B. Yeats (from The Collected Poems, Macmillan); Anne B. Yeats for the cover drawing by Jack B. Yeats, ‘A Sligo Ballad Singer’.
The Lilliput Press would like to thank W.J. Mc Cormack, Susan Schreibman, Peter Sirr and Jonathan Williams for their assistance in locating copyright-holders, and Vincent Hurley and Máire Kennedy for their bibliographical help.
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As I Rode by Granard Moat Page 24