DANNY
BOY
. . .
© 2013 by Malachy McCourt
Published by Running Press,
A Member of The Perseus Books Group
All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
987654321
Digit on the right indicates the number of this printing
E-Book ISBN 978-0-7624-5500-3
Acquired by Danielle McCole
Interior designed by Bill Jones
Edited by Hamilton Cain, Gilbert King, and Molly Jay
Typography: Centaur
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With awe and profound respect
I dedicate this small tome to the
Bravest and the Finest—
the firefighters and police officers
of New York City—
who went through Hell
on their way to Heaven
at about 9 a.m.
on the 11th of September, 2001.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With thanks to my young pal and collaborator, Danielle McCole (Danny Girl), without whose help “Danny Boy” would still be reposing in my mind.
To Seamus Heaney, Nobel Laureate, who took time to share his thoughts. To my brother, Frank. To my friends Judy Collins, Roma Downey, Hector Elizondo, Liam Neeson, Gabriel Byrne, Larry Kirwan of Black 47, and Martin Sheen for time, thoughts, and words.
To Michael Robinson and his Standing Stones Web site (www.standingstones.com) for the fantastic amount of information on the history of “Danny Boy.”
To the dioceses of Providence and the Archdioceses of Boston and New York for prohibiting the singing of “Danny Boy” at funeral masses.
To the amazing Mick Maloney for the quiet writing haven and for his inspiration.
To my editor Molly Jay who exercised great patience and forbearance as I missed several deadlines.
And to Diana, my greatest friend and spouse, for all the encouragement.
100 YEARS OF “DANNY BOY”
Is it possible that Danny Boy is one hundred years old? The song which has been sung in sadness and sorrow and banned at funerals in the archdiocese of New York, Boston, and Providence. It’s the ultimate good-bye song with hope of getting together again in some mythical world beyond.
No! It’s not Irish. The melody probably was composed in Ireland four hundred or so years ago, but the lyrics are the work of a true Brit, Frederick Edward Weatherly, who was a barrister by day, a songwriter by night. Tis said he wrote Danny Boy to another tune in 1910 which didn’t work for him so he discarded it. But his sister in law sent him the sheet music of “The Derry Air,” which prompted him to rescue young Danny from the dust bin and join them in marriage. And the rest is history.
It was published in 1913 and there is hardly a singer from Harry Belafonte to the Ink Spots to Elvis that hasn’t had a go at delivering “Danny.”
Happy Hundredth “Danny” and may all your children be as tuneful as yourself.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
An Ave there for me
The Melody
From glen to glen
Lyrics Meet Melody
The pipes are calling
The Questions
The valley’s hushed and white with snow
The Land of Derry
Tell me that you love me
The Pop History of “Danny Boy”
Epilogue: In sunshine or in shadow
What Does It All mean?
Appendix
Discography and Timeline
INTRODUCTION
Anyone who has ever claimed Irish roots or been within earshot of a pub on the 17th of March has, knowingly or not, catalogued the tune of “Danny Boy” in the music box of their memory. The mystery and myth surrounding the air has elevated it from beloved ballad to sacred script. As if passed from generation to generation through a game of “whispering down the lane,” where one child whispers a story into the ear of another, and the story transforms along a chain of children, the story of this song has metamorphosed.
Officially, “Danny Boy” is a song of two verses totaling 155 words. Speculation about the meaning of these words is as ripe as when the song was first published in 1913, a year before World War I broke out in Europe. While the lyricist is known to us, the composer’s name is still uncertain. Here, then, I have tried to throw the requisite light on the melody’s murky origins so that all singers can raise their voices with fervor or in sorrow or with passion, and attain a deeper understanding of the song that has inspired so much emotion for generations.
It is generally assumed that “Danny Boy” is an Irish song, but most people will be surprised to learn that whilst the air is sprung from Hibernian roots, a biddable British barrister by the name of Fred may well have penned the words while riding to court on a commuter train. A great many questions have been raised regarding the nuances and connotations of the song. “Danny Boy” speaks to Irish society, politics, religion, war, economics, sports, and, of course, the history of Irish art and music, a song that encompasses and encourages intense nationalistic pride. In these pages we’ll go back to the Land of Derry, where legend says the tune to our boy Danny was born, and along the way, we’ll attempt to uncover two of the biggest uncertainties surrounding “Danny Boy”: The origin of the melody (known as the Derry air or the Londonderry air) and exactly who is addressing Danny in the song.
From a performance perspective, it’s understandable how John McDermott and Rosemary Clooney might have been inspired to add “Danny Boy” to their repertoires, but we’ll also discover how latter day crooners such as Eric Clapton and the late Freddie Mercury could not resist the call of the pipes. Ballad singers, wedding singers, pub singers, opera singers, pop singers and even non-singers continue to reprise this song, because the sentiments affect the heart and the music of it has endured for three hundred years, making it one of the greatest perennials of all time.
Oh, Danny boy, the pipes,
the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down
the mountain side
The summer’s gone
and all the flowers are dying
‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go
and I must bide.
But come ye back
when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed
and white with snow
‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine
or in shadow
Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love
you so!
And if ye come,
and all the flow’rs are dying
If I am dead, as dead
I well may be,
Ye’ll come and find the place
where I am lying
And kneel and say an Ave there
for me.
And I shall hear, though soft you tread
above me,
And all my grave will warmer,
sweeter be,
For you will bend and tell me that
you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace
until you come to me.
–Frederick Edward Weatherly
An Ave there for me
The Melody
There’s an odd bunch roaming this earth, gene
rally known as collectors. They purchase, exchange, swap, and steal all manner of material goods: stamps, pottery, paintings, baseball cards, furniture, and coins; they even stockpile and trade items like Coca Cola bottles and old shoes. The oddest of the lot might actually be the folk song singer, almost always collectors as well as performers. It is not at all unusual for the singer to offer a long peroration about a particular song he or she is about to sing. The peroration usually follows the same literary path as romantic fiction, and typically, the singer will emerge as hero and preserver of some ancient culture. Surely you’ve seen it before. The spotlight dims and the folksinger pauses to introduce the next song with all the ham-handed subtlety of a Las Vegas magician. It might go something like this:
THIS NEXT SONG HAS A LITTLE STORY TO IT. (PAUSE, LONG SIP FROM PINT GLASS). I HAPPENED TO BE DRIVING ONE STORMY NIGHT IN THE WILDEST PART OF THE MOUNTAINS OF DONEGAL, THE OUTER HEBRIDES, OR IN THE MOST RURAL PART OF APPALACHIA, WHEN MY CAR ENGINE SUDDENLY, WITHOUT ANY REASON, STALLED ON THIS DARK, DESERTED, COUNTRY ROAD. I CHECKED THE GAS AND THERE WAS PLENTY AND I TRIED TO START IT AGAIN, BUT HAD NO SUCCESS. SITTING THERE IN THE SILENT DARKNESS WAS QUITE SCARY AND SO I DECIDED TO WALK TO THE NEAREST HOUSE. IT BEGAN TO RAIN HEAVILY AND THE WIND MADE IT DIFFICULT TO WALK, BUT I TUCKED MY HEAD DOWN AND MOVED ON. AFTER ABOUT AN HOUR, I SPIED A LIGHT WHICH SEEMED TO BE HANGING IN THE SKY, AS IT WAS ON THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN, AND I DECIDED TO HEAD IN THAT DIRECTION. THE GOING WAS TREACHEROUS, MUDDY, AND SLIPPERY, BUT I STRUGGLED ON, SURE TO MAINTAIN A VIEW OF THE LIGHT. JUST WHEN I THOUGHT I COULDN’T WALK ANY FURTHER, I HEARD THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SOUND, A HUMAN VOICE RAISED IN SONG AND ACCOMPANIED BY THE UNDERTONES OF A VIOLIN. IT WAS A MAN’S VOICE AND THE WORDS WERE CLEAR, AND I COULD UNDERSTAND THEM EVEN WITH THE SOUNDS OF WIND AND RAIN WHIPPING AROUND ME. HE SANG OF THE LOSS OF HIS LOVE AND OF THE BREAKING OF HIS HEART BECAUSE SHE HAD CHOSEN ANOTHER. THERE WAS A GREAT SOB IN HIS THROAT AND WHEN THE PAIN BECAME TOO GREAT, THE WAIL OF THE VIOLIN PLED FOR HER RETURN AND THEN THERE WAS SILENCE. GATHERING MY WITS, I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR AND A VOICE BADE ME “COME IN.” IT WAS A SHABBY PLACE WITH HAND-CRAFTED WOOD FURNITURE, A TABLE AND A COUPLE OF BENCHES, BUT IT WAS WARM. A VOICE SAID, “YOU ARE WELCOME IN MY HOUSE.” IT WAS THE VOICE OF AN OLD MAN SEATED IN A ROCKING CHAIR BESIDE A COMFORTABLE FIRE. HE HAD A VERY SUSPICIOUS DOG, WITH HEAD ALERT, SEATED BESIDE HIM. I REALIZED THAT THE MAN WAS TOTALLY BLIND. I EXPLAINED THAT I WAS A TRAVELING MUSICIAN STRANDED ON THE ROAD AND NEEDED SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT. THAT PRESENTED NO PROBLEM TO HIM, AS HE SAID HE HAD PLENTY OF ROOM. HE OFFERED ME FOOD AND DRINK AND TALK OF MUSIC AND OF SONG. HE TOLD ME THE SONG THAT I HAD HEARD OUTSIDE HAD BEEN THE STORY OF HIS ANCESTOR TWO HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE AND HAD BEEN HANDED DOWN FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. I ASKED HIM FOR THE WORDS AND I MANAGED TO ANNOTATE THE MUSIC AND (WIPING A TEAR) THIS IS THE SONG YOU ARE ABOUT TO HEAR.
The common feature that all of these collectors of song stories share is the presence of a warm-hearted blind fiddler. The implication, of course, is that blindness confers a special power on a human, an extraordinary insight (yes, insight) into the soul or, at the very least, a sharp ear for bad music. Whatever the reason, the world has no shortage of collector/folk singers who have experienced some kind of spiritual adventure with blind fiddlers who live in remote areas of the world, unspoiled by technology. Just once I’d like to hear the story end with the folk singer returning to the fiddler’s cabin with a royalty check.
The poet Yeats was fascinated by the spiritual force of blindness, as he wrote of Blind Raftery’s (also a poet and a fiddler) hold over the imaginations of men:
I am Raftery the poet
Full of hope and love
My eyes without sight
My mind without torment
Going west on my journey
By the light of my heart
Tired and weary
To the end of the road
Behold me now
With my back to the wall
Playing music
To empty pockets
–From 1000 Years of Irish Poetry from Welcome Rain Press
I don’t know how many blind fiddlers ambled about Ireland, but they clearly monopolized wisdom and old tunes. The story behind the discovery of the Derry air, the Londonderry air if you wish, is sadly, not much of an exception. Legend has it that a blind fiddler may have unwittingly channeled this song to us through an alert Anglo Saxon woman named Jane Ross. But more on Miss Ross in a moment.
Some evidence suggests that the Londonderry air was composed by one Rory Dall O’Cahan, (1660-1712) an Irish harpist who wandered about Scotland going by the name of Rory Dall Morrison, and eventually became known simply as Rory Dall. Traveling pipers and fiddlers sitting in on sessions and joining in the various feiseanna (musical gatherings) influenced each other musically, thus tracing the exact composer of a centuries-old Irish or Scottish melody is no easy task for even the most determined music scholars.
We can thank Dr. George Petrie who published the melody in 1855 in Ancient Music of Ireland. Petrie, an enthusiastic aficionado of Irish music gives full credit to Miss Jane Ross of Limavady, County Derry, for placing the piece at his disposal. Ross, educated in music and an avid collector of things musically Irish, claimed to have taken the tune down after hearing it played by an itinerant piper. According to Petrie:
FOR THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL AIR I HAVE TO EXPRESS MY VERY GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF MISS J. ROSS, OF LIMAVADY, IN THE COUNTY OF LONDONDERRY, A LADY WHO HAS MADE A LARGE COLLECTION OF THE POPULAR UNPUBLISHED MELODIES OF THAT COUNTY, WHICH SHE HAS VERY KINDLY PLACED AT MY DISPOSAL, AND WHICH HAS ADDED VERY CONSIDERABLY TO THE STOCK OF TUNES WHICH I HAD PREVIOUSLY ACQUIRED FROM THAT STILL VERY IRISH COUNTY. I SAY STILL VERY IRISH: FOR THOUGH IT HAS BEEN PLANTED FOR MORE THAN TWO CENTURIES BY ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH SETTLERS, THE OLD IRISH RACE STILL FORMS THE GREAT MAJORITY OF ITS PEASANT INHABITANTS; AND THERE ARE FEW, IF ANY, COUNTIES IN WHICH, WITH LESS FOREIGN ADMIXTURE, THE ANCIENT MELODIES OF THE COUNTRY HAVE BEEN SO EXTENSIVELY PRESERVED. THE NAME OF THE TUNE UNFORTUNATELY WAS NOT ASCERTAINED BY MISS ROSS, WHO SENT IT TO ME WITH THE SIMPLE REMARK THAT IT WAS “VERY OLD,” IN THE CORRECTNESS OF WHICH STATEMENT I HAVE NO HESITATION IN EXPRESSING MY PERFECT CONCURRENCE.
Miss Jane Ross left no record of the name of the piper, nor the type of pipes she saw and heard, but archivists and cultural detectives have been able to piece together some clues. Miss Ross was allegedly a composer herself, as all collectors must be, but there is no clear evidence of her work. However, there is a McCurry family of Ireland that has claimed that an ancestor by the name of Jimmy McCurry was a blind fiddler (not a piper) who played at the fairs at Limavady around the same time Ross lived in that village. On Fair Day many farmers came to town to sell their cattle, sheep, pigs, and chickens, and their wives would often trade knitwear, eggs, and butter, as well as shop for household staples. Their commercial activity then drew all manner of entertainers, such as card sharks, tumblers, singers, fortune tellers, matchmakers, and the like. There was always great excitement on these days, and the assembled musicians garnered enough in offerings to last for several months, if they spent wisely. Of course, drinking was abundant; fights would often break out, with people walloping each other with blackthorn sticks, cudgels and shillaleaghs, a weapon harder than most farmers’ heads. When that activity grew tedious, the participants cleaned up the blood, brushed themselves off and drank to each other’s health. “Slainte Agus Saol Agat,” meaning “health and wealth to you”, they would say, and carry on with song and music. A young man named Matt Talbot, a notorious drunk, would do anything to satisfy his craving, and one day he stole the fiddle of a blind man and pawned it for drink. After he sobered up, Matt felt a twinge of guilt and sought to make amends by securing a new instrument for the fiddler. Despite an extensive search, he never found the man again, and to the day he died on June 7th, 1925, he regretted his awful deed. Because of his lifelong commitment toward sobriety and clean living, Talbot has since been venerated by Pope Paul VI in 1975
and is a second stage candidate for sainthood in the Catholic church. If confirmed, he will become the patron saint of alcoholics. So there is forgiveness.
One thing we do know is that Talbot was born five years after Jane Ross heard the music of the Londonderry air, so it’s not likely that both he and Ross had historic encounters with the same blind fiddler. However, the story of Jimmy McCurry, the man many believe is “the blind fiddler” Ross reputedly heard, is told in the book The Blind Fiddler from Myroe by Jim Hunter (University of Ulster, 1997). The work excerpted below is just a small part of Jimmy’s story:
THE LIMAVADY MARKET WAS A FAVOURITE DESTINATION FOR JIMMY. ALL THE FARMERS USED TO BRING THEIR HORSES AND CARTS TO MAINE STREET. AFTER THEY HAD UNYOKED THEIR HORSES THEY LEFT THEIR CARTS WITH SHAFTS ON THE GROUND ALL LINED UP ALONG THE STREET. JIMMY TOOK UP POSITION BETWEEN THE SHAFTS WITH HIS FIDDLE AT HIS FAVOURITE SPOT OUTSIDE BURNS AND LAIRDS SHIPPING LINE OFFICE. INTERESTINGLY, THIS OFFICE WAS JUST OPPOSITE THE HOME OF JANE ROSS, WHO ANNOTATED THE MUSIC OF THE “LONDONDERRY AIR” FROM AN ITINERANT FIDDLER IN 1851.
Some oral evidence suggests that Jimmy was the “itinerant fiddler.” Wallace McCurry tells a story related to him by his grandfather, a contemporary of the blind fiddler:
ONE DAY JANE HEARD JIMMY PLAYING A BEAUTIFUL MELODY OUTSIDE THE SHIPPING LINE OFFICE WHICH SHE HAD NEVER HEARD BEFORE. SHE CAME ACROSS AND ASKED HIM TO PLAY IT AGAIN TO ENABLE HER TO NOTE DOWN THE TUNE. JANE THANKED HIM AND GAVE HIM A COIN FOR HIS MOVING RENDITION OF THE TUNE. WHEN SHE DEPARTED HE RUBBED IT AGAINST HIS LIPS, AS WAS HIS CUSTOM, AND DISCOVERED IT WAS A FLORIN AND NOT THE CUSTOMARY PENNY. HE SET OFF IN PURSUIT AND WHEN HE CAUGHT UP WITH HER HE TOLD HER THAT SHE HAD MADE A MISTAKE. JANE REFUSED TOTAKE IT BACK AND ASKED HIM TO KEEP IT AS A TOKEN OF HER APPRECIATION FOR HIS MUSIC.
Jimmy may have also produced lyrics for the melody. “I have discovered no less than six different sets of lyrics to accompany the Londonderry air,” said Margaret Cowan, ranger at the Roe Valley Country Park. “It is just possible that one of these is the work of the blind fiddler from Myroe.” [pp. 9-10]
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