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We received an e-mail the other day from a Pay The Reckoning visitor which reads as follows:
Dear Pay The Reckoning
Thanks for the hard work that goes into maintaining your website. I've got my hands on a number of albums following recommendations in your reviews section and I have to say that your tips have been spot-on.
However, I can't believe that your tastes are so blinkered that you only listen to trad music. Come on, give us a sense of what you listen to when you aren't spinning trad CDs!
Well! There's a challenge. It has to be said that our tastes are fairly blinkered. However here are some of our favourite albums outside of the trad field ...
Steve Earle - Train A-Comin'. After his release from prison Steve Earle brought out this astoundingly good acoustic album. A superb cast of accomplices and some of his most compelling songs, along with a few well-chosen and tasteful cover versions.
Bob Dylan - Good As I Been To You. Dylan covers a range of classic folk tracks in a very pared-down album. His versions of Arthur McBride, Canadee-i-o and Jim Jones are hair-raising.
Bruce Springsteen - Nebraska. Every time we listen to this album (and we listen to it a lot!) we are moved almost to the point of delirium by the quality of Springsteen's songwriting and the sheer honesty and guts of the bare-naked production. Songs such as Highway Patrolman, Johnny 99 and Atlantic City are unflinching, yet utterly compassionate, explorations of the human condition. Everybody who ever has to make a decision which affects the lives of any other human being ought to be compelled to listen to this album!
John Prine - Anthology. It's a bit of a cheat to nominate a "Best Of" in a list such as this. However, Prine's Anthology is exceptionally well-chosen, contains sleeve-notes by the man himself and is one of those albums which has commandeered our attention on many occasions. A singer-songwriter of exceptional talent, Prine has crafted songs such as "The Late John Garfield Blues", "Storm Windows", "Down By The Side Of The Road", "Paradise", "Christmas In Prison" and others too numerous to list which, in our view, rank among the pinnacles of human endeavour. You can keep your Empire State Building, your Great Wall Of China, your manned space missions. As far as we're concerned, Prine's "Speed Of The Sound Of Loneliness" beats all these into a cocked hat!
Thin Lizzy - Dedication. When we were growing up, we hadn't much time for heavy rock such as Phil and the lads were making. Time, however, has woven its spell and this (another greatest hits album) is a frequent visitor to PtR's CD carousel. Heads to the left, dicks to the right and let's ROCK!
PJ Harvey - Dry. We saw PJ Harvey at her first ever London gig and were blown away by the power and intensity of her peformance. We still rate her debut album above all her subsequent work.
Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds - Murder Ballads. Ever since his days with the Birthday Party, we've always had a soft spot for Nick Cave. Granted he's a bit over-fond of melodrama and not to everyone's taste. Murder Ballads is grim and gruesome, but great crack if not taken too literally. The final chapter - a cover of Dylan's "Death Is Not The End", featuring Kylie Minogue, PJ Harvey and Shane MacGowan among others is more affecting than it ought to be. This might well be the song we would like to have played at our funeral!
Leonard Cohen - Songs Of Love And Hate. Difficult to settle on just one Cohen album. However, given that Love And Hate contains "Joan of Arc" and "Diamonds In The Mine", then we'll opt to give this one special mention!
Johnny Cash - Live At San Quentin. The moment when the assembled prisoners cheer and yell as the gravel-voiced troubadour sings "San Quentin I hate every inch of you" never ceases to send chills up and down the spine.
Johnny Cash - American Recordings. Two nominations for the man in black. This is a sterling album and we can still remember the electricity generated by its release. For "Delia" and "Let The Train Blow The Whistle" alone, this album is absolutely essential!
The Undertones - Hypnotised. Their first album may have had a certain naïve charm. However the follow-up is surely power-pop's all-time out and out classic. "Girls That Don't Talk", "Wednesday Week", "There Goes Norman" ... brilliant slices of post-adolescent zit-fuelled angst.
The Pixies - Trompe Le Monde. Those familiar with The Pixies' output might raise an eyebrow at our ranking Trompe Le Monde above some of their earlier albums. However for "U-Mass", "Palace Of The Brine", "Bird Dream Of The Olympic Mons", "Subbaculcha" and their sublime rendition of The Jesus And Mary Chain's "Head On" it gets our vote.
The Clash - London Calling. This album sums up the 1980s for us. A great album which draws on a wide range of influences and established The Clash as one of the most intelligent forces in the music scene of the time.
The Velvet Underground - Loaded. Critics may dismiss Loaded as being pretty lightweight when compared with some of the Velvets' earlier output. We don't agree! "Sweet Jane" for God sake!!
Lou Reed - New York. He lost it a bit. And then - wallop! We'll be listening to this album until we drop. "Romeo And Juliet" and "Dirty Boulevard" are among his best creations.
So, there you go! The blinkers come off occasionally.
Many thanks to Barry Coleman for the following song and accompanying notes. It was penned by Dan Hendron, Barry's maternal grandmother's brother. Dan was born in Derrytagh South (the "Recky"). He was on a prison boat with an old-time Irish republican from the Montiaghs area, JP Kearns, and when freed, married JP's sister, Lizzy and emigrated to the USA where he made his fortune. He was a joiner by trade but was mainly involved in boat/ship building especially in WW2. He died in the early 80's, an octogenarian.
T'WAS ONLY A DREAM I went to sleep when the moon arose And poured its light from heaven, And I dream’t a dream, that so t’would seem, Inspiration that God had given. And I trod again old Armagh’s hill’s, Where the daisies and buttercups glisten And the lark singing there in the clear spring air, And I stop – and I look – and I listen. Och, shure and the Railer looks just the same Where the trees in the breeze keep swayin’ While many old faces have gone their way No sign have they of decayin’ And the mossy bank where Jem and Frank Are cuttin’ while Dan is forkin’ And the old gnarling trees at the front of the hill Where they say there’s a fairy lurkin’ But first a race to Mother’s place To Mother’s, but Mother is missin’ I’m not down there on my knees for prayer, It’s the hearth that she trod I’m kissin’ And the old crab tree at the back of the house Where the blackbird would loudly whistle There as children we played and drew sand in a tin While the old goat chewed on a thistle. The whins by Lough Gullion are out in bloom They’re turning from green to yellow There we used to hunt for the whingray’s nest When I was a little fellow. Then over to Jenny’s where Ned and Jack Spun them fine as a twenty hundred Where they talked and argued and pointed out How the leaders of armies blundered. Then down to the Bann with dog and gun For a crack at the wild fowl passin’ And my heart at ease in the Ulster breeze Though the armies of hate are massin’ Down from the town the steamer comes With propellers loudly churnin’ While over the tips of the Belfast hills The sun spreads his rays to the mornin’ I’m off to town, sweet Portadown With the girl of my youth beside me As we pushed our bikes up Seagoe Hill Sure of other girls she’d chide me. The nursery is there like the day I left With it’s gifts from heaven growin’ The roses there, so rich and so fair Start the heart of a princess glowin’ I stroll again in the market place Where dealers of old have bartered Were I to miss this other bliss I’d think that my soul was martyred. But oh! What’s that, and the train flew past All sentimentality scornin’ And wiped out the trees and the lough and the breeze And the fields, and the cot I was born in.
A bus stop. A stranger sits, chewing a match. Hugh Pat saunters along and joins him.
STRANGER : D'you know what time the next bus is?
HUGH PAT : (eyes the stranger suspiciously) Not from roun' about here, then, are you?
STRANGER : I was once! But I've been glipin' about this many's the year.
HUGH PAT : Oh, aye! Aff makin' your fortune, were you?
STRANGER : A lock o' times over. But I spent the whole damn lot on the booze. Still ... now I'm back, with more money than you could count. That's the ramblin' over, boy!
HUGH PAT : I'm sure!
STRANGER : No. Never again! That's me finished wi' the hoofin'.
HUGH PAT : Good man!
STRANGER : Mind you. See when I got back! I went to this wee pub I used to knock about in.
HUGH PAT : The Corner House?
STRANGER : No. Never mind where.
HUGH PAT : Was it Hugh News's?
STRANGER : Listen, for god's sake. It doesn't matter where exactly. It's jist ... in I walks and says to the woman of the place. "Are you good for the loan iv a few quid for a couple o' drinks. I haven't a roosic on me and me tongue's hangin' outa me with the drooth." Says she "Away to blazes! Sure I could get thon type of custom any damn day."
HUGH PAT : It must have been Kanes, was it?
STRANGER : Shut up now with the where was it business! Anyways. Hand in the oul' pocket and up comes the readies. One, two, three, four ... and so on. Ten sovereigns!
HUGH PAT : Jaysus! She wouldn't have seen the like of thon in a quare day. I'll bet her oul' eyes was near poppin' outa her head.
STRANGER : Like saucers! Anyways. Next thing you know she's going "Oh, we've got great wines and whiskeys here. Don't you be paying any heed to my crabbitness there a wee while back. I was only havin' you on, so I was!"
HUGH PAT : The oul' hypocrite!
STRANGER : There you go!
HUGH PAT : Where're you for now?
STRANGER : Home to see my oul' ma and da. I'm going to tell them that I've been a rip and a hallion. But I'm back now for good or ill. So if they let bygones be bygones, then thon's me! Home! For good!
HUGH PAT : Well good luck, anyhow! And you'll be doin' no more glipin'.
STRANGER : Divil a bit!
There's something about those "stranger" songs and poems ... in a small community, the stranger is very visible. The aura of mystery is almost tangible - sometimes the aura is tinged with threatt, at other times with novelty, possibility, "magic" ... In this new song by Aidan Crossey - yet another which he hopes to record for Humours of Lewisham Volume 3 - the latter angle is explored.
He stood at the bar, like some vision or ghost And drained the remains of his beer He ordered another, and mumbled some toast That no-one was destined to hear And some private memory raised a half-smile As he ordered a whiskey and glanced at the time But there's nowhere to go at a quarter past nine Alone on the edge of the world The footsore and miles-weary traveller won't cease As long as there's road to carry his feet But the road has run out and he faces defeat Alone on the edge of the world He shouldered his fiddle and drew back the bow And the tune spun the thread of his life His glories, his trials, his highs and his lows His triumphs, his trouble and strife The warmth of the whiskey, the smoke in the air His back to the fire, he laid himself bare Not one word was spoke, but a lifetime was shared Alone on the edge of the world The footsore and miles-weary traveller won't cease As long as there's road to carry his feet But the road has run out and he faces defeat Alone on the edge of the world He laid down the fiddle, turned back to his beer This road-weary man from God Knows In the silence that welled like a funeral tear He struggled back into his coat With no road before him and no going back We knew that he'd come to the end of the track He was rolling the credits and fading to black Alone on the edge of the world The footsore and miles-weary traveller won't cease As long as there's road to carry his feet But the road has run out and he faces defeat Alone on the edge of the world With no road before him and no going back We knew that he'd come to the end of the track He was rolling the credits and fading to black Alone on the edge of the world
The irony of exile. The exile thinks he/she can return home some day. But for many, there's no going back. Each day spent away decreases the likelihood of a homecoming still further. Homecoming? Where's home? The place you left, where life has moved on. Home exists only in your memory. Where you visit and realise with a shock that you don't know anyone. And few know you. You stand at the bar like a ghost ...
A new song by Aidan Crossey, which he hopes to record at some point in the next few months. Possibly for The Humours of Lewisham Volume 3, which looks as if it may have more folk and less traditional influences than previous outings. Anyway ... for the meantime you'll have to make do with the words.
red-eyed and bleary, battle-stained and weary i called my first one of the day strung-out and shaking, my poor head aching try to keep the world at bay every twist and turn, hard lessons i have learned weigh heavy on my mind today if i had known before, the stuff that lay in store then i never would have strayed take me home again, kathleen where my heart will feel no pain when the trees are fresh and green take me home again, kathleen an autumn evening, a wake for leaving the whiskey led me to your arms so shy and tender, long-gone september your lips so soft and warm we tripped and stumbled home, along the starlit road i swore i'd write at journey's end but not a word i wrote, no letter, card or note i've not stopped travelling since then take me home again, kathleen where my heart will feel no pain when the trees are fresh and green take me home again, kathleen i never pined for home, since that first day i roamed i'd need a map to find the way but time has beaten me, i once felt fancy free i just feel cast adrift today i wish that evening, when i was leaving you had trapped me in a snare too late i've realised, the gap has grown too wide and i've got no home anywhere take me home again, kathleen where my heart will feel no pain when the trees are fresh and green take me home again, kathleen when the trees are fresh and green kathleen, take me home
I'm a have-a-go hero, but she's out of bounds I just can't defuse the minefield that surrounds I'm head in the clouds, she's feet on the ground I'm not the full shilling, she's sound as a pound Still waters run deep and they don't make a sound Won't you throw me a rope, cos I think I might drown I'm high and I'm lonesome, she's in with the crowd I'd crawl over glass, but she's lofty and proud I'd whisper her name, but she'd scream out loud And I'd walk away, bloodied and bowed But just like the sun, when it's hid in the clouds I'd creep back again and I'd throw off the shroud She's all or nothing, I'm more or less She's always a vision, I'm often a mess She knows the answer, but I always guess She sometimes reveals, I always confess I barely get by, she's a raging success But till I have gained her I never will rest
| Let Me At Him! | Wreck The House | Red Biddy | The Manouevre |
| The Easy-Roused | One-Errand To Town | Shoot The Messenger | The Singing Kettle |
| The Dentist's Chair | The Hindmost | Hippling Home | The Nicotine |
| Shed The Vestments | The Gravedigger's | Chewing-Gum Charlie | The Kneeler |
| The White Wren | The Rendezvous | The Six-Pack | The Gravy Chip |
| The Wasps' Nest | The Skelp | The Right Dunder | The Full Of The Boat |
| The Checkpoint | The Squealer | Say No More! | The Pintail |
| The Ham-Strung | The Dawn Raid | The Spittin' Image | Kitchen Hill |
| The Witch's Handbag | The Knocker | Shillington's Bridge | The Strawberry Nose |
| The Drifting | The Buck-Wire Fence | Is It Yourself? | The Blower |
| The Bitter Pill | The Gully | The Leather Satchel | The Penitential |
| The Inescapable | The Wobbly Bridge | The Chestnut | Nipping At The Trough |
| The Sneakers | The Spartan | The Yankee Doctor | No Word Of A Lie |
| The Impenetrable | Muddy The Water | The Boy Racer | The Hand's Turn |
| The Skite | The Coffin-Nail | The Whole Squad | The Cheeky Imp |
| The Spot Of Bother | Good Man, Your Da! | Over The Bann | The Lump-Hammer |
| The Mischief | The Snifter | Rakin' The Fire | The Floozy |
| The Smattering | The Perspiration | The Honest Endeavour | The Scawp |
| Suckle The Runt | The Hand-Cart | The Sea-Horse | The Long Finger |
| The Sizeable | The Mattress | Full As A Tick | The Footerer |
| The Quare Gunk | The Wise Fool | The Tidy Yoke | The Hourglass |
| The Cudgeller | The Culvert | One Of Us | The Leisurely |
| Joined At The Hip | The Right Comedian | The Pedestal | The Pay-Day |
| The Soap-Dodger | The Hobbit-Botherer | Hell's Teeth | The Thorny Gap |
| The Fly-By-Night | The Sacristan | The Come-To | The Ten-To-Ten |
"There's light left in the day, but damn all in the way o' heat." He pulled the well-worn coat tighter about his time-afflicted frame And sucked mercilessly on the wet end of a ready-made, His fingers stained mahogany, His voice a rasp. "A fine day tomorrow. And thank God for it!" His eyes were drawn to the Lough and beyond, To the waters and the far horizon, Surviving intact while his world was in flitters. "There's not many of the oul' stock left. Jem The Hudder, Brick McGinn Dan the Draper, all took this past year... Jaysus, I can see Brick yet, pushing thon oul' Daisybell up the hill Straight as a rod, he was! Fit as a flay..." And I pictured him, too; The raised finger by way of hello, The wee nod of the head. A civil man, quare an' good-natured. "I've my plot got. Ready for the road, now, son! All it'll take now's the call from above. Yer man has it all writ out for me An' I must be near the end of the last chapter, now. There's not too many in the way of adventures before me!" He footered clumsily for another fag And dragged a match across the heel of the box. It flared and danced a jig in his trembling fingers. "Too many miles on th'oul' clock!" The Park Drive smouldered in his cupped hand. "These damn things ha' me bate! It was the drink, once... I was the divil for the oul' drink. I mind the time I could drain a churn. Now it's all I can do to get a bottle down me, An' maybe a half-un on a good night." He shook his head. "The drinkin'... Aye an' the dancin' forbye! God sakes, boy. I could've danced the legs off myself. Alo McAlinden was the boy for the fiddlin' An' Clem Fagan on the mouth organ. What was it they used to play? The Girls Of Banbridge ... That was a good oul' one. An' The Boys Of Tandragee ... I coorted a Banbridge girl wanst. She was some han'lin, the same blade. A tidy article. But her oul' da was a fierce man an' he chased me the whole cut till Lurgan. True as God! I never seen her again after thon! A tidy article. An' some han'lin!" He smiled a rubbery, toothless grin. "So! Are you for town? Many's the night I dandered up thon road myself. There was some sieges in town, I can tell you! Some drinkin' an' coortin' an' carryin' on. Many's the dig I got at the oul' dances. See thon?" A scar above his right eye. "I got thon one night off a big policeman fornent all hands. He says something or other till me. An' I couldn't bite my tongue. Sure, he was talkin' till a Montiagh man. I wasn't for takin' any oul' back-cheek off any man, police or no. So I answers him back an' gets a slinge off his oul' baton for my bother. Says I - If you were a man at all - aye, or half a man even - You'd put thon oul' stick down and come at me fair and square. An' by God if he didn't think he was man enough for it! An' down went the baton. An' off wi' the oul' policeman's jacket. An' up wi' the sleeves. An' then - Come ahead, country man - says he. Well ... with that I plastered him. One dig - slap! in the cooter. An' he dropped like a stone. The crowd that was with me let a quare cheer out o' them. But when he never got up... Away on their heels! An' who'd blame them... But I sat with him till he came roun' and I helped him up till his feet. Says I - You picked on the wrong fella, there, big man! - An' half-expectin' him till try and ha' me arrested there an' then. But fair play till him, he shook hands wi' me an' said I was the tight man. Sure - I could ha' had him kilt when he was on his oul' back! I never heard another word about it! Not a dicky-bord..." He winced at the memory. "Good times, back then. Hard times, but good. I had the life in me, then, boy! But nowadays I can har'ly get a breath. Not a cutty ... It's a hard oul' station, right enough To get this far and not have the strength t'enjoy your last few days. Gi' us a hand up, there!" My hand in his bony hand; Trembling like a scared pup. "That's the job, boy! You hare away off now to town and have a night to yourself. If I was the age o' you I'd be right behind you. We'd give thon pubs a quare hoakin', all the same. Here ...!" He fumbled in his trouser pocket. "Here! Have a wee drink on me." He pressed a crumpled tenner into my hand. "Go on, now! Damn the drink I can lip these days. Better for the likes o' yourself - A big, roarin' buck that y'are - To get the good of a coul' pint o' porter An' the kick of a half-un o' good whiskey. I'll not hear no off you either!" He shuffled off, Round the bend to home, To sit by the tame hearth And think long thoughts. As day stood down And night-time stood its watch Over the Lough and beyond, The waters and the far horizon, Whose contours never change.
Pay The Reckoning has included this poem because it's the only one of which we are aware, penned by a recognised major poetic talent, which features the Montiaghs ... Besides which, its air of affectionate and wistful melancholy is much to our taste!
The lion stretched like a sandstone lion on the sandstone slab of a bridge with one fixture, a gaslight, looks up from his nicotine-worried forepaw with the very same air my father, Patrick, had when the results came back from the lab, the air of anguish-awe that comes with the realisation of just how slight the chances are of anything doing the trick as the sun goes down over Ballymacnab and a black-winged angel takes flight. The black-winged angel leaning over the sandstone parapet of the bridge wears a business suit, dark gray. His hair is slick with pomade. He turns away as my mother, Brigid, turned away not only from her sandstone pet but any concession being made. The black-winged angel sets her face to the unbending last ray of evening and meets rigid with rigid as the sun goes down over Lisnagat and Listamlet and Clonmore and Clontyclay. Feckless as he was feckless, as likely as her to be in a foofaraw, I have it in me to absolutely rant and rail while, for fear the backlash, absolutely renounce the idea of holding anything that might be construed as an opinion. The lion still looks back to his raw knuckle and sighs for the possibility that an ounce of Walnut Plug might shape up from the ash. The angel still threatens to abandon us with a single flick of her pinion as the sun goes down over Lislasly and Lissaraw and Derrytrasna and Derrymacash.
Paul Muldoon 2001
Pay The Reckoning greatly enjoyed Dermot Bolger's 1990 novel. At first we thought it was the film-noir quality, the urgency and drive, that ensnared our imagination. A closer reading told a different tale. It's because the book is sprinkled with titles of imaginary tunes. The following turn up in the first few pages!
| The Distorted Mosaics | The Hawthorn Bushes | The Isolated Stars | The Crooked Universe |
| The Startled Dogs | The Soothing Grass | The Overgrown Ditch | The Heavy Boot-Steps |
| The Polished Leather | The Skyward | The Thick Moustache | The Arc Of Light |
| The Powerful Drug | The Natural Habitat | The Numb Fury | The Recurring Images |
| The Closed Eyelids | Spraying Gravel | The Unknown Journey | The Fallen Gravel |
| The Parent On The Stairs | The Squad Car | The First Blows | The Beat Of Wings |
| The Tiny Paws | The Coarse Grass | The Dreaming Beast | The High Branches |
| The Dried Bones | The Spell Of The Ditch | The Tang Of Smoke | Leave Me Alone |
| What More Do You Want? | Nowhere To Take You | The Whorl Of Cloud | The Blue Pullover |
| The Numb Fingers | The Black Roads | The Hole In The Corner | The Giant Spider |
| The Wooden Rafters | The Nest Of Ash | The Downy Weeds | The Stone Floor |
| The Broken Gutter | The Sighing Of Branches | The Doorway | Cross The Park |
| The Green Post Office | The Shambling Vaults | The Single-Decker | Beyond The Cemetery |
| The Sanctuary | The Brewery | The Dark Lanes | The Colony |
| The Place Of Streams | The Lost Homeland | The Potato Beds | The Timber Hen-Houses |
| The Sound Of Chicks | The Wire Mesh | The Pigeon Lofts | The Array Of Canes |
| The Concrete Steps | The Littered Bread | The Swarm Of Lads | The Plastic Ball |
| The Stink Of Fish | The Plastic Sandals | The Roll-Call | The Sleepwalker |
| The Motions Of Life | The Ruck Of Hedgerows | The Alder Bushes | The Green Expanse |
| The Children Of Limbo | The Stooping Figures | Among The Hens | The Barking Dogs |
| The Family Rosary | The Copy Book | The Act Of Betrayal | The Milking Shed |
| The Bare Bulb | The Lurching Cow | Perpetual Exile | The Ramshackled Streets |
| The Poisoned Fish | The Square Of Lino | The Crazy Paving | The Grecian Fonts |
| The Frozen River | Eggs In Straw | The Fine Crust | Pascal Plunkett's |
| The Idle Son | The Rubber Boots | The Blue Nights | The Letter Rack |
| The Lilac Bushes | The Ancient Braces | The Blue Moonlight | The Forecourt |
| The Bamboo Stalks | The Silent House | The Stained Oilcloth | The Flaking Paint |
| The Faded Wallpaper | The Bailing Hook | The Lit Windows | The Country Midwife |
| The Carnage | The Swirling Pall | The Final Links | The First Pay Packet |
| The Fading Light | The Night Sailor | The Long Windows | The Smudged Paper |
| The Dead Hand | The Waxed Corridor | The Plaster Statue | The Single Tree |
| The Twilit Laneway | The Donkey Coat | The Blue Overalls | The Wage Packet |
| The Tray Of Pints | The White Dot | The Watered Vinegar | The Unfamiliar Hour |
| The Top Storey | The Abandoned Jail | The Barracks | The Litany Of Names |
| Within One Hour Of Dawn | The Election Leaflets | The Barren Hallway | The Bare Flagstones |
| The Long Benches | The Three Keys | The Old Bicycle | The Inner Office |
| The Morning's Work | The Bowed Heads | The Odd Murmur | The Transfer List |
| The Black Bulb | The Attendance Book | The Pioneer Pin | The Burst Of Light |
| The Dying Rustle | The Read Line | The Leather Jacket | The Nervous Foal |
| The Vacant Seat | Francis Hanrahan's | The Silent Clerks | Dangerous To Know |
| The Radar Dish | The Perimeter Fence | The Landing Lights | The City's Dreams |
| The Check-Point | The Scratched Record | The Burning House | The Belfast Road |
| The Side Road | The Edge Of The Light | The Gas Lamp | The Shed Roof |
| The Leather Belt | The Midnight Escapade | The Petrol Station | The Blue Files |
| The Narrow Canteen | The Garda Sergeant | The Hard Chaws | The Dusty Shelves |
| The Increment Form | The Neat Reports | The Monaghan Accent | The Voter's Form |
| The Surgeon's Knife | The Grand Master | The Inner Circle | The Rathgar Bedsit |
| The Daily Struggle | The Hazy Blur | The Eager Questions | The Job For Life |
| The Baby Power | The Air Vent | The Incinerator | The Rules Of Work |
| The Cramped Office | The Metal Shade | The Golden Rules | The Fatal Mistake |
Poe's gothic, florid tales are a great source of tune titles. For example, the following tunes are harvested from his "The Masque Of The Red Death" which appears in his classic collection, "Tales Of Mystery And Imagination". Needless to say, most of the imaginary tunes enumerated below are in a minor key!
| The Horror of Blood | The Sharp Pains | The Sudden Dizziness | The Profuse Bleeding |
| The Scarlet Stains | The Pest Ban | The Whole Seizure | The Deep Seclusion |
| The Castellated Abbeys | The Lofty Wall | The Gates Of Iron | The Massy Hammers |
| Weld The Bolts | The Impulses Of Despair | The Amply Provisioned | The External World |
| Folly To Grieve | The Appliances Of Pleasure | The Buffoons | The Voluptuous Scene |
| The Imperial Suite | The Straight Vista | The Folding Doors | The Whole Extent |
| The Sharp Turn | The Novel Effect | The Gothic Window | The Closed Corridor |
| The Eastern Extremity | The Velvet Tapestries | The Heavy Folds | The Scarlet Panes |
| The Golden Ornaments | The Heavy Tripod | The Brazier Of Fire | The Tinted Glass |
| The Fantastic Appearances | The Black Chamber | The Dark Hangings | The Clock Of Ebony |
| The Brazen Lungs | The Light Laughter | The Whispering Vows | The Chiming Of The Clock |
| The Magnificent Revel | The Barbaric Lustre | The Movable Embellishments | Glare And Glitter |
| The Arabesque Figures | The Unsuited Limbs | The Delirious Fancies | The Madman Fashions |
| Much Of The Wanton | The Multitude Of Dreams | The Hall Of The Velvet | The Voice Of The Clock |
| The Echoes Of The Chime | The Sable Drapery | The Muffled Peal | The Remote Gaieties |
| The Heart Of Life | The Sounding Of Midnight | The Uneasy Cessation | The Twelve Strokes |
| The Masked Figure | The Buzz | The Assembly Of Phantasms | The Masquerade License |
| The Utterly Lost | Neither Wit Nor Propriety | The Stiffened Corpse | The Closest Scrutiny |
| Detecting The Cheat | The Mad Revellers | The Broad Brow | The Scarlet Horror |
| The Spectral Image | The Solemn Movement | The Strong Shudder | The Blasphemous Mockery |
| The Battlements | The Blue Chamber | The Seven Rooms | The Robust Man |
| The Pale Courtiers | The Rushing Movement | The Intruder | The Stately Step |
| The Closer Approach | The Nameless Awe | The Mad Assumptions | The Prince's Person |
| The Vast Assembly | The Measured Step | The Momentary Cowardice | The Six Chambers |
| The Deadly Terror | The Drawn Dagger | The Retreating Figure | The Velvet Apartment |
| The Sharp Cry | The Sable Carpet | The Wild Courage Of Despair | Seize The Mummer |
| Within The Shadow | The Grave Cerements | The Thief In The Night | The Despairing Posture |
There are any God's amount of songs in the Irish (and English and Scottish ...) traditions about people being whisked off to serve at sea; sometimes, against their will and at other times, though not totally involuntarily, the impression is that circumstances have led them to their choice.
Aidan Crossey has come up with a latter-day reworking of the theme in the piece that follows. Is it a song, or a poem? Aidan tells us that he has a vague tune in mind, but for the moment it'll have to stand on its own as a poem.
The soft summer breeze of evening Is bitter with the tang of the sea And I fear that come the morning The night will make a sailor of me And soon I'll be wearing the sailor's cap And a jacket of navy blue And I'll sail on the Bay of Biscay With the rest of the captain's crew My father's at rest in the haggard He's tired after saving the hay And he's putting a match to his oul' briar pipe His smoke at the end of the day And the news I am grieving to tell him My father already knows "The grim grey sea is calling And wherever it calls, you must go" And he's tuning up his fiddle And he plays a tune, so sad and slow That I hear a tempest gathering In the space between each note And with every rasp of his bowing I hear a drowning man cry Till the breeze from the sea comes between him and me And carries his music away Then he put away his fiddle And sparked up his pipe once again And said "I will give you two bits of advice And I trust that their meaning is plain. Let every sordid betrayal prove There are those that you mustn't heed And welcome each twist of the knife as proof That when opened, your wounds still may bleed" And he picked up again his oul' fiddle And he played me a reel, fast and wild And in it the crash of the surf on the beach And the ebbing and flow of the tide And then, with a full moon above us I started to make my way To the salt, salty sea, a sailor I'd be Afloat on the Bay of Biscay.
The fishermen of Lough Neagh and 'The Wee Lough' (Lough Gullion) talk in nervous whispers about 'the hairy eel'. Albert Parkes, of The Bay, is reputed to have once caught an orange eel. He talks with Jem McAlinden about the orange eel (that 'could've cursed the Pope!') on a recording of a radio programme, originally broadcast many years ago and which was loaned to us by our friend and 'stringer', Oliver Burns of Freecrow.
Aidan Crossey - resident tunesmith of the parish of Pay The Reckoning - has composed tunes which refer to both of these strange beasts (see his slip jig 'The Hairy Eel' and his reel 'Albert's Orange Eel' in Original Tunes.)
However, the fishermen of North Armagh have cause to thank their maker that they haven't encountered the following perverse and portentous fishes:
The Antlered Eel The Narky Eel
The Bloody Eel The Orange Eel (see above)
The Caustic Eel The Poison Eel
The Dry Eel The Quisling Eel
The Elephant Eel The Rancid Eel
The Flying Eel The Stinking Eel
The Ghost Eel The Twisted Eel
The Hairy Eel (see above) The Ugly Eel
The Idle Eel The Venomous Eel
The Jumping Eel The Whistling Eel
The Killer Eel The eXhumed Eel
The Limping Eel The Yapping Eel
The Mangy Eel The Zealot Eel
A fierce day! The road a hob, And Slievemore, beyond, shimmering. "You're fond of the walking!" A corrugated elder smiled ruefully From behind a gimcrack gate. A power of heat in the day, Cathedral-still. The gun-metal sea sparkles to a dusty horizon. Here, a long-abandoned village Slumps at the hill's feet. Stones lie where they fall, Perches for languid sheep. Last night's moonlit stray Would coax smoke from these ancient chimneys. She journeyed unhurried at midnight. Her footprints, dark against the silvered sand, Led to a place without a name. And she without a name also Whose soft words of greeting kindled a spark. Its small warmth smoulders within me yet.
Sean O'Casey is undoubtedly best-known for his outstanding plays (especially Juno and the Paycock, The Plough and the Stars and The Shadow Of A Gunman) which have aged remarkably well.
However Pay The Reckoning has always had something of a gra for his prose works. There are lengthy passages of his Autobiographies where the author who is so direct in his use of language in his stage work, begins to experiment with the effect that his style begins to approximate Joyce or Beckett.
The following titles for non-existent tunes are culled from the first chapter (A Coffin Comes To Ireland) of the second volume of his autobiographies (Pictures In The Hallway). The chapter deals with the death of Parnell and the return from exile of his corpose to his native land.
| The October Sky | The Whole Of Dublin | The Single Star | Into The Darkness |
| The Bitter Rain | The Silent Streets | The Unresisting City | The Oil-Caped Police |
| The Deepest Doorways | The Night Hours | The Slashing Rain | The Pelting Murmur |
| The Glorious Company | The Goodly Fellowship | The Noble Army Of Martyrs | The Guardian Angel |
| The Well-Cocked Eye | The Savage Dance | The Patient Pavements | The SIlken Curtains |
| The Happy-Looking Bed | The Tumbled Curtains | The Muddled Mattresses | The Paltry Calico |
| The Faded Flannelette | The Arms Of Jesus | The Rock Of Ages | The Narrow Sheets |
| The Eyes Of God | The Valley Of Sleep | Johnny In His Skin | The Buff Felt |
| The Inky Imprint | The Stereotypers' Room | The Fire Of The Day | The Little Room Opposite |
| The Fast Sleep | The One Glamour | Mrs Casside | Without Fail |
| The Light Of God | The Fireless Room | The Fine Fire | The Bright Fire |
| The Poor Home | The Shadow Of God's Smile | The Sleepy Eyes | The Dull Glow |
| The Fading Embers | The Dusty Grate | The Naked Shoulders | Nice And Tight |
| The Heavy Eyes | The Dancing Flame | The Troublesome | Dust And Ashes |
| The Sunday School | The Steady Sleep | The Shivery Streets | The Heavy-Hanging |
| The Shadowy Glimpse | The Dark Form | The Sly Dream | The Sleepy Mind |
| The Far-Away Murmurs | The Tiny Glow | The Shovel Of Coal | The Drowsy Stillness |
| The Bright Flames | The Rising Flames | Fix The Kettle Firmly | The Flaming Coal |
| Tug On The Trousers | The Horsehair Sofa | The Stately Seat | The Nettlesome Bed |
| The Patter Of Feet | The Sound Of Voices | Stop Press! | The Hasty Archie |
| Soon Enough | The Noise Of Windows | You Lie Down | Poor Parnell's Dead |
| The Mention Of His Name | A Boo Or A Cheer | Grace And Dignity | Breathe In Peace |
| The First Chance | Whip Up The Cap | The Golden Bowl | The Silver Cord |
| The Wheel Broken | The Mighty Cistern | Fiddling With A Woman | The Anger Of The Righteous |
| The Bad Bugger | The Right-Minded | The Mighty Man Of Valour | The Sour Apple Tree |
| The Bared Teeth | The Clenched Fists | The Safe Distance | The Great Battle |
| The Horney's Hand | The One Man They Had | The Shadow Of Life | The Pillar Of Fire |
| The Protestant Bishops | Wet The Tea | Well Awake | The Electric Car |
| The Unknown Jungles | The Solemn Face | The Breast Of His Coat | The Weekly Cartoons |
| The Generous Denial | MacMurrough Of The Curses | The New Civilisation | The Holy Heathen Irish |
| The Last Words | The Man That Made Them | The Spidery-Minded | The Bible-Basted |
| The Pack Gathered | First Thing | Warm For The Work | The State Of Grace |
| The Righteous Men | Deliver The Nation | Forfeit The Right | Scuts And Schemers |
| The Untidy Look | The Last Link | Salvoes Of Artillery | A Welcome That They Didn't Want |
| The Mudmen | The Madmen | The Badmen | The Bedmen |
| The Deadmen | The Spedmen | The Spudmen | The Dudmen |
| The Tight Hold | The Real Seeds | The Eternal Seeds | The Plan Of Campaign |
| The Big Ear | The Moral Bum | The Impregnable | The Rock Of Holy Scripture |
| The Swine-Hearts | The Nonconformist Conscience | The Impudence | The Slender Finger |
| The Glittering Eye | The Biblical Piety | The New Annunciation | The Westminster Confession |
| The Scandal | The Multitude Of Saints | The Top Storey Of Heaven | Stir Yourslves |
| Drain Out The Bad Drop | The Pool Of Perfect Virtue | The Labour Of Hunting | The Canonised Bowseys |
| Outright And Inright | The Pains And Penances | The Bounding Wave | The Wasteful Knowledge |
| The Mighty Oath | The Arch-Druids | The Law Of None To Be Lit | The Fit Of Fury |
| The Chariot Of Gold | The Chariots Of Silver | The Chariots Of Bronze | The Sudden Jolt |
| The Look Of Dignity | The Herd Of Deer | The Treacherous Varmint | The Philibusterin' Arm |
| Let The Daylight Through | The Holy Saint | The Great Doing | The Decent People |
| Pluck The Shamrock | The Ignorant Noses | The Short Discourse | The Many Trials |
| The Various Vexations | The Joys Of Heaven | The Order Of Merit | The Skin Of Their Teeth |
| Bees Into Butter | Hooking A Cloud | The Wolsey Blankets | The Deserving Poor |
| The Corn-Cub | The Curate | The Bell-Wether | The Bee-Sheep |
| The Chosen Chance | The Chesty Church | The Porbeagle | The Prayer |
| The Penance | The Pokerface | The Pagan | The Pursebearer |
| The Benefit Of Clergy | The Act Of Attrition | The Auto-Da-Fe | Hell-Incised Poverty |
| The Destitution | The Lure Of Life | The Set Of Rosemary Beads | The Joy Of The World |
| The Timely End | The Creeping Host | Easy To Bear | Security Of Tenure |
| Rushing With Money | Collect The Dues | The Coat Of Whitewash | The Decent Clothes |
| The Plushy Broadcloth | The Traces Of Control | Under One Covering | The Quarter Acre |
| The Little Homes | The Crowbar Brigade | The Frosty Road | The Red-Berried Rowan |
| The Scruff Of The Neck | The Seat Of The Trousers | The High-Grade Quarters | St Patrick's Children |
| The Eternal Bliss | Digging A Grave | The Landlord's Door | The Rent-Agent |
| The Weight Of Buckshot | The Hapless Men | Bent On Business | The Mean Musket |
| The Dark Corner | The Windy Nook | The Lowest Channels | The Sea Of Fire |
| The Waves Of Fire | The Loony Surgeon | The Jewel Of The Gaels | The Counsel Of Your Pastors |
| The Withering Advice | The Icy Way | The Awkward Squad | The Grand Name |
| The Past Spare Life | The Lovely Ruins | The Worldly Vantage | The Love Of Cherubim |
| The Service Of Archangels | The Good Greeting | The Prayers of Patriarchs | The Predictions Of Prophets |
| The Preachings Of Apostles | The Faiths Of Confessors | The Holy Virgins | The Place Of Honour |
| The Cold Bannisters | The Imminent Danger | The Gauzy Clothes | The Commissariat |
| The Ceremonial Occasion | The Cosy Corners | The Heavenly Clock | The First Hour Of Eternity |
| The Crayon Drawing | The Menacing Face | The Tumultuous Love | Close To The Fire |
| Hem The Edges | The Sombre Scarves | The Piece Of Cardboard | The Little Table |
| The Several Volumes | The Defiant Sorrow | The Brown Muffler | The Ulster-Coat |
| The Peaked Hat | The Grey Dawn | The Brown Coffin | The Drab Boat |
| The Sea Of Heads | The Rolling Drumbeat | The Voice In The Crowd | The Face Of The Morning |
| The Veil Of Gladness | The Silent Throng | The Rich Banners | The Jewelled Order |
| The Green Banners | The Stricken Host | The Jet-Black Sky | The Broad Border |
| The Silent Stars | The Dead Chief | The Wailing Valour | The Moving Mass |
| The Dimming Pearl | The Dozing Stars | The Wan Hope | The Black Tights |
| The Satin Slippers | The Gilt Buckles | The Velvet Cap | The Velvet Cloak |
| The Silk Shoes | The Blue Silk | The Prison Scene | The Minstrel Show |
| Rattle The Bones | The Coffee Palace | Townshend Street | Tuppence A Week |
| The Boys Of London And New York | The Electric Airship | Archie's Boots | Cooney's Paste Blacking |
| The Green Paper | The Sudden End | The Handcuffs | The House Of Bondage |
| Behind Time | The Hard Words | The Right Sound | The Stately Books |
| The Lone Word | The Frightened Man | The Naked Sword | The Roaring Lion |
| The City Street | The Bare Heath | The Noble Lightning | The Deadly Dawn |
| The Day Of Wrath | Archie Talton | His Sister's Wedding | The Acting Folk |
| The Bailiffs | The Down-At-Heels | The Frayed Shillings | The Mechanics |
| The Well-Soiled | The Tumble-Me-Down | The Perky Face | The Golden Moustache |
| Gone In The Knees | The Jerry Hat | The Golden Curl | The Saucy Away |
| The Roll Of The Ship | The Bender Kite | The Scarlet Fever | The Damask Costumes |
| The Holy Show | Colour And Stir | The Strange Pity | The Coming Event |
| The Crimson Cloth | The Last Look-Over | The Pompous Garments | The Gathering Dusk |
| The Gentle Dusk | The Dismal Darkness | The Sad Light | The Spill |
| The Tantrum | The Sorrowing Mother | The Prime Favourite | The Yellow Shoes |
| The White Collar | Gob-Oil | The Sabre-Cut | Cork Hill |
| The Thoughtful Silence | The Tram Window | The Comical Clothes | The Sound Sleep |
| Swift's Hospital | The City Of Cells | The Urgent Order | The Wildest Wind |
| The Withered Leaf | The Hand-Clasp | Low Treason | The Vanished Frown |
JP Donleavy's cult classic set in Dublin in the 1950's is a well-spring of names for non-existent tunes ...
| The Rare Sun | Clang To The Quays | Tara Street | The Shoeless Kids |
| Wag The Knapsack | The Huge Tubs | The First Bath | Through The Turnstile |
| The Third Class | The Rooms In Trinity | The Laundry | The Tiled Shower |
| Who's Paying? | Visit The Broker | The Electric Fire | Hock The Fire |
| Visit The Parents | On The Moors | The Balscaddoon | Scrabble On The Ceiling |
| Under The Floor | Whatever I've Got | Loaded With Dough | Getting It Steady |
| The Loose Women | Keep A Watch | No More Drink | Over The Weekend |
| Your First Woman | The Steep Hill | Close To The Houses | The Neighbour's Eyes |
| The Flat Water | The Concrete Wall | Within The Doorway | The White Shoes |
| The Tan Trousers | The Bits Of Wire | By All Means | Flush The Toilet |
| Lift The Lid | The Full Stomach | Up To My Eyes | The Conservatory Door |
| Pinch The Leaves | The Dying Plant | Out In The Garden | The Shaggy Grass |
| The Shrill Whistle | The Swells Of Sea | The Narrow Back | Look In The Windows |
| The Blue Blanket | The Patience | The Ragged Edges | The Rowing Blue |
| The Flippant Subtlety | Class Power | The Little Credit | The Shrewd Bastard |
| The Fire In The Stove | We'll See | The Deserted Road | The Counter |
| The Sides Of Bacon | The Basket Of Eggs | The Bright Eggs | The White Apron |
| The Long Counter | The Pursed Lips | Open The Account | The Large Ledger |
| The Monthly Bill | The Cork Gin | The End Of The Shop | Behind The Scenes |
| Take It All | All Smiles And Remarks | The Shocking Fog | The Others Either |
| Carry The Parcels | Up The Hill | Sweep The Packages | The Blue Blood |
| The Cold Front | Not A Word | The English Wives | The Proper Place |
| Snowed Under | The Noble Calling | Flip The Pots | The Maladjusted |
| The Fine Land | The Unnatural Connection | The Little Rest | The Rosy Ideas |
| The Night Before The Wedding | Refuse The Drink | Pleading Poverty | Hold The Chicken |
| On Your Toes | Up The Pole | The Nest Egg | The Law Exams |
| Fill The Bowl | The Night Outside | The Boom Of The Sea | The Angelus Bells |
| Play It Cosy | Marry For Cash | Come In Drunk | The Quick One |
| Another Mouth To Feed | Back To America | The Smack Of The Lips | The Spooky House |
| Constance Kelly | In My Power | Beacon Hill | The Social Ladder |
| The Black Briar | Full Blast | The Kid's Toys | The Impatient Rap |
| The Smudge Of Flour | My Best Accent | Spin On My Heel | The Green Rocking Chair |
| The Wiggle Of Joy | The Hundred Yesses | The Red Tiles | The Kitchen Floor |
| Wave The Fork | The Live Eye | Mad Mick | The Old Slut |
| The Cow's Arse | The End Of The Field | Nudge Her Into The Ditch | Get Her Breathless |
| Three Nights Running | Up To Our Ankles | Knock Her Down | The Tub Of Lard |
| Get The Visa | Touch The Arm | The Beast Of Burden | The Rest Of Me Days |
| Chain Her To The Stove | Marry The Irish | Look For Poverty | Marry Out Of Spite |
| The Matrmonial Column | The Encumbrance | The Man Of Means | The Extensive |
| The Stout Build | The Toasted Bird | The Green Table | The Dripping Breast |
| Rip Off The Legs | The Tremble On The Shelf | The Little Curtains | The Red Spots |
| The Gale Outside | When You Think Of It | My First Chicken | The Night I Left New York |
| Keep The Menu | Around The Corner | The Brown Suit | Away From The Crowd |
| The Print Dress | The Ripe Pears | The Pot Of Gin | Inches Away |
| The Long Cigarette | The White Fingers | The Naval Uniform | White As A Sheet |
| Search The Premises | Room To Room | The Trap Door | Carry The Ladder |
| The Beam Of Light | The Descending | The Footfalls | The Cat With One Eye |
| The Gaping Hole | Mr Gilhooley's | The History Of Death | The Tripod |
| The Brass Telescope | The Lumps Of Stuffing | The Sad Room | The Dark Gloom |
| The Rotten Sills | The Twisted Notes | The Green Pajamas | Old Man Wilton |
| The Free Taxi | Walk The Dales | The Mad Maid | Flowers In The Bed |
| The Blue Night Gown | Cigarettes and Gin | The False Front Teeth | Behind The Dresser |
| Bacon And Butter | The Woolly Rug | The Boston Voice | The Yellow Light |
| Out The Window | The Windy Grass | The Black Rocks | The Wet Steps |
| The Gorse Stumps | The Rusty Heather | The High Water | The Diving Pool |
| The Sleepless Sea | The Jug Of Coffee | Along The Harbour Pier | Kilrock |
| The Granite Coast | The Salty Wind | The Greasy Dishes | The Train Wreck |
| Foot The Bill | The Price Of Death | The Quiet Hotel | The Cool Water |
| The Winter Body | Tight With Money | The Chugging Boats | The Thick Ankles |
| The Wretched Man | The Gray Trap | The Red Candles | Waiting In The Rain |
| The Consulate | The Jewel Among Men | Don't Bother Me | Ass And Money |
| The Top Deck | The Green Sign | The Old Names | The Dreams Of Arrest |
| The Public Nuisance | The Impertinence | Gaskin's Leap | The Fox Hole |
| The Piper's Gut | The Casana Rock | Warmth In The Air | The Biscuit Factory |
| The Quarry | A Nice Hand In Spite Of The Work | The Fast Worker | Kissing A Stranger |
| The Lonely Gent | The Innocent Embrace | The Nice Bosom | Don't Be Rude |
| The New-Warmed Heart | The Torturing Chances | The Smasher | The Haunted Door |
| The House Of Sounds | Bury The Axe | Crowd The Demons | The Little Nightcap |
| The Bible Of Happines | Passion Of The Moment | The Circle Of Hair | The Sea Air |
| The Wet Ghost | The Open Window | The Floating Feathers | The Wild Head |
| Drag The Mattress | The First Impostor | The Good Swig | The Irate Face |
| The Morn Of Chaos | The Fifteen Shillings | Aloft The Gin | The Goat Dance |
| The Brazen Lies | The Sack Of Excrement | The Tattered Underwear | The Nursery Door |
| The Child's Pillow | The Screaming Mouth | The Blackguard | The Wailing Voice |
| The Guilty Heart | The Morning Bus | Clicking The Teeth | The Mud Flats |
| North Bull Island | The Vulgar Blood | Explain The Account | Peaches And Cream |
| Air The House | Out With A Bang | Fairview Park | The Mouldy Blanket |
| The Medicine Chest | The National Library | Amiens Street | The Ostrich Step |
| Talbot Street | The Squinting Eyes | The Toothless Mouths | The Trip Up An Alley |
| The Evil Mind | The American Sailors | The Provocation | The Hundred Churches |
| The Gold Label | Settle The Nerves | Youth On My Side | The Late Twenties |
| The Trying Times | The Stuffed Foxes | The Potted Plants | The Snug Stained Brown |
| Press The Buzzer | The Raw Face | Always Business | The Good Platitude |
| The Accusation | The Milk Money | The Discreet Door | The Decent Weather |
| The Cocktail Cabinet | The Rose Wood Chairs | The Knowledgeable Man | The Botcher |
| Pave The Streets | Me Choosey Soul | The Butt Bridge | The Last Years |
| Merrion Square | Wriggle The Fingers | The American Flag | Cars and Cigars |
| The Receptionist's Desk | The First Taste | The Guillotine | Mr Morgue |
| The Bang On The Desk | The Touch Of Obedience | Charged With Theft | No More Nonsense |
| The Trickle Of Spittle | The Nervous Hand | The White Envelope | The Red Eyes |
| The Folded Hands | The Final Announcement | Twiddle Twat | The Georgian Door |
| Down The Steps | The Rich Green | The Slabs Of Granite | The Celtic Lout |
| The French Horn | The Feeling Of Scholarship | The Back Gate | Close To Learning |
| The Odd Malt | The Bright World | The Lately Dead | Nassau Street |
| The Tweedy Bodies | Kildare Street | The Morning Whiskey | The Badge Of Prosperity |
| The Iron Fence | The Good Purpose | The Yellow Banners | Shoulder To The Wheel |
| Push Like The Rest | Stephen's Green | The Three Penny Chairs | The Rings Of Flowers |
| The Late Trams | The June Morning | The Dusty Stairs | The Rust-Stained Sink |
| The Padding Feet | The Dreary Face | The Empty Eye | The Rancid Butter |
| The Marks Of Teeth | The Spittle Stains | The Self Pollution | Fill The Sack |
Our thanks to Conor Lennon, who's been scanning the oul' internet newsgroups on our behalf to come up with the following nuggets.
The Lurgan Spade 1. In Ireland in the early part of the last century, every district seemed to have a spade of different shape. The town next to my home Portadown, Lurgan, Co. Armagh had a distinctive spade with a very long thinnish face which narrowed to about half its width at the base - known, naturally, as a Lurgan Spade. A common expression in Ireland for someone looking glum and despondent - "he has a face on him like a Lurgan Spade". Maybe some of you snow shovellers should send for one!
from rec.gardens.roses
The Lurgan Spade 2. There is an expression current in Ulster (Geographic term - no political significance) English -- He/She had a face as long as Lurgan Spade. Now people assume that this is a reference to the town of Lurgan in (the wrong end of) County Armagh.
Actually it is a direct translation of the Irish: Bhi aghaidh chomh fada air/uirthi le lorgan spaid! where lorgan is the Irish for handle, and spad (genitive spaid) means spade. So it actually means a face as long as a spade handle/shaft.
Actually Lurgan (Irish An Lorgan) comes from the same word but in this case it has the similar meaning of a long thin ridge.
from soc.culture.irish
And finally ... a piece about that oul' "left-footer/right-footer" conundrum ...
On a visit to the Ulster Folk Museum in Cul Tra, County Down a few years ago I finally learned the origin of the phrase "to dig/kick with the other/left foot".
One of the reconstructed buildings in a spade mill and inside it is an exhibition of spades and sleans (for cutting turf) from all around the country showing common designs and influences of new design. In common with many items of folk craft most areas had traditional spades.
Now the traditional Irish 'slean' only had one 'shoulder' to press your foot on, and so the native Irish dug with the left foot but towards the right and doing most of the work with the right shoulder.
However when the work-ethic-motivated planters arrived they brought their own spades which had two shoulders and were usually used with the right foot. Therefore you could tell someone's background by watching them work.
Of course nowadays most commercially produced spades have two shoulders, but you will still see one shouldered sleans all over Ireland.
It all just proves that the Fenians are left-footers after all!
Now if any of yez have any comments don't get narky with Pay The Reckoning, or with Conor ... the lad's just gathering stuff that's out there and passing it on!
However ... if you want to take issue ... visit PAY THE RECKONING INTERACTIVE and make your comments there!
Our inclusion of a piece by Rabelais a few days ago led to a request from one hapless soul for more of the same. Well! Never let it be said that Pay The Reckoning never gives you what you want!!
This is an excerpt from Chapter 22 of the first book in Rebaleais' series, "The Inestimable Life Of The Great Gargantua, Father Of Pantagruel". The Chapter is entitled "The Games Of Gargantua". Enjoy!
Then blockishly mumbling with a set on countenance a piece of scurvy grace, he washed his hands in fresh wine, picked his teeth with the foot of a hog, and talked jovially with his attendants. Then the carpet being spread, they brought plenty of cards, many dice, with great store and abundance of checkers and chessboards.
There he played
| At flusse | At primero | At the beast | At the rifle |
| At trump | At the prick and spare not | At the hundred | At the peeny |
| At the unfortunate woman | At the fib | At the pass ten | At one and thirty |
| At post and pair, or even and sequence | At three hundred | At the unlucky man | At the last couple in hell |
| At the hock | At the surly | At the lanskenet | At the cuckoo |
| At puff, or let him speak that hath it | At take nothing and throw out | At the marriage | At the frolic or jackdaw |
| At the opinion | At who doth the one, and doth the other | At the sequences | At the ivory bundles |
| At the tarots | At losing load him | At he's gulled and esto | At the torture |
| At the handruff | At the click | At honours | At love |
| At the chess | At Reynard the fox | At the squares | At the cowes |
| At the lottery | At the chance or mumchance | At three dice or manifest bleaks | At the tables |
| At nivinivinack | At the lurch | At doublets or queen's game | At the failie |
| At the French trictrac | At the long tables or ferkeering | At feldown | At tods body |
| At needs must | At the dames or draughts | At bob and mow | At primus secundus |
| At mark-knife | At the keys | At span-counter | At even or odd |
| At cross or pile | At ball and huckle-bones | At ivory balls | At the billiards |
| At bob and hit | At the owl | At the charming of the hare | At pull yet a little |
| At trudgepig | At the magatipes | At the horn | At the flowered or shrovetide ox |
| At the madge-owlet | At pinch without laughing | At prickle me tickle me | At the unshoing of an ass |
| At the cocksess | At hari hohi | At I set me down | At earlie beardie |
| At the old mode | At draw the spit | At put out | At gossip lend me your sack |
| At the ramcod ball | At thrust out your harolt | At Marseil figs | At nicknamrie |
| At stick and hole | At boke or him, or flaying the fox | At the branching it | At the cat selling |
| At trill madam, or grapple my lady | At blow the coal | At the re-wedding | At the quick and dead judge |
| At unoven the iron | At the false clown | At the flints, or at the nine stones | At to the crutch hulch back |
| At the sanct is found | At hinch, pinch and laugh not | At the leek | At bumdockdousse |
| At the loose gig | At the hoop | At the sow | At belly to belly |
| At the dales or straths | At the twigs | At the quoits | At I'm for that |
| At tilt at weekie | At nine pins | At the cock quintin | At tip and hurle |
| At the flat bowles | At the veere and tourn | At rogue and ruffian | At bumbatch touch |
| At the mysterious trough | At the short bowls | At the dapple-grey | At cock and crank it |
| At break pot | At my desire | At twirly whirlytril | At the rush bundles |
| At the short staff | At the whirling gigge | At hide and seek, or are you all hid | At the picket |
| At the blank | At the pilferers | At the caveson | At prison bars |
| At have at the nuts | At cherry-pit | At rub and rice | At whip-top |
| At the casting top | At the hobgoblins | At the O wonderful | At the soilie smutchy |
| At fast and loose | At scutchbreech | At the broom-besom | At St. Cosme I come to adore thee |
| At the lusty brown boy | At I take you napping | At fair and softly passeth Lent | At the forked oak |
| At truss | At the wolf's tail | At bum to buss or nose in breech | At Geordie give me my lance |
| At swaggy, waggy, or shoggy-shou | At stook and rook, shear and threave | At the birch | At the musse |
| At the dilly dally darling | At ox mouldy | At purpose in purpose | At nine less |
| At blind-man buff | At the fallen bridges | At bridled nick | At the white at buts |
| At thwack singe him | At apple, pear and plum | At mumgi | At the toad |
| At cricket | At the pounding stick | At jack and the box | At the queens |
| At the trades | At heads and points | At the vine-tree hug | At black be thy fall |
| At ho the distaffe | At Joanne Thomson | At the boulting cloth | At the oat's seed |
| At greedy glutton | At the Moorish dance | At feebie | At the whole frisk and gambole |
| At battabum, or riding the wild mare | At Hinde the Plowman | At the good mawkin | At the dead beast |
| At climb the ladder Billy | At the dying hog | At the salt doup | At the pretty pigeon |
| At barley break | At the bavine | At the bush leap | At crossing |
| At bo-peep | At the hardit arsepursey | At the harrower's rest | At forward hey |
| At the fig | At gunshot crack | At mustard peel | At the gome |
| At the relapse | At jog breech, or prick him forward | At knockplate | At the Cornish chough |
| At the crane dance | At slash and cut | At bobbing, or flirt on the nose | At the larks |
| At filipping |
After he had thus well played, revelled, past and spent his time, it was thought fit to drink a little, and that was eleven glassfuls the man, and, immediately after making good cheer again, he would stretch himself upon a fair bench, or a good large bed, and there sleep two or three hours together, without thinking or speaking any hurt.
A further tale from the prolific pen of the man known to the wide world simply as Matthew Edwards, but known to Pay The Reckoning as "a chara chairde".
One night during the Emergency years there was, as usual, a lively argument going on in the special writer's and artist's carriage of the Dublin Underground Railway. The writers were complaining about the activities of the Censorship Board, and how it was becoming impossible to earn a living from literature.
James Joyce, who had popped over by submarine from Trieste to check the house numbers on the Vico Road for his new novel, was bemoaning the fact that the only thing the warring nations agreed on was the banning of Ulysses. The now statelier and plumper figure of Gogarty pointed out that the only way he could escape being placed on the Index was to write all the dirty bits in Attic Greek.
At the bar, Flann O'Brien was getting extremely drunk, again, thanks to the barman allowing him three drinks for the price of one in consideration of his Triune identity. He was trying to jot down a note on the back of his ticket for a pun on Greeks in the attic to use in his novel.
Sean O'Faolain complained about the stagnant state of Irish culture, and illustrated his remarks by pointing to the pools of Guinness spreading across the floor: "That's Irish writing today for you; a stain on the floor of a railway carriage." Young Brendan Behan cheered and shouted, "Up the IRA!" All the others glared at him, and wondered who had let him in as he hadn't written anything yet. However a minor Joyce brother murmured that he was so-and-so's nephew, and anyway he could sing a bit.
After a while a general agreement began to emerge that being banned by the Board conferred an élite status on those writers. Consequently Gogarty was elected spokesman to approach the Managing Director of the Railway, Mr L.H.Corner, with a view to securing a private compartment, with a bar, restricted for the use of banned writers.
At this, Brendan Behan, who didn't want to be left out of anything, leaped out of the carriage at Emmet Station and scribbled a rude song on the walls (in both Gaelic and English as prescribed by Regulation 42 Ch.11 sect.xlvii of the Railway), and signed his name below. He was duly banned by the Censorship Board the following day, and thus he became the first author to be prohibited without having anything of his published.
Of course musicians were also allowed on the Dublin Underground, or the Four-Cornered Railway as it was popularly known afer the four brothers Corner who constituted the Board of Directors. Indeed there was one memorable night involving Margaret Barry and a bicycle...but thats a story for another day. (However if you can't wait, then click here!)
Matthew Edwards is a great advocate of a wee book called "The Tailor And Ansty". Here, in his own words, is his explanation of the book's merit:
The Tailor was Tim Buckley, who lived with his wife, Ansty, in Gougane Barra. He was a great storyteller, Irish speaker, and a singer as well. A number of people used to visit him to hear his stories, and to learn Irish from him, and some of these became great friends with him, including Frank O'Connor the short story writer and translator. Eric Cross wrote down some of the Tailor's stories, and this was published in 1942 as The Tailor and Ansty. The book was banned by the Irish Government of that time as being "in its general tendency indecent". The records of the Irish Senate debates over the banning of this book have themselves been struck from the record lest pornographers would buy the proceedings and peddle them to deprave and corrupt the youth of the nation.
It has been said that the list of books banned by the Irish Censorship Board constitutes an excellent guide to the world's greatest literature, but while most authors could treat such ridiculous attitudes with the contempt they deserved, the effect on the Tailor and Ansty in Gougane Barra at that time was devastating. For telling old stories with a Rabelaisian relish, he and his wife were shunned by their neighbours, condemned by the church and isolated from their friends.
Times have changed since then and the book has been openly sold in Ireland for many years. Read it for a wonderful account of a great couple who brought light and laughter into the lives of many.
"Take the world fine and aisy and the world will take you fine and aisy" The Tailor
And here, to prove Matthew's point, are two tales from the book.
The Catspaw Candelabrum
Did you know that it was because of the instinct of an animal that the indigo dye first came to Ireland?
I'll tell you the history of it, and divil a lie is there in it, though most people won't give in to it.
Years ago there was a boat came into Bantry harbour, and the captain of it came into the town. He was on his way from India. He had a few drinks and fell into conversation with some of the people in the town, and got intimate with them.
He was a decent, conversible type of man, and, as the evening was coming, they asked him to play a game of cards, and he said that he would as he was staying the night anyway. They were playing for some time and the light was failing as the night came. One of them lit a piece of a candle and put it on the table. But with the banging and the thumping of the cards in the excitement of the play the candle kept falling down.
Then one of them said that he would go and look for a sconce, but the captain of the boat said 'No', for he had a better sconce than any one they could find in Bantry town.
He had a bag with him, and he pulled the bag from under the table and took out a cat. He put the cat sitting at one end of the table and put the candle between his paws. It was one of the neatest bits of business you ever set eyes on. All the town came in to look at it, for they had never seen the likes before.
The captain explained to them that he had trained the cat in this business, for when they were playing cards in the Indian Ocean there were terrible rough seas, and no candle would stand up for them.
All the town marvelled except one man, who said that it was well enough, and he had admiration enough for the captain and for his cat, but that nature was a greater thing than training. The two started an argument, and they almost came to blows. Then they decided to bet a wager on who was right. The captain bet a cargo of indigo blue that learning was greater than nature, and the man from Bantry bet a farm of land that nature was stronger than learning.
They carried on with the game, and when it was over, the captain put his cat into the bag and went away with himself to bed. He stayed the following day, and that night they all played cards again, and the cat was at the end of the table with the candle between his paws.
The man who had the wager bet with the captain was playing too, and half-ways through the game he took a mouse out of his pocket and put it on the table. As soon as the cat saw it he dropped the candle and chased the mouse, and the man from Bantry won his wager and proved that nature is stronger than learning. The captain paid him the cargo of indigo dye, and that was how the indigo first came to this country.
And secondly
Johnny Jerry's Sow And The Eel
There are people who walk through the world who see nothing and hear nothing and learn nothing and know nothing. I don't know why they are alive at all. There are animals learn quicker and have more sense than a deal of human beings.
I saw a curious thing in this line myself a few years ago. Did you ever know that a sow is a very intelligent animal?
I was on the road to this side of Turendubh. There is a pool there at the side of the road, and a 'johnny the bog' had caught an eel in the pool and was swallowing him. The 'johnny the bog' is a strange kind of bird. He has only a straight gut.
Well, he was swallowing the eel and he wasn't making much of a hand at the business, for the eel ran straight through him, and the 'johnny the bog' kept swallowing him and losing him again.
Johnny Jerry had a sow at that time and she was always on the side of the road. She came along and she stood for a while and watched the 'johnny the bog' go through the performance several times. Then she made a grab for the eel herself and swallowed him and clapped her backside up against the wall!
Now wasn't she a cute and a quick scholar? Yerra, don't be talking. A man can see a new wonder every minute of the day, if only he has the intelligence to know a wonder whe he sees one.
We drew our readers' attention earlier to Matthew Edwards' fictional Dublin Underground Railway (see here).
Well here we let the man himslef give us a bit more of an insight into this fabulous (in both senses of the word!) piece of engineering prowess.
I should like to acknowledge my debt to Miles Kington, who previously chronicled some accounts from the history of the Dublin Underground Railway. These can be found in the 1978 issues of Richard Boston's sadly defunct ecological magazine Vole. However Kington's reseaches were incomplete, and it has recently become possible to unearth more about the origins of the Railway.
The initial diggings for the Railway were made in the 1870's, as part of a grandiose plan to raise Dublin's status as a city of the British Empire. Works were abandoned however, in the 1880's, during one of the Stock Exchange's periodic Panics - and, it is said, in reaction to the Phoenix Park atrocity. The project was raised and dropped several times during the Home Rule debates, but was finally abandoned altogether on the fall of Parnell. It was only in 1911, under Asquith's Liberal Government, and with the support of Redmond's Irish Party, that serious working was resumed. The Railway was almost complete in August 1914 when the outbreak of war forced the postponement of the opening ceremonies.
However the existence of an unused railway line running below the streets of Dublin was well known to some of the leaders of the Easter Rising. In particular, some of the volunteers in Connolly's Irish Citizens Army had been recruited to work on the Railway, and knew its layout well. It is certain that some plans did exist to make use of the Railway during the Rising, and Roger Casement appears to have been involved in a plan to smuggle a train on to the line.
There is an obscure reference in the Black Diaries of Roger Casement to a dream of "a train penetrating a dark tunnel in Dublin", which scholars have generally dismissed as a standard homoerotic image, and probably a forgery at that. However there is a fragment of a ballad, to the tune of "Spanish Lady", which suggests that there may be some basis to the story:-
"As I rode to Dublin City, At twelve o'clock on Easter night, Who should I meet but Roger Casement, Driving a train to join the fight."
What is definite is that the British Government did not stand by its promise to open the Railway after the War. Instead, during the War of Independence from 1919-1921, the Railway was extensively used by Michael Collins and his Squad. In the meantime Ned Broy in Dublin Castle was somehow able to conceal from his nominal employers all the records relating to the Railway, and substituted some inaccurate plans in their place.
The confusion of the times is captured in a story told by one of Collins' Volunteers many years later. Frank O'Connor came across the tale while writing his biography of Collins "The Big Fellow". As he was unable to corroborate the story he decided not to use it in his book, but he used to recount it in private with great flair.
One night a team of detectives from Dublin Castle believed that they had found a secret entrance to the Railway, and they descended through a manhole in Sackville Street. Unfortunately for them this actually led to the main Dublin sewer, which Collins, who was aware of their activities, was able to control. At a given signal he ensured a mass release of the chamber pots and lavatories of Dublin, so that the detectives were swept away in a flood of the most noxious effluvia. They emerged in the Liffey, amid a stinking tidal wave. As they climbed up a ladder to the quayside, a passer-by, who could smell them long before they were visible, called out: "Youse boys must surely love your food to swim in it after you've eaten it and shat it out!"
The detective team crept back to the Castle to be hosed down. They were forever after known, behind their backs, as "The Brown and Tans."
Pay The Reckoning owe a big debt of thanks to Matthew Edwards for supporting us by allowing us to reprint some of his huge store of stories, all of which are pretty much right up Pay The Reckoning's street. (Anybody else detect a touch of a latter-day "Cruiskeen Lawn" about Matthew's output?)
Anyway ... here's another yarn for you courtesy of the boul' Matthew.
The Dancing Cat
A long time ago in West Kerry, there was a wonderful house-party going on one night.The fiddler's elbows were racing up and down as he played The Gander in the Pratie Hole,The Pratie in the Gander's Hole, and the whole of Bridie's Granda's set.
The drink was flowing freely; the half-door was off its hinges, and one old fellow was stepping away neatly on it. Couples were reeling across the floor, while some others were actually dancing.
Up in the loft two cats were looking down on the scene; the first one became so carried away by the music that he started to dance. He leaped into the air, and performed the neatest little entrechat you ever saw. Says the second cat, "I didn't know you were into all this trad stuff."
"Oh yes," replies the first one "You see it runs in the family. My old man gave his guts for the fiddle."
After the session was finished, and the sun was coming up over the hills, at last the fiddler gets home, and says; "You'll never believe what happened tonight. I saw two cats, and they were talking to each other."
"Nonsense," says his dog, "Everyone knows cats can't talk."
Pay The Reckoning have a great deal of time for the works of Rabelais, that mischievous monk who wrote his fine works concerning the deeds and sayings of the imaginary giants Gargantua and Pantagruel in the middle of the sixteenth century. The following list, extracted from the second of Rabelais' works "Pantagruel, King of the Dipsodes, with his heroic acts and prowesses" is a catalogue of the books in the imaginary library of Saint Victor in Paris ... (Now doesn't this whole premise remind anyone of Pay The Reckoning's obsessive interest in listing titles for imaginary tunes?)
The translation is by Sir Thomas Urquhart and Peter Motteux.
Much of the Latin is codology. Where Urquhart and Motteux have provided translations for titles of the library's books which are expressed in proper Latin, Pay The Reckoning have included these.
| The Two-Horse Tumbrel of Salvation |
| The Codpiece of the Law |
| The Slippers or Pantofles of the Decretals |
| The Pomegranate of Vice |
| The Clew-Bottom of Theology |
| The Duster or Foxtail-flap of Preachers, composed by Turlupin |
| The Churning Ballock of the Valiant |
| The Henbane of the Bishops |
| Marmotretus De baboonis et apis, cum Commento Dorbellis |
| Decretum Universitatis Parisiensis super Gorgiasitate Muliercularum ad Placitum (Decree of the University of Paris which permits young ladies to bare their throats at will) |
| The Apparition of Sanct Geltrude to a Nun of Poissy, being in travail at the bringing forth of a child |
| Ars Honeste Fartandi in Societate per Marcum Ortuinum (On the Worthy Art of Genteel Farting by Marcus Orthuinus) |
| The Mustard-pot of Penance |
| The Gamashes alias the Boots of Patience |
| Formicarium Artium (The Ant-Heap of the Arts) |
| De brodiorum Usu, et Honestate Chopinandi, per Sylvestrem Prioratem Jacobinum (On the Use of Soups and on the Worthiness of Tippling, by Sylvester de Priero, Jacobin) |
| The Cuckold in Court |
| The Frail of the Scriveners |
| The Marriage-packet |
| The Crucible of Contemplation |
| The Flimflams of the Law |
| The Goad of Wine |
| The Spur of Cheese |
| Decrotatorium Scholarium (On the Brushing Up of Scholars) |
| Tartaretus De Modo Cacandi (Tartaret, On the Ways of Going to Stool) |
| The Bravades of Rome |
| Bricot De Differentiis Browsarum (Bricot, On the Variations within Soups) |
| The Tail-piece-Cushion, or Close-breech of Discipline |
| The Cobbled Shoe of Humility |
| The Trivet of Good Thoughts |
| The Kettle of Magnanimity |
| The Cavailling Intanglements of Confessors |
| The Curate's Rap over the Knuckles |
| Reverendi patris fratris Lubini, provincialis Bavardiae, De gulpendis Lardslicionibus, libri tres (Three books of the Reverend Father Brother Lubin, Provincial of Chatter-land, On Gobbling Up Rashers of Bacon) |
| Pasquili Doctoris Marmorei, De Capreolis cum Artichoketa Comedendis tempore Papali ab Ecclesia interdicto (Pasquin, the marble doctor, On Eating Kids prepared with Artichokes, during the Ecclesiastically Proscribed Papal Season) (Pasquin refers to a statue in Rome, to which were affixed lampoons against prominent persons, from which our word pasquinade.) |
| The Invention of the Holy Cross, personated by six wily Priests |
| The Spectacles of Pilgrims bound for Rome |
| Majoris De Modo Faciendi Puddinos (Major, On How to Make Puddings) |
| The Bagpipe of the Prelates |
| Beda De Optimitate Triparum (Bede, On the Absolute Perfection of Tripes) |
| The Complaint of the Barristers upon the reformation of Comfites |
| The Furred Cat of the Solicitors and Attornies |
| Of Peas and Bacon, cum Commento |
| The Small Vales or Drinking Money of the Indulgences |
| Praeclarissimi juris utriusque Doctoris Maistre Pillotti, &c., Scrapfarthingi De Botchandis Glossae Accursianae Triflis Repetitio Enucidiluculidissima (The overwhelmingly clear exposition, by the most renowned Doctor of Laws, Master Pilotus Scrapfarthing, Of the Patching Up of the Fiddle-faddle of the Gloss of Accursius) |
| Strategemata Francharchieri de Baniolet (The Wiles of the Franc-Archers of Baniolet) |
| Franctopinus or Churlbumpkinus, De Re Militari cum Figuris Tevoti (Military Manual with diagrams by Tevot) |
| De Usu et Utilitate Flayandi Equos et Equas, authore Magistro nostro de Quebecu (Treatise on the Custom and Benefit of Flaying Horses and Mares, written by Our Master of Quebec) |
| The Sauciness of Country-Stewards |
| M. N. Rostocostojambedanesse De Mustarda Post Prandium Servienda, libri quatuordecim, apostilati per M. Vaurillonis (Fourteen books by Master Rostocostjambedanesse, On Serving Mustard after Dinner, annotated by Master Vaurillon) |
| The Couillage or Wench-tribute of Promoters |
| Jabolenus De Cosmographia Purgatorii (Jabolenus, The Cosmography of Purgatory) |
| Quaestio Subtilissima, utrum Chimaera in vacuo bombinans possit comedere secundas intentiones; et fuit debatuta per decem hebdomadas in Consilio Constantiensi (On the most subtle question: Whether a Chimaera, humming in the Void, is able to eat Second Intentions [the Reflex Universal], debated over a period of ten weeks by the Council of Constance) |
| The Bridle-champer of the Advocates |
| Smutchudlamenta Scoti (The mumblings of Scotus) |
| The Rasping and Hard-scraping of the Cardinals |
| De Calcaribus Removendis, Decades undecim, per M. Albericum de Rosata (One hundred and ten volumes by Master Alberic, On the Art of Keeping your Spurs clear of the Horse's Flanks) |
| Ejusdem De Castrametandis Criminibus libri tres (Three books by the same author, On Camping in the Hair [Criminbus should read crinibus]) |
| The entrance of Anthony de Leve into the territories of Brazil |
| Marforii, bacalarii cubantis Romae, De Peelandis aut Unskinnandis Blurrandisque Cardinalium Mulis (Treatise of Marforio, Bachelor of Arts, who rests at Rome: On the Manner of Adorning and Rigging-out the Cardinals' Mules.) [Marforio's statue lies on the ground in one of the courts of the ancient Capitol.] |
| The said Author's Apology against those who allege that the Pope's mule doth eat but at set times. |
| Prognasticatio quae incipt, Silvii Triquebille, balata per M. N. the deep dreaming gull Sion (A Forecast, which begins Silvii triquebille, bleated out by Our Master Songecreux.) |
| Boudarini Episcopi De Emulgentiarum Profectibus Enneades novem, cum privilegio Papali ad triennium, et postea non. (Bishop Boudarin: Ninety-one books, On the Profits of Milking [Indulgences], with a Papal privilege limited to three years) |
| The Shitabrenna of the Maids |
| The Bald Arse or Peeled Breech of the Widows |
| The Cowl or Capouch of the Monks |
| The Mumbling Devotion of the Coelestine Friars |
| The Passage-toll of Beggarliness |
| The Teeth-chatter or Gum-diddler of Lubberly Lusks |
| The Paring-shovel of the Theologues |
| The Drenching-horn of the Masters of Arts |
| The scullions of Olcam the Uninitiated Clerk |
| Magistri N. Lickdishetis, De Garbellisiftationibus Horarum Canonicarum, libri quadraginta (On Giving the Canonical Hours the Once Over, forty books by Professor Lickdish) |
| Arsiversitatorium Confratriarum, incerto authore (The Overthrow of the Confraternities, author unknown) |
| The Rasher of Cormorants and Ravenous Feeders |
| The Rammishness of the Spaniards supercoquelicanticked by Friar Inigo |
| The Muttering of Pitiful Wretches |
| Dastardismus Rerum Italicarum, authore Magistro Burnegad (The Torpor of Italian Affairs, by Master Brulefer. The original text reads Poltronismus.) |
| R. Lullius De Batisfolagiis Principum (Raymond Lullus, On the Trivial Occupations of Princes) |
| Calibistratorium Caffardiae, authore M. Jacobo Hocstraten hereticometra (Calebistris : the female sexual organs; caffardiae : canting; Master Jacob Hoogstraaten, "expert in taking the measure of heretics") |
| Codtickler, De Magistro nostrandorum Magistro nostratorumque Beuvetis, libri octo galantissimi (Eight very elegant books by Codtickler: On the Tap-rooms of the Doctors of Theology and Doctoral Candidates) |
| The Crackarades of Bullist or stone-throwing Engines, Contrepate Clerks, Scriveners, Brief-writers, Rapporters, and Papal Bull-de-spatchers, lately compiled by Regis |
| A perpetual Almanack for those that have the gout and the pox |
| Manera sweepandi fornacellos per Mag. Eccium (On How to Sweep Out Chimneys, by Master Eccius) |
| The Shable, or Scimitar of Merchants |
| The Pleasures of the Monachal Life |
| The Hodge-podge of Hypocrites |
| The History of the Hobgoblins |
| The Ragamuffianism of the pensionary maimed soldiers |
| The Gulling Fibs and counterfeit Shows of Commissaries |
| The Litter of Treasurers |
| The Juglingatorium of Sophisters |
| Antipericatametanaparbeugedamphicribrationes Toordicantium |
| The Periwinkle of Ballard-makers |
| The Push-forward of the Alchemists |
| The Niddy-noddy of the Satchel-loaded Seekers, By Friar Blindfastatis |
| The Shackles of Religion |
| The Racket of Swaggerers |
| The Leaning-stock of old age |
| The Muzzle of Nobility |
| The Ape's Paternoster |
| The Crickets and Hawks Bell of Devotion |
| The Pot of the Ember weeks |
| The Mortar of the politic life |
| The Flap of the Hermits |
| The Riding-hood or Monterg of the Penitentiaries |
| The Trictracof the Knocking Friars |
| Blockheadodus, De vita et honestate bragadochiorum (Blockhead's treatise, On the Life and Worthiness of Fops) |
| Lyrippii Sorbonici Moralisationes, per M. Lupoldum (Moral Reflections of a Liripoop, by Master Lupoldus.) [Liripoop : a graduate's hood] |
| The Carrier-horse bells of Travellers |
| The Bibbings of the tippling Bishops |
| Tarrabalationes Doctorum Coloniensium adversus Reuchlin (Uproar by the Doctors of Cologne against Reuchlin) |
| The Cymbals of Ladies |
| The Dungers' Martingale |
| Whirlingfriskorum Chasemarkerorum per Fratrem Crackwoodloguetis |
| The Clouted Patches for a Stout Heart |
| The Mummery of the Racket-keeping Robin-good-fellows |
| Gerson, De Auferibilitate Papae ab Ecclesia (Gerson, On the Right of the Church to Depose the Pope) |
| The Catalogue of the Nominated and Graduated Persons |
| Jo. Dytebrodii, De Terribilitate Excommunicationum libellulus Acephalos (On the Frightfulness of Excommunication, a short treatise without a Preface, by John Ditebrodius.) [Acephalos : without a head; i.e. brainless] |
| Ingeniositas Invocandi Diabolos et Diabolas, per M. Guingolphum (On the Art of Calling Up He-Devils and She-Devils by Guingolfus) |
| The Hotch-potch or Gallimaufry of the perpetually begging Friars |
| The Morris-dance of the Heretics |
| The Whinings of Cajetan |
| Muddisnout Doctoris Cherubici, De Origine Roughfootedarum, et Wryneckedorum Ritibus, libri septem |
| Sixty-nine fat Breviaries |
| The Night-Mare of the five orders of Beggars |
| The Skinnery of the new Start-ups, extracted out of the fallow-butt, incornifistibulated and plodded upon in the angelic sum |
| The Raver and idle Talker in cases of Conscience |
| The Fat Belly of the Presidents |
| The Baffling Flowter of the Abbots |
| Sutoris Adversus quendam qui vocaverat eum Slabsauceatorem et quod Slabsauceatores non sunt damnati as Ecclesia (Sutor: Against a certain person who called him a Slabsauce-eater, and that Slabsauce-eaters are not condemned by the Church) |
| Cacatorium Medicorum (The Doctors' Chamber-pot) |
| The Chminey-Sweeper of Astrology |
| Campi clysteriorum per S. C. (The Fields of Enemas by S. C.) [Symphorien Champier] |
| The bumsquibcracker of Apothecaries |
| The Kissbreech of Chirurgery |
| Justinianus De White-leperotis Tollendis (Justinian, On the Suppression of White Leprosy) [The original text reads, On the Suppression of Bigotry] |
| Antidotarium Animae (The Pharmacopaeia of the Soul) |
| Merlinus Coccaius, De Patria Diabolorum (On the Devil's Homeland by Merlin Coccaius) |
| The practice of Iniquity, by Cleuraunes Sadden |
Yet another yarn from the mischievous pen of Matthew Edwards, whose work Pay The Reckoning is delighted to host. (If we ever meet, Matthew, that's a few pints we owe you!) Are you sitting comfortably ...?
One January day in 1936 young Michael Byrne travelled up to Dublin from Kildare instructed by his widowed mother to sell their spotted cow. She had told him firmly that he was not to accept less than five guineas but as he wandered through the market he could find no takers. The dealers laughed at Michael's accent, and made fun of him; "Five guineas! Pull the udder one!" one dealer cried out, roaring with laughter at his own wit. Inspired by this the other dealers trotted out all their best cow jokes, milking the subject for all its worth, until the spotted cow herself was seen to blush at the story of the Black Bull of Clontarf and the blind milkmaid.
Miserably Michael crept away from the market, and boarded the Underground Railway at McCracken Station, paying the obligatory halfpenny fare for the cow. He took a seat in the corner of the front carriage, and listened to a singer entertaining the company. It wasn't long before the passengers noticed Michael's long face in spite of the singer's spirited rendition of Down By The Liffeyside. The singer, who was of course none other than Peadar Kearney, came over to Michael and sympathetically poured him a tot of whiskey while Michael poured out his sad story.
Peadar was much moved by Michael's account, and declared that he should not go home to Kildare without something better to remember Dublin by. After a few moments he stood up and sang the following song.
Come gather round good people, who in Dublin town do dwell, While I relate and communicate, as I'm about to tell. It's all about a sorry case I'm going to tell you now, Concerning Michael from Kildare and the tail of his spotted cow. It was on a January morning that he took the cow to town, By the clock face in the marketplace, the dealers looked her up and down, Saying to young Michael Byrne, "Get back behind your plough, And go back home to Kildare with the tail of your spotted cow. On the banks of the Liffey young Michael then he strayed, And by the edge of O'Connell Bridge he spied a fair young maid; "What ails you?" cried the maiden, "and puts sorrow on your brow, What causes you to weep and mourn with the tail of your spotted cow?" "Come home with me, young man," she said "and I'll improve your luck." And through the night with all her might she taught him how to whistle. Said he, "I feel the world go round, I cannot tell you how, God bless you for your kindness to the tail of my spotted cow." So Michael went home to Kildare, the hero of the day, And every maid about him played as he passed along his way, And the streets of that fair city are packed with children now, Thanks to the powers of Michael and the tail of his spotted cow.
Naturally Michael's mother was outraged when he returned with the cow, and no money, and singing Peadar's song. She threw him out onto the streets, and up until a few years ago he could still be heard singing The Tale of My Spotted Cow in exchange for a glass of stout
We stumbled across one of Matthew Edwards' flights of fancy on the Mudcat Cafe not so long ago and thought to ourselves, now if only he'd let us publish his work on Pay The Reckoning. Being generous with his talents, Matthew says "Fire away, lads!". Right then, so! Settle back for a yarn from Matthew's fevered imagination ... Oh ... yes ... Dublin Underground Railway ... that's Matthew's invention. Don't go looking for it when you're next in the Fair City!
One evening on the Dublin Underground Railway Margaret Barry boarded the train at Tone Station with her banjo, and began busking in the writer's and artist's carriage. She sang her version of Galway Bay:
"She could drink her sixty pints of Irish Guinness And stagger from the pub and never sway. If the sea was beer instead of salty water, She would live and swim and die in Galway Bay."
Then she accompanied the two Behan boys, Brendan and Dominic, while they sang The Twang Man. This was followed by an earnest discussion of the meaning of "billy-in-the-bowl", which only ended when two Gardaí entered the carriage, pushing three bicycles in front of them.
"Oi, where's the third policeman then?" called out little Dominic, and back at the bar a very intoxicated Flann O'Brien fumbled for his ticket to jot down a new idea.
One of the Gardaí spoke to Margaret Barry, and was pointing out to her that the Regulations of the Railway specifically prohibited the public performance of music and other conduct noxious to the national decency. He was interrupted by Seamus Ennis who had been sitting in a corner of the carriage with a notebook in his hand, while his other hand explored the charms of a young maiden from Bantry who had asked him about traditional customs.
"Its all right, officer," said Seamus, "I'm collecting material here for the Irish Folklore Commission, and Miss Barry and the boys here are giving me some songs for the national treasury."
The Garda muttered something to the effect that he was damned if The Twang Man was any sort of national treasure, but sensing that the mood of the crowd was against him, he decided to withdraw.
Margaret struck up again with The Blarney Stone:
"It was on the road to Bandon One morning in July..."
when, piiiing!, suddenly one of her banjo strings snapped. Nobody had any spare wire, and it seemed that the performance was over. However little Dominic ran across to the spare bicycle, and with his penknife cut off a length of brake cable, which he handed to Margaret. She fitted it neatly to her instrument, tuned it, and then charmed the whole of the carriage, including the Gardaí, by singing A Bicycle Made For Two.
Like most people, Pay The Reckoning has to cope daily with the unrelenting necessities of life ... our world is not (unfortunately) one of music, music, music all the time. In order to earn a crust, we spend a great deal of time reading (God help us!) turgid management bollocks.
But ... hang on! Did we say turgid? Did we say bollocks? How short-sighted. Because, you see, study those management texts carefully and any amount of tune titles emerge ...
| The Pace Of Change | The Holiday Entitlement | The Past Year | The Parallel |
| The Campaign | The Slowdown | The Convergence | The Harmonised |
| The Separate Arrangements | The Wide Differences | The Efficiency | The Productivity |
| The Annual Hours | The Continuous Process | The Seasonal Variation | The Working Week |
| The Overtime | The Upper Bracket | The Customary | The Discretionary |
| The Flexible | The Legal Boundaries | The Qualifying | The Agreement |
| The Evenly Divided | The Paid Break | The Way Ahead | The Phased Harmonisation |
| The Further Increase | The Fixed Annual | The Reverse Hours | The Pay Freeze |
| The Nominal Hours | The Norm | The Weekly Figure | The Headline |
| The Inclusive | The Exclusive | The Combination | The Reserve |
| The Payback | The Banked | The Ad Hoc | The Service Requirement |
| The Eventuality | The Failure | The Peak | The Rota |
| The Inconvenient | The Exact | The Small Rise | The Enhanced |
| The Accumulated | The Extra-Statutory | The Milestone | The Merger |
| The Grade And Status | The Competency | The Restricted Number | The Contract |
| The Disruption | The Day In Lieu | The Paradox | The Staff Shortage |
| The Widespread | The Labour Market | The Claimant Count | The Turning Point |
| The Downturn | The Record Level | The Recession | The Net Result |
| The Inflow | The Outflow | The False Assumption | The Poaching |
| The Recessionary Pressure | The Potential | The Skilled Operative | The Age Restriction |
| The Apprenticeship | The Taskforce | The Modified Hours | The Absolute Right |
| The Written Request | The Practical Assessment | The Reasons For Refusal | The Burden |
| The Additional Costs | The Available Staffing | The Detrimental | The Impact On Performance |
| The Negative Decision | The Dispute | The Resolution | The Tribunal |
| The Economic Growth | The Independent Forecast | The Two-Year Deal | The Structured Progression |
| The Expected Achievement | The Broad Level | The Distinct Minimum | The Starting Salary |
| The Step Point | The Third Category | The Pay Matrix | The Bonus |
| The Incentive | The Curious Phase | The Intervention | The Powers Of Veto |
| The Public Apology | The Amendment | The Backlog | The Previous Franchise |
| The Collective | The Bargaining | The Acute Shortage | The Privatisation |
| The Cutbacks | The Twin Embarrassments | The Discontent | The Short-Term Fix |
| The Rival Operator | The Press Reports | The Large Fine | The Adequate Service |
| The Only Culprit | The Entire Network | The Overlap | The Clear Direction |
| The Agreed Formula | The Probationary | The Additional Increment | The Working Party |
| The Permanent Counterpart | The Aftermath | The Deferment | The Sabbatical |
| The Suspended | The Capacity | The Market Review | The Warehouse |
| Double Time | The Central Zone | The Parent Company | The Flat-Rate |
| The Joint Venture | The Wholly-Owned | The Emphatic | The Bargaining Unit |
| The Postal Ballot | The Draft Report | The Downward Trend | The Projection |
| The Impetus | The Common Principles | The Production Schedule | The Crucial Difference |
| The Time Corridor | The Assembly Plant | The Variable Element | The Stand-Up |
| The Stand-Down | The Original Deal | The Tighter Link | The Possible Alternative |
| The Key Benefit | The Line Rate | The Rationale | The Buy-Out |
| The Extra Shift | The Stable | The Apparent Discrepancy | The Lump-Sum |
| The Earnings Cap | The Case Study | The Effective Date | The Concessionary |
| The Technical | The Supervisory | Time-And-A-Half | The Appraisal Rating |
| The Call-Out | The Semi-Skilled | The Principal | The Supplementary |
| The Disregarded | The Peripheral | The Occupational | The Contribution Rate |
| The Spine Points | The Discretionary Point | The On-Call | The Index |
| The Quarter Point | The Half Point Cut | The Increased Tariff | The Downward Effect |
Flann O'Brien's classic novel is Pay The Reckoning's personal bible. Little wonder, therefore, that we have gleaned a large number of tune titles in its pages ...
| Philip Mathers | John Divney | The Great Blow | The Bicycle-Pump |
| The Civil Man | The Idle-Minded | The Whole Idea | The Strong Farmer |
| Out At Work | In The Kitchen | Well After Bed-Time | The Unusual Days |
| The Queer Country | At The Fire | Pass The Meantime | The Thin Door |
| The Oil-Lamp | The Drone Of His Voice | The Outdoor Animal | Happy Enough |
| A Certain Year | Young And Foolish | The Red Face | The Black Suit |
| The Vale Of Tears | The Outside Car | Pockets Full Of Pennies | The Wash-Stand |
| The Strange School | The Tattered Book | The Science Master | The Next Morning |
| The Privilege | Lying Late | The First Edition | Golden Hours |
| The End Of My Education | Without A Qualm | The Serious Sin | The Long-Since |
| The Weekly Cheque | The Town Far Away | The Generous Man | The Complete Edition |
| The Comentators' | Broaden The Mind | The Bad Accident | The Rocky Farm |
| My Life Work | The Travelling-Bag | The Yellow Summer | Behind The Counter |
| The Dash-Board | The Civil Face | Full Length | The Schooner |
| Coleraine Blackjack | The Cheapest Porter | My Name And Station | Perfect Order |
| The Sparing Worker | The Hired Man | The Fancy Tiepin | Early Winter |
| Well In My Health | The Better Brand | The Travel-Worn | The Four Barrels |
| The Wrastler | Bound To Win | The Great Stupor | The Stolen Money |
| The Gold Watches | The Strong Chains | Bear The Burden | Surrender The Licence |
| The Wooden Leg | Under The Lamp | The Blare And The Crush | The Hot Noises |
| The Neighbour's House | The Seed Potatoes | The Certain Party | Friendly In The Face |
| Pegeen Meers | The Savant | The Powerful Book | The Badly Wanted |
| The Golden Fortune | The Look Of Sympathy | The Last Legs | Away To Nothing |
| The Artificial Manures | For Love Or Money | The Long Life | Worth A Packet |
| The Cash-Box | The Grim Plan | TheDeserted Stretch Of Road | The Box Of Money |
| The Depth Of Winter | The Waning Light | The Business In Hand | Men After Rabbits |
| The Iron Pump | The Slow Puncture | The Lowering Skies | The Shroud |
| The Dreary Mist | The Wet Road | The Dripping Trees | The Miserable Spade |
| The Contented Pipe | The Dim Light | The Bloodless Face | The Black Coat |
| Ear To Ankle | The Parcel On The Road | The Back Of The Neck | Clean Off His Feet |
| Smash The Neck-Bone | Full-Length In The Mud | The Conversational Tone | I Do Not Care For Celery |
| The Glasses In The Scullery | The Fallen Figure | Wake Up And Finish Him | The Protruding Chin |
| The Fabric Of His Skull | The Empty Eggshell | The Rising Of The Ditch | The Gathering Dusk |
| The Watery Mud | The Pink Stain | The Painful Stumble | The Chill Of Fright |
| The Gallows | Numb With Fear | The Crumpled Heap | The Deep Hole |
| The Field Beside The Road | The Sods Of Grass | In A Panic | The Sodden Figure |
| The Tremendous Effort | Across The Ditch | The Blind Fury | In Great Dismay |
| The Unmistakable | The Finished Task | Hide The Traces | Clean The Boots |
| Tie The Spades | The Tired Labourers | The Hard Day's Work | Not So Loud |
| The Safe Place | Mention The Box | The Reckless Thing | The Blue Sunday Suit |
| The Miserable Figure | The Kitchen Fire | The Serious Face | The Bellow Of Laughter |
| Shake The House | The Least Said The Better | Mum Was The Word | All In Good Time |
| A Good Time Coming | The Hastiness | The Impatience | The Queer Mean Man |
| The Peculiar Terms | The Small Pistol | Divide The Money | The Better Temper |
| The Hiding-Place | Simple Justice | The Low Wall | The Loose Board |
| Fornenst The Door | The Row Of Houses | The Necessary Evils | The Waning Interest |
| The Large Coffin | The Warren | The Main Objection | The Roof And Four Walls |
| The Crude Drawings | The Country Album | Bad Weather | The Foundered Sailing-Ship |
| The Platform Of Masonry | The Last Place To Think Of | The Slated Roof | The Prevailing Wind |
| The Inevitable Tarpaulins | The Suspended Rollers | The Diminutive Moat | The Military Latrines |
| The Remote Day | The Plain Porch | The Iron Gate | The Gravel Drive |
| The Glow Of Pleasure | The Mechanical Task | The Window-Ledge | The Open Window |
| Thick With Dust | The Pause On The Treshold | The Dark Morning | Stain The Windows |
| The Blears Of Grey Wash | The Brightest Part | The Weak Light | The Far Corner |
| The Blur Of Shadow | The Sudden Urge | The Bare Boards | Under My Hand |
| Crook The Finger | The Reclining Handle | The Flickering Match | The Handle Of The Box |
| Twice As Rare | The Winking Of An Eye | The Weak Collapse | The Glass Bowl |
| The Tea Things | The Wick-Wheel | The Yellow Hand | The Wrinkled Skin |
| The Skinny Vein | The Known Words | The Numbed Mind | With Equal Ease |
| The Unaccountable Interval | The Light Of Morning | The Dusty Floor | The Spellbound Gaze |
| The Other Corner | The Faded Parchment | The Tiny Pinhole | The Dressing-Gown |
| His Twin Brother | The Sticking-Plaster | The Bandage | Beyond All Question |
| Four Yards Away | The Gaping Wounds | The Murder By The Roadside | The Stiff Shoulders |
| The Strenuous Nightmare | The Crooked Way | The Best Thing To Do | In Great Danger |
| The Hammer-Blows | The Pot Of Tea | The Empty Cup | The New Position |
| The Noise Of My Tongue | The Rusty Bell | The Violent Movement | The Feeble Brew |
| The Weak Tea | The Halfway Tea | Churning-Time | The Heavy Blanket |
| True Enough | The Wooden Chair | The Limp Lids | The Straight Question |
| The Shrewd Suggestion | The Shadows Of The Lamp | The Long Draught | The Queer Eyes |
| The Wrinkled Sockets | The Unsatisfactory Life | The Principal Weakness | The Horrible Afternoon |
| The Lonely Road | The Unhappy Thoughts | The Lurid Description | Use Your Imagination |
| The Error Of My Ways | The Merciful Perception | The Unhappy Destination | The General Principle |
| The Big Table | The Dry Smile | The Strict Examination | All Angles Of The Compass |
| Wholesome Stuff | The Sermon | The Spaniel Ears | The Considerable Sin |
| The Simple Formula | The Excellent Regime | The Foregone Conclusion | The Hollow Throat |
We overheard Aidan Crossey strumming and singing this song which follows a few days ago. He claimed it was an attempt to write one of those old standard folk songs which sees the gallant hero come a cropper at the hands of booze and a pretty girl. We suggested he post it here. "It's a work in progress" he protested. "Your oul' ass!" we replied, "Bung it on the site!".
As I came down by Silverwood, It being a fine May evening, My heart was sore for Lough Neagh's shore Tonight I would be leaving; To seek adventure far away, To Liverpool I'm going; What fate is destined for me there I had no way of knowing. As I reached the railway bridge The black oul' night was falling; I chanced upon a dark-haired girl And heard her clear voice calling. "Wait up, wait up, young country man Don't stride so brisk and fast. I beg you please, towards the town Escort this sweet young lass." And I being tolerant and kind - Good manners I've been taught - I let the maiden fall beside And to Lurgan Town we walked. "Where is it that you go?" she asked "Where is that you're bound? For Banbridge, Moira, Tandragee Lisburn or Portadown?" "It's none of those" I then replied "But far from my young rearing. Tomorrow noon I board a ship By night I'll be seafaring. For I am bound for Liverpool My fortune there to seek. My chances of advancement In this country are too weak." "I fear the gain of Liverpool Will be this lassie's loss. How come a country boy like you Can tolerate the cost?" "I have thirty bob in silver coin For travel and for board. I'll travel like a king" I said "I'll lodge just like a lord." And as we drew near to an inn The maiden she did say "Would you buy a lass a drink? I mean you no delay." "I will raise a glass with you And maybe one beside For your company on the road today Has shortened this last mile." And first she called a glass of wine And then a glass of gin And opened up her ruby lips Like a linnet then to sing. And so the time it quickly passed - The drink took charge of all - I resolved no more to stray that day But into bed to crawl. Lodgings then were quickly got Beside me my love lay And kisses sweet bestowed on me Till sleep bore me away. And I dreamed of the stormy sea And fortune in my fist, Returning home, a hero bold A hero sorely missed. And I awoke at break of day My darling girl was gone. My thirty bob along with her My watch and chain and all. And I made back to Derryadd To toil on Lough and land. I'll end my days beside Lough Neagh Liverpool be damned!
The second MacNiece poem reproduced by Pay The Reckoning, Bagpipe Music is a scurrilous, rabelaisian tour-de-force... Enjoy it!
It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw, All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow. Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python, Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison. John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa, Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker, Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whisky, Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty. It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky, All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi. Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather, Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna. It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture, All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture. The Laird of Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober, Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over. Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion, Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with over-production." It's no got the gossip column, it's no go the ceilidh, All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby. Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage, Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage. His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish, Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish. It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible, All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle. It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium, It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums, It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections, Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension. It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet; Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit. The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever, But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.
In our Christmas stocking was a little book of the world's strangest proverbs. Pay The Reckoning leafed through and realised with a shock that this was really a coded means of transmitting to us yet more titles for tunes which don't yet exist! See for yourself ...
| The Empty Gossip | The Dry Pants | The Birds Of Sadness | The Positive Pleasure |
| The Wooden Club | The Fat Ponies | Alms Once Given | The Soft Tongue |
| The Scabby Donkeys | The Nine Hills | The Thin Horse | The Thrown Cake |
| The Hard Teeth | The Small Lizard | The Great Hopes | The Nine Houses |
| The Ten Inns | The Walking Stick | The Pet Daughter | Your Friend's Friend |
| Kiss The Hand | The Frozen Ground | The Lazy Pigs | The Elegant Conversation |
| The Cripple's Feet | The Fellow Inmates | The Bath Sponge | The Poor Work |
| The Head Of Butter | The Badly Cut Hair | Two Men's Shame | Thrash The Apprentice |
| Break The Water Jug | The Barbers' | The Pleaders' | The Piece Of Paper |
| The Law-Court | The Two Oxen | The Sick Man | The Inexperienced Physician |
| The Lumpy Churchyard | The Men Without Beards | Past Thirty | The Scorpion |
| The Bed-Fellow | Out On The Roof | The Wooden Ladle | The Woman's Tongue |
| The Curate's Hat | The Pair Of Shoes | The Dress And Crown | The Leaf Of Parsley |
| The Wrung Neck | The Friend's Roof | The Fish And The Guest | The Third Day |
| The Low Roof | The Ugly Wife | The Gathering Fan | The Scattering Spoon |
| The Hundred Sins | The Twice Kind Wife | The Hairy Husband | The Bear's Ear |
| The Pleasant Chain | The Many Chidren | The Wide Ears | Plenty Of Cudgel |
| Cram Him With Dainties | Comb The Hair | The Honourable Rice | The Dead Uncle |
| The Milk Pudding | The Time Of Need | Count Your Teeth | Welcome The Crow |
| Trust The Snake | The Third Eye | The Pond Of Fools | The Rich Man's Sickness |
| The Poor Man's Pancake | The Midnight Umbrella | The Sterile Goat | Cheese For Money |
| Raise The Mound | Dig The Pit | Wash The Goat | The Creaking Wagons |
| The Ass's Ears | The Golden Knife | Lick The Saucepans | The Wind In The Desert |
| The Nose Of Wax | The Patched Shoes | The Damp Hands | The Cat's Harvest |
| The Fish's Prayers | The Falling Tree | Bang The Butter | The Leopard's Tail |
Pay The Reckoning's Aidan Crossey is a regular contributor to "The Mudcat Cafe" http://www.mudcat.org, where he goes under the pseudonym "derrymacash". In particular he has entered every one of the Song Challenge!s, an entertaining way of indolently wasting a few minutes if ever there was one. The drill is this. Aine, a Texan cailin with a sense of humour as big as the state in which she resides, culls a bizarre story from the murky depths of some or other newspaper and her challengees pen a song inspired (even if only loosely) by the story.
The best of the entries to date can be found at Aine's own site http://www.geocities.com/doireanne/songchallenge.html.
The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer; May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair, And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year. That parboiled ape, with the toughest jaw you will see On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead, Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me, And threw me out of the house on the back of my head! If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day; But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange! May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.
Pay The Reckoning got our sweaty mitts on a copy of Bloomingdale's Catalogue from 1886 and from it we culled the following titles for tunes which don't (yet) exist!
| The Nun's Veiling | The Wax Beads | The Pointed Waist | The Embroidered Chambray |
| The Lawn Suit | The Baby Waist | The Peasant Skirt | The Deep Ruffles |
| The Knife Plaits | The Vest Insertion | The Hamburg Edging | The Plain Goods |
| The Albatross Cloth | The Cashmere | The Evening Shades | The Flare Hat |
| The Lace Poke | The Brocade | The French Sateen | The Jet Beads |
| The Wool Diagonal | The Fancy Buttons | The Homespun | The Beaded Jersey |
| The Battenburg | The Velvet Wrap | The Ottoman Wrap | The Gingham |
| The Linen Ulster | The Servia Circular | The Olivette Circular | The Misses Newport |
| The Kilt Suit | The Belvedere | The Jacquard | The Farmers Satin |
| The Poplin | The Corded Band | The Torchon | The Bridal Set |
| The Dressing Saque | The Gamp Waist | The Elaborate Sham | The American Coutille |
| Madam Clarke's | Roth's Patent | Thomson's Abdominable | The Health Preserving |
| The French Coutille | Dr Warner's | The Pivot | Mme Foy's |
| The Little Beauty | The Shoulder Braces | The Tampico | The Fascinator |
| The Zephyr | The Nainsook | The Greenaway | The Pompadour Yoke |
| The Barrow Coat | Gilbert's Flannel | Mme Hughes | The Nurse's Cap |
| The Nurse's Apron | The French Sham | The Coloured Border | The Reversible |
| The Cream Bunting | The Valenciennes | The Lace Tidies | The Nottingham Curtains |
| The Bureau Cover | The Feather Edge | The Octagon | The Collarette |
| The Beaded Plastron | The Unbleached | The High Lustre | The 7-Button Napoleon |
| The Foster Lacing | The Electric Shirt | The Corded End | The Burnaby |
| The Zylonite | The Glycerine Balls | Glenn's Sulphur | Constantine's Tar |
| Murray and Lanman's | Oakley's | The Ammoniated | Pinkham's |
| The Cherry Pectoral | The Porous Plasters | The Iron Bitters | Barry's Tricopherous |
| Fellow's | The Hartshorn | Hop Bitters | Shaker's Extract |
| Squibb's Carbolic | The Feather-bone | The Dress Belting | The Whalebone |
| The Magic Button | The Needle Case | The Tidy Pin | The Saratoga |
| The Best Pebble | The Scalloped Button | The Opera Slippers | The Congress Gaiters |
| The Oxford Ties | The Laced Buskin | The Newport Ties | The Goat Opera |
| The Alligator Opera | The Spring Heel | The Pearl Handle | The Folding Scissors |
| The Lace Bed | The Parlour Hassock | The Diamond Hassock | The Corrugated |
| The Stair Button | The Damask Towel | The Linen Druggetting | The Stair Crash |
| The Red Inlet | The Linen Bib | The Crib Blanket | The India Linen |
| The Pongee | The Mourning Bonnet | The Widow's White Cap | The Mackinaw |
| The Beaver Felt | The Ostrich Tip | The New Brunswick | The Slater Mills |
| The Madonna Cotton | The Buttercup Spray | The Plush Tidy | The Willow Ware |
| The Pocket Case | The Change Purse | The Opera Bag | The Skate Bag |
| The Roman Knot | The Perfection Pin | The Hair Switch | The Pickle Stand |
| The Tilting Pitcher | The Berry Dish | The Brass Easel | The Call Bell |
| The Meerchaum | The French Briar | The London Bent | The Rubber Drops |
| The Bogwood | The Brazilian Pebbles | The Porcelain | The Cuff Pin |
| The Frameless | The Star And Crescent | The Gold Hunter | The Sea Bean |
| Fairchild's Mercantile | The Stylographic | The Mikado Pin | The Oxidised |
| The Onyx | The Faceted | The Manicure Case | The Bronze Inkstand |
| The Stencil Plate | The Spencerian | Thaddeus David's | The Monogrammed |
| The Hard Pan | The Defender | The Western Star | The Red Line |
| The Sulphur Baths | The Dumb Waiter | The Arts of Beauty | The Red Ticket |
| Scott's Emulsion | The Electric Curler | The Shade Roller | The Mikado Puzzle |
| The Silk Warp | The Pride Of The Kitchen | The Boneless | The Trumpine |
| The Steam Pump | The Mortimer Building | The Principal Office | The Paperbound |
Again, no prizes for identifying the provenance of the following. However, if you feel the urge to let others in on our little secret, use the message board (aaccessed via the home page)!
| All After Me | Mrs Nugent | A Tangle Of Briars | Death To All Dogs |
| Sailing Away To Timbuctoo | Good Luck Now Weeds | Rain If You Don't Mind | The Hiss Of The Water |
| The Earth So Soft | The Waterdrop | In No Hurry | Take Your Time |
| The Lane Behind The Houses | Crying Her Eyes Out | What's The Use? | The Private School |
| The Blazer | The Gold Braid | The Crest | The Breast Pocket |
| The Navy Blue Cap | From The Town | The Devilment | The Opposite |
| The Snottery-Nosed Young Gawk | The Boiling Point | The Secret Meeting | The Password |
| The Shirt Box | The Dog-Ear | The Swopping Session | On The Job |
| Across The Diamond | In The Wars | Flying Up The Stairs | The Kind Of Us |
| The Likes Of Me | Never In | From Morning To Night | Small Wonder |
| At All Hours | Mark My Words | The Flaking | Leaves In The Breeze |
| Over And Over | Nobody Like Her | Up The Town | The Apron Pocket |
| Grouse Armstrong | Are You Both Well? | The Pig Family | The Messages |
| The Firegrate | The Railwaymen | Into The Speech | Like All The Magees |
| The Hand's Turn | The Newtown Road | Mary's Sweetshop | Dolly Mixtures |
| Rolling The Tanner | Stealing The Sausages | The Border Shop | The Cough-No-Mores |
| The Dead Fire | The Garage | The Fishing Tackle Shop | The Nightdress |
| I'll Look After It | Into The Scullery | The Thunder Of Hooves | The Town Band |
| The Government | Ruining The Country | Mrs Lavery's Daughter | Wolves On The Diamond |
| Indeed It Was | Who Are You Telling? | Hand Me Down The Spanner | The Dartboard Eyes |
| Off On Our Travels | Mickey Traynor | The Holy Telly Man | The Foxy Stunts |
| Serious Maybe | The Pig Toll Tax | As Red As A Beetroot | Hot And Bothered |
| The Sleeve Of Her Coat | The Tear In Her Eye | A Bad State Of Affairs | The Black Bike |
| Brady Of The Terrace | The Brown Stem | The Bacon Slicer | The Shopgirl |
| The Pencil Stub | The Wobbly Tower | The Paper Bag | Peter's Shoes |
The declaiming of verse no longer seems to get the credit it deserves. Pay The Reckoning has heard Luke Kelly deliver the first verse of MacNiece's classic poem to great effect.
A New Year's Resolution for 2002. Let's all learn a fine poem and take the opportunity to air it in company before the year ends!
Grey brick upon brick Declamatory bronze On sombre pedestals - O'Connell, Grattan, Moore - And the brewery tugs and the swans On the balustraded stream And the bare bones of a fanlight Over a hungry door And the air soft on the cheek And porter running from the taps With a head of yellow cream And Nelson on his pillar Watching his world collapse This was never my town, I was not born nor bred Nor schooled here and she will not Have me alive or dead But yet she holds my mind With her seedy elegance, With her gentle veils of rain And all her ghosts that walk And all that hide behind Her Georgian facades - The catcalls and the pain, The glamour and the squalour, The bravado of her talk. The lights jig in the river With a concertina movement And the sun comes up in the morning Like barley-sugar on the water. And the mist on the Wicklow hills Is close, as close As the peasantry were to the landlord, As the Irish to the Anglo-Irish, As the killer is close one moment To the man he kills, Or as the moment itself Is close to the next moment. She is not an Irish town And she is not English, Historic with guns and vermin And the cold renown Of a fragment of Church latin, Of an oratorical phrase. But oh the days are soft, Soft enough to forget The lesson better learnt, The bullet on the wet Streets, the crooked deal, The steel behind the laugh, The Four Courts burnt. Fort of the Dane, Garrison of the Saxon, Augustan capital Of a Gaelic nation, Appropriating all The alien brought, You give me time for thought And by a juggler's trick You poise the toppling hour - O greyness run to flower, Grey stone, grey water, And brick upon grey brick
No prizes for identifying the author and the book from which the following tune names are borrowed. (However ... if you'd like to surmise in Pay The Reckoning's brand new bulletin board (accessed via the home page), feel free!)
| The Moocow | Baby Tuckoo | The Hairy Face | Betty Byrne |
| Lemon Platt | The Wild Rose Blossoms | The Little Green Place | The Oilsheet |
| The Queer Smell | The Two Brushes | The Wide Playgrounds | The Heavy Bird |
| The Grey Light | The Fringe Of The Line | The Rude Feet | The Captain Of The Third Line |
| The Decent Fellow | The Hamper In The Refectory | The Friday Pudding | Dog-In-A-Blanket |
| The Magistrate | Point To Point | The Side Pockets | Cecil Thunder |
| The Toe In The Rump | The Nice Expression | Nice Mother! | The First Day |
| The Hall Of The Castle | The Pocket Money | Never To Peach | The Rector |
| The Whirl Of A Scrimmage | The Flashing Eyes | The Muddy Boots | The Yellow Boots |
| The Little Way | Home For The Holidays | The Study Hall | The Hat On The Ha-Ha |
| The Soldiers' Slugs | The Wood Of The Door | The Community | Leicester Abbey |
| Doctor Cornwell | The Spelling Book | The Hearthrug | Before The Fire |
| Next His Skin | The Square Ditch | The Little Snuffbox | The Hacking Chestnut |
| The Conqueror Of Forty | The Big Rat | Bring In The Tea | Her Feet On The Fender |
| The Jewelly Slippers | Father Arnall | The Clever Woman | The Well-Read Woman |
| The Noise After Dinner | Her Hand To Her Mouth | All In! | The Greasy Lace |
| One Last | Simon Moonan | McGlade's Suck | The Queer Word |
| The False Sleeves | The Wicklow Hotel | Pull The Stopper | The Hole In The Basin |
| The White Look | The Air In The Corridor | The Light Noise | The Little Song |
| Always The Same | The Playroom | The Hour For Sums | Go Ahead, York! |
| The Little Silk Badge | The Breast Of His Jacket | The Red Rose Wins | Come On Now! |
| Forge Ahead! | The Blue Sailor Top | The Card For First | The Next Sum |
| The Eagerness | The Two Prints Of Butter | The Damp Bread | The Clumsy Scullion |
| The Scullion's Apron | His Mother's Lap | Sick In Your Breadbasket | The Flaps Of His Ears |
| The Train At Night | That Night At Dalkey | The Higher Line Fellows | Along The Matting |
They've little call for fiddling now With their TVs And their electric fires; Wall-to-wall And flick-of-a-switch. Fiddling that kept the crack going When midnight came And talk turned To banshees And dead men rising To prowl the ramparts. They've little call for fiddlers now With their record players And their telephones; A bus into town And a taxi home. Fiddlers that carried the news Along with their tunes Townlan' to townlan'. "Don't say I toul' yez... " And all ears cocked For the bids from down the road. I've little call for fiddles now, Me that always had two One each side of the chimney breast. The blackwood one, my da's God rest him. The paler one, my own Picked up one night On my travels From a boy in town, Down on his luck. (I looked him out many's the time But none knew him And I never seen him again. I'd have give him it back For I never played better.) They've little call for me these days And me that was sent for For every wake or wedding Or child's christening As far as a man could walk. A naggin in my fist to greet me And a sly naggin For my inside pocket To see me home Over the moss. An oul'-timer now, Seldom on the go. And some of these new ones Don't even know That I used to rattle out tunes - "The Boys Of The Town" "The Blackthorn Stick" For dancers whose feet Would do your heart good I've little use for it all myself, now. Oul' memories - Rakin' round the roads, Coming home With the sun well up, My fiddle slung behind me, Beatin' my way Through the long grass. My da's wee house quiet In the dusty morning
"How's your fella, Bridget?"
"Oh, there's big changes there, Mary. Big changes indeed! I've not mentioned a word to a sinner, but he's a changed man!"
"Changed?"
"Aye, changed! Cooled, more like. Where do you think he was last night?"
"McCartney's?"
"No."
"Kavanagh's?"
"No."
"The Upstairs?"
"Never set his foot in it!"
"Not McAtamney's!"
"Oh, Christ no. Not that grip."
"Did he put some good duds on and go to the Castle Point?"
"Not that either!"
"Well, Bridget. You've me bate!"
"He stayed in!"
"He did not! In? In the house?"
"In the house. In front of the fire. Watched a bit of TV wi' me. Had a wee squib. I was watchin' th'oul clock, to see if he was maybe just headin' out late. But damn the bit. It came half-ten and he says to me - That's it, ma! I'm away off to my bed. And off he went."
"Is he all right? He's not sickening for something, is he?"
"The very thought I had, Mary! So I collars him this morning. Asks him, slippy like, if everything's alright wi' him."
"And?"
"He's as right as rain. He's sitting there, at his fry, and he says he just fancied a night in the house for a change. Is that OK? That I've been goin' on at him since he was oul' enough to go out to stop in the odd night and then the one night he does stay in the house, he gets an inquisition."
"That was nice of him!"
"Ah, Mary! The back-cheek of him! And him that was as well-reared as any in this country."
"Well. Back down goes his head to the plate and he stuffs the rest of the fry into him. And a big sloat of tay. And then, Mary, d'you know what it is? He says to me he might be stayin' in a wee bit more over the next few months. I nearly dropped! He's for marryin', I thought. But de'il a word of it!"
"Thank God for that!"
"Mary O'Neill! God pardon you!"
"Ah, Jaysus! I'm sorry Bridget. That just popped out. I don't mean anything bad. I just couldn't see your one ever getting' married."
"Well, you never know, Mary. He might, one day! But turns out that thon one he's seein' has put her foot down. He's not to be out down the pub every night! He should stop in the house every now and again! Friday night and Saturday night's OK. And maybe a night through the week. But she's laid down the law wi' him."
"He toul' you all that!"
"Well, in a roundabout way, Mary. But that was the gist."
"Heavens above! I never thought I'd live to see the day!"
"So do you know what I says to him? I says to him - Son! Would you ever tell thon one to give over and give your head a bit of peace. A man needs a wee pint. Pay de'il the heed to her. Away on out tonight and have yourself a right good bellyful of drink and to hell wi' thon one for tellin' you what to do and what not to. If I'd have spoke to your da like that, God rest him, then - quiet, daycent man and all as he was - he'd have drew out and gave me a bat with the back of his hand."
"And you'd have deserved it and all, Bridget!"
"I would, too!"
"Sure, a man needs a wee pint!"
The kettle whistles ......
Neither myself nor Maguire intended the day to turn into a drinking session.
But one thing led to another and before we knew where we were the day was near away.
"What'll you have?"
"Get us a pint."
"D'you want a whisky with it?"
I thought for a moment. "Go on, then!"
Maguire sucked down a big sloat of his pint and licked away the creamy residue from his moustache.
"When" he mused "do you get old enough to drink a bottle and a half 'un?"
"You what?"
"All the oul' boys, they all drink a bottle and a half 'un. Well, what age does it happen? When does it kick in? How d'you know when you're far enough down the hill?"
We ticked it over in our minds for a wee while.
"Jaysus, I'm near bloothered! Yourself?"
"Hangin' in there. By a thread."
"Good man." He fumbled in his pockets. "What are you having?"
"Get us a bottle of Guinness and a half-un of Black Bush."
"What?"
"I've just tripped over into oul' age!"
Pay The Reckoning owes a debt of thanks to Sean McGeown, formerly of Derrytrasna, who has loaned us a copy of Francis Joseph Bigger's booklet "Montiaghisms - Ulster Dialect Words and Phrases Collectted by the Late William Lutton" and first published by the Armagh Guardian in 1923.
We reprint a few of the entries below. Many of our readers will be familiar with some of these words and phrases - others less so, if at all.
| Arr | The "scar which remains after a wound or sore has healed. |
| Agg | "Agg him up." To incite; to stir up; to encourage to do mischief. |
| At himself | A person who is supposed to be labouring under some temporary aberration of intellect is said to be "Not at himself" - similar to the phrase "Beside himself." |
| Baren | Except. "All baren one"- all except one. |
| Barge | A passionate, boisterous, imperious women. |
| Bat | A smart, sudden blow. |
| Beel | To suppurate. |
| Beetle-head | A tadpole. |
| Bidable | Obedient to orders given by a superior; submissive. |
| Blatther | A large noise, such as the report of an explosion, or the falling of a wall. |
| Blurt | To sob; to sigh convulsively. |
| Boast | Empty; decayed or hollow within. |
| Boghal | A bungler; a clumsy, awkward workman. |
| Boke | To puke; to retch without full vomiting. |
| Bone | To take hold of a thing with a firm, determined grasp. |
| Boretree | The elder tree. |
| Brattle | A clap of thunder. |
| Brave | This word as an adverb indicates a greater than ordinary degree of the quality expressed by the adjective, as brave and warm, -cold, -high, -low, -wet, -dry, etc. It is more frequently applied to inanimate things than to any other. |
| Bravely | In good health. |
| Buckey | The hip containing the seeds of the wild rose. |
| Buckey briar | The wild rose |
| Batther | A large amount or great quantity; a great deal of anything as of work, talk, etc. |
| Cayley | A visit; a conversation. To gad about for the purpose of hearing and telling news and general gossip. |
| Champ | Food made by pounding various garden vegetables together with potatoes; to pound or bruise. |
| Chavel | To chew without swallowing, as pigs do to chaff or the like. |
| Clabber | Soft clay; sediment of drains, dirt of roads, puddle. |
| Clag | A fly that fastens on animals and sucks their blood. The harvest bug. |
| Clart | A cook or housewife who is uncleanly in her habits. |
| Clash | A tell-tale; the tale told by such a person. |
| Clash | To officiously report to a superior the faults or follies of another person. |
| Clatty | Applied to cooks or housewives signifies uncleanly; roads and arable grounds are said to be clatty when the dirt is in an adhesive state. |
| Clipe | A considerable breadth of land, leather, board, slate, etc. |
| Clogher | To cough violently |
| Cologue-ing | Engaged in secret conversation on low and worthless subjects, or scheming |
| Conney | Cautious, skilful, prudent, artful, cunning; gentle, without force |
| Cowl | A cold; cold |
| Cowl-rife | Chilly, susceptible of cold |
| Cowp | To overturn |
| Creepy | A small stool; it is also used for a person or thing that is low and dimunitive |
| Cute | Keen, subtle, ingenious; a contraction of acute |
| Daunder | To walk about slowly and idly; to saunter |
| Deave | To stun with loud or long continued noise; to deafen |
| Drouth | Thirst; continued dry weather |
| Dub | A small pool of water formed by the rain settling in a hollow in a road or causeway |
| Duds | Ragged, worn-out clothes |
| Duke | To crouch for the purpose of concealment; to creep along under cover of a hedge, etc. |
| Dunder or Dundther | To make a loud, hollow, thundering sound |
| Dunt or Duntch | To strike with the forehead as quadrupeds wanting horns do; to butt |
| Dicker | To contend with |
| Dear | A title given to the Supreme Being, answering to that of Lord as - "The Dear knows," "The Dear send," "The Dear keep us," etc. |
| Elder | The udder of a cow or goat |
| Fadge | A thick cake made of a coarse wheten meal. To obtain the necessaries of life by lawful or unlawful means. |
| Farenticles | Freckles |
| Farl | The fourth part of a cake of bread, the metallic ring driven on the end of a stick. |
| Feard or Afeard | Afraid |
| Fine a bit, Fine a one, Fine mend you, etc. | The word "Fine" in each of these examples stands for Fiend, or devil, equivalent to "Devil a bit," "Devil a one," Devil mend you," etc. |
| Fix | A plan or contrivance. A difficulty. |
| Fiz | A tumult or uproar. |
| Flit | To remove to another habitation. |
| Flitten | Household goods when in the state of being removed. |
| Flow-moss | Turf-bog in its natural wild state, from which the surface has not been removed by cutting. |
| Fog | A name bestowed on the common species of mosses indiscriminately; to search an orchard for remaining fruit, after the principal crop is removed. |
| Foother | To do any work or business in a bungling, unskilful manner; a clumsy, awkward workman; an ill-done job. |
| For-bye | Besides; over and above. |
| For-gain | Near to; adjacent to |
| For-nent | Opposite to; face to face; in the presence of. |
| Fozey | Light, spongy, soft; having little solidity; elastic; easily compressible |
| Fum turf | Light, fibrous turf, which in cutting are found immediately beneath the surface layer of the bog. |
| Gag | Something that is unsightly or inconvenient by reason of its length. |
| Gaulder | A loud shout or call; an angry exclamation. |
| Glaar | The tough, adhesive mud which is found at the bottom of bog drains, ponds and large rivers. |
| Glit | A superficial coating of some glutinous matter, either in the moist or the dried state. |
| Gorb | A greedy, insatiable person. |
| Gowl | A howl; a loud and bitter cry. |
| Grape | A three-pronged dungfork. |
| Grew | A hungry, voracious animal; a person who is greedy of gain. |
| Gub | The mouth; a protrusion of the under lip in token of displeasure; a pout. |
| Gubby | A person who acts as described above. |
| Guern or Gern | To make a wry face; to snarl; to cry in low murmurs. |
| Gullion or Gulyon | A stagnant pool or sink containing a great depth of foul sediment. |
| Gunk | A mortifying and ludicrous disappointment. |
| Gutters | The foul, muddy sediment which remains in sinks and open street drains after the water has been drawn off. |
| Gallices | Suspenders or braces for trousers. |
| Hal-yan | A lazy, worthless person. |
| Hap | To put on warm apparel; to closely tuck-in bed clothes. |
| Head-piece | A man endowed with superior faculties. |
| Heap or Hape; Heaps | A large quantity or amount of anything, whether it be material or intellectual. |
| Hoke | To scoop out; to root as a pig; to dig badly. |
| Jundy | The collision of one heavy body against another; to strike violently against. |
| Keow | To assume airs of dignity; to walk with a stately, pompous step; to affect the gentleman. |
| Kink | A suppressed laugh; a convulsive cough; the paroxysm of whooping cough. |
| Kit-thery | A thoughtless, frolicsome fool. |
| Lab | A large number or quantity; to throw from the hand. |
| Lammin | A good beating. |
| Lash | A large quantity; a great number (lashins and lavins). |
| Leather | To beat severely. |
| Leg-bail | To "give leg-bail" is to fly from arrest, in case of debt or misdemeanour. |
| Let on | To divulge a secret; to give intimation of; to feign. |
| Loanin | A narrow lane leading to fields or private dwellings; a bye road. |
| Lock | A small quantity; a few. |
| Looder | Unmerciful beating. |
| Loopy | Crazy, deceitful, not strictly just in dealings. |
| Luck-penny | In a bargain, a small return made to the purchaser. |
| Mend | To recover from sickness. To heal. |
| Mind | To remember. |
| Mogh | A sultry, moist atmosphere. |
| New fangled | Pleased with the novelty of a thing. Here it is the person and not the thing that is said to be New Fangled. |
| Nip | A very small bit. To over-reach in a bargain. |
| Notionate | Whimsical; full of vain ideas. |
| Out-bye | Out of doors; at some distance from home. |
| Oxter or Oxther | The armpit. |
| Oxter-cog | To put aside or conceal for one's own use; especially if the right of possession be questionable. |
| Pick | A very small bit; a scrap. |
| Pickle | A single grain of any kind of corn, seed, shot, etc. |
| Power | A great number; a large quantity. |
| Prize | A handspike or lever. To raise a heavy body by means of a lever. |
| Quare | A word of rather uncertain signification placed before almost every adjective with the conjunction AND interposed, as :- "Quare and big," "Quare and long". |
| Ram-stam | Rash, thoughtless, headlong, precipitate. |
| Rightify | To adjust; set right; cause justice to be done. |
| Rap | A graceless person; a rascal. |
| Scrabby | Something that is remarkably small of its kind. |
| Shugh | In agriculture, a drill; the trench of a ditch. To raise drills; to disappoint an expectation; to frustrate a design; to obstruct an operation. |
| Skelp | A slap with the plam of the hand. To run about idly. |
| Skift or Skiffle | A light shower of rain. |
| Skite | An empty, worthless, comntemptible fellow; a smart stroke with the hand. |
| Slabbery | Rainy, wet, dirty. |
| Slap | A great number or quantity. |
| Slindge | A lash with something that is long and pliant, as a long, slener road or a whip; to lash. |
| Sloat | Gulping or swallowing drink greedily, and by long or large draughts. |
| Smit | An infectious disease. To communicate disease, either by contagion or through the medium of the atmosphere. |
| Smittle | Contagious; infectious. |
| Snifters | Stoppage of the nostrils in infants and young children; also petty disagreements, generally of the domestic kind. |
| Sproghal | In walking, to make great haste and small speed. |
| Squad | A party. A term expressive of supreme contempt. |
| Stime | The smallest conceivable exercise of vision. To be unable to see a stime means either to be totally blind, or in total darkness. |
| Striddle | To extend the legs laterally to an unusual width. |
| Take up | To change from foul to fair weather. |
| Taste | A very small quantity or piece of anything. |
| Thick | Intimate, closely acquainted, familiar; on friendly terms. |
| Think-long | To earnestly desire; to suffer the pain of absence, whether it regard place, company or enjoyment. |
| Time about | By turns; alternately. |
| Too many | Iss used for Too much, as a task that is too difficult or an opponent too powerful for a person is said to be Too many for him. |
| To the fore | Still in existence, forthcoming, present. |
| Trimmin | One of the many names for a good beating. |
| Twang | A peculiar, generally disagreeable flavour. A tang. |
| Touchous | Easily offended; irascible. |
| Wallop | To swing or shake from side to side. |
| Welt | To beat. |
| Weltin | On of the almost innumerable names for a beating. |
| Wheep | To whistle; to chirp. A single, shrill whistle. |
I was born in a hard place. The very soil resisted, sullenly, The spade and the fork. The whins and the briars Retreated before our slashers and hooks And often, from their bleak front-lines, Regained lost ground in silent campaigns. The dark Lough stretched away, A breeding ground for black winds That drained our souls of any joy When Winter - the unwanted guest - Settled in for a long stay. The low whistle of swans' wings As they fled the chill waters And the shriek of a high norther Our only music in those grey days. Wiry dogs, hunched and haggard, Obsessed themselves with paranoid patrols Of the barbed-wired limits of their masters' plots. I was born in a hard place The very roads surrendered, Petering to a scrubby halt Where a nervy sparrow paused To steal a drink from a rusty puddle In the dented roof of a burnt-out car.
Oliver Burns contacted us with this wee poem which he came across in a copy of Glor Lorgain dated December 1944.
The Ghost Goes Home
The shades of night were falling fast
As round McGreevy`s corner passed
A ghost who bore, `mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange advice
"Come on the Tones"
On earth he`d been a sinner bold,
And worse he grew as he grew old,
Worse he grew, until he died
And worst of all he never cried
"Come on the Tones."
He lived for years around the `Cash
And he ne`er admired the the pluck and dash
Of countless men who wore the Green
Nor cried to footballers supreme
"Come on the Tones"
And for his sins, for twenty years
He had to roam this vale of tears
A warning grim that all who die
Would be like him unless they cry
"Come on the Tones"
But now at last his job's complete
And to the Graveyard he`ll retreat
To rest in peace and hear the cheers
As rise these cries for countless years
"Come on the Tones."
The granda's not feelin' the best. Some sort of oul' tightness in his chest. He's lyin' in the room there beyond, The tickin' of the hall clock drivin' him mad. He's buggered, though, right enough, Wheezing like a bag of kittens at every puff. I doubt if he'll be with us for long, He's that bad He's like a child in the bed And him that was always well-made. The shins on him razor-sharp And his arms like two bits of knotted twine. Last night, late, he called me in. He was like a ghost, all white and thin. He didn't know whether it was day or dark And he'd been cryin'. The faint tear-trail on his haggard cheek Glistened as he found the breath to speak. He reached out to grab a houl' of my own hand And gripped it in his gnarly paws. "God bless us, son, this growin' oul's a hoor!" He winced, or smiled, I couldn't say for sure. "And me that was once a bear of a man." And a bear he was! The day that Brian Hannon cursed my gran He drew out with the backside of his hand And, shaking, said he'd only spared the fist Cos he'd save the fist for fightin' with a man. The only time I'd ever seen him riled. Hannon stood there blurting like a child And the granda said "If you don't soon desist I'll drop you where you stand." And, after, Johnny Coleman, taking stock, Said "Your oul' granda's solid as a rock". My granda winked and ruffled up my hair And my wee heart was hammering with pride. "Wasn't I the boy!" was all he said And lay back down again inside the bed, Fighting hard for every breath of air And, shortly after, died And still my hand secure inside his grip, His clutch on life reluctant to let slip. The house grown quiet, the clock out in the hall Still loudly beats And I am travelling backwards through my past When lazy summers smell of new-mown grass And rushing towards him, in my haste I trip and fall And granda helps me back up to my feet.
Conor Lennon, formerly of Lurgan, now living in Suffolk, writes with a song called The Lurgan Tarry (an area of the town which roughly coincides with The North Circular Road). He got the song from Alfie Tallon's "Memories of Old Lurgan". Tallon attributes the song to the late Tom Cormican of Aghagallon who is reputed to have written the song early in the twentieth century. Pay The Reckoning is particularly taken by the author's anti-gentility stance.
How far away o'er foreign lands Do wealthy lordlings stroll in splendour To view the sight o'er foreign strands Of scenery wild and lofty grandeur But I'm content to toil each day With pleasant thoughts my heart is cheery When with my lad I hope to stray At eve around the Lurgan Tarry Oh the lovely Lurgan Tarry Oh the lovely Lurgan Tarry How fond the greet where lovers meet In kisses sweet round Lurgan Tarry The humming Bee, the Butterfly How swiftly pass the flitting Swallow High on the wing the lark he sings His song of love so sweet and mellow The shirling thrush so loud and merry Who could be sad while all are glad What mirth and love round Lurgan Tarry Oh the lovely Lurgan Tarry Oh the lovely Lurgan Tarry So sweet to stray the summer day With lovers gay round Lurgan Tarry The polished fair how nice they are They care not for our style or habit But mind me yet they will have time to fret When withered maidens worn and crabbit Too late they may regret the day With hidden grief and heart full sorry And wish they had some strapping lad Like those that pad the Lurgan Tarry Oh the lovely Lurgan Tarry Oh the lovely Lurgan Tarry You'll rue it yet, but don't forget We'll always meet in Lurgan Tarry We'll have our walks, though gentry talk And make remarks sometimes that filthy How many scenes behind the screens That hide the noble and the wealthy While we are young we'll have our fling Our custom is to court and marry While nature says this is the way We'll still enjoy the Lurgan Tarry Oh the lovely Lurgan Tarry Oh the lovely Lurgan Tarry We'll stroll at ease do as we please Toss and tease, round Lurgan Tarry
Nice one, Conor! Take a bow ...
The letterbox rattled this morning . A small package, with the familiar handwriting of Oliver Burns of Lurgan. To our delight, a tape of songs by Jimmy Creaney (as sung by local man Barney McQuillan ... fair play to you Barney for keeping Creaney's light lit. We do our bit on these pages, but it's a battle that can do with being fought on many fronts!).
To our greater delight, the tape contained a song which was new to Pay The Reckoning. To the tune of "If I Were A Blackbird", the song goes by the name "The Francis Street Maiden". Like "The Green Cross Cup", already transcribed below, the subject matter is the long standing rivalry between two of Lurgan's Gaelic football teams - St Peter's of Freecrow/Distillery Hill (The Peters, The Lily-Whites) and Clan-na-Gael (The Clans, whose pitch Davitt Park stands in Francis Street) and their supporters. However, The Francis Street Maiden examines the effects of that intense rivalry on the individual.
Pay The Reckoning clears its throat, peers over its horn-rimmed reading glasses and says "One is reminded of Romeo and Juliet, transposed from Verona to the meaner mid-Ulster streets of Lurgan."
I'm a Francis Street maiden, my story is sad, Of late I've been courted by a young Peter's lad, But my father's a Clans-man, he has other plans, He'd rather I'd wed with a boy from the Clans. CHORUS If I were a blackbird, I'd whistle and sing, I'd follow the team that my true love plays in; When the game would be over and he'd take his rest, I'd pillow my head on his lily-white breast. I went to the Tarry one evening in May With the brave Lily-Whites just to see my love play; And though they were beaten, he's the one I love still, For my heart ever clings to Distillery Hill CHORUS Now two loving hearts would be filled with content, If only my father would give his consent; I know he'd protect me from all harm and hurt And I'd wash whiter than "Persil" his Lily-White shirt CHORUS
After reading Carson's piece below about the legendary three-day session played by Joe Cooley, John Doherty and "The Shadow" in Glencolumbkille, Pay The Reckoning fell into a reverie. The result of which is this, the first of an occasional series of fantasy albums recorded live in Pay The Reckoning's front room by musical maestros from the present and the distant past (some, from beyond the grave ...)
1. Paddy Keenan & Barney McKenna: The Mason's Apron/The Bucks of Oranmore 2. James Morrison & Michael Coleman: The Boys Of The Lough 3. Hamish Imlach: The Bantry Girls' Lament 4. Doc Watson and Arty McGlynn: The Little Beggarman/Old Joe Clark 5. Shay Kennedy and Dermot Maguire: The Lark In The Morning/The Kesh Jig/The Rocky Road To Dublin 6. Alias Ron Kavana: Midnight On The Water/The Waterford Waltz 7. Shane MacGowan: The Galway Girl 8. Josie Sinclair: The Boys of Barr na Sraide 9. Steve Earle: Back In The County Hell 10. Paul Brady & Bob Dylan: Arthur McBride 11. Paddy Keenan & Barney McKenna: Fermoy Lasses/Sporting Paddy/Rakish Paddy/The Ivy Leaf 12. James Morrison & Michael Coleman: Morrison's Jig/Willie Coleman's 13. Hamish Imlach & Luke Kelly: Peggy Gordon 14. Doc Watson, Arty McGlynn and Kenny Hall: The Ace and Deuce of Pipering 15. Shay Kennedy & Dermot Maguire: The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly 16. Alias Ron Kavana: An Spailpin Fanach/The Wind That Shakes The Barley 17. Shane MacGowan: Muldoon, The Solid Man 18. Josie Sinclair: Slieve Gallion Braes 19. Steve Earle: The Shores of Amerikay 20. Paul Brady, Bob Dylan and Mick Moloney: Canadee-i-o 21. All: Pleasant and Delightful/The Laird of Drumblair/The Mason's Apron
I remember there was rarely a social event in the Seven Derrys without someone giving the asembled multitudes the benefit of the following "recimitation". I used to cringe when someone trotted out the first few words. But age, time and distance have worked a certain magic and now the charms of the poem have overcome all resistance.
Me An' Me Da I'm livin' in Drumlister, An' I'm gettin very oul', I have to wear an Indian bag To save me from the coul'. The de'il a man in this townlan' Wos claner raired nor me, But I'm livin' in Drumlister In clabber to the knee. Me da lived up in Carmin, An' kep' a sarvint boy; His second wife wos very sharp, He birried her with joy: Now she wos thin, her name was Flynn, She come from Cullentra, An' if me shirt's a clatty shirt The man to blame's me da. Consarnin' weemin, sure it wos A constant word of his, `Keep far away from them that's thin, Their temper's aisy riz.' Well, I knowed two I thought wud do, But still I had me fears, So I kiffled back an' forrit Between the two, for years. Wee Margit had no fortune But two rosy cheeks wud plaze; The farm of lan' wos Bridget's, But she tuk the pock disayse: An' Margit she wos very wee, An' Bridget she wos stout But her face wos like a gaol dure With the boults pulled out. I'll tell no lie on Margit, She thought the worl' of me; I'll tell the truth, me heart wud lep The sight of her to see But I wos slow, ye surely know, The raison of it now, If I left her home from Carmin Me da wud rise a row. So I swithered back an' forrit Till Margit got a man; A fella come from Mullaslin An' left me jist the wan. I mind the day she went away, I hid wan strucken hour, An' cursed the wasp from Cullentra That made me da so sour. But cryin' cures no trouble, To Bridget I went back, An' faced her for it that night week Beside her own turf-stack. I axed her there, an' spoke her fair, The handy wife she'd make me, I talked about the lan' that joined - Begob, she wudn't take me! So I'm livin' in Drumlister An' I'm get'tin' very oul' I creep to Carmin wanst a month To try an' make me sowl: The de'il a man in this townlan' Wos claner raired nor me, An' I'm dyin' in Drumlister In clabber to the knee.
By "The Bard of Tyrone", The Reverend William Marshall
Seamie was a prowler with dogs, a setter of lines, a digger of worms. A man who’d walk twenty miles in a day without breaking a sweat. A jumper of drains. A three-day binger.
He had a fight one night with Big Arthur. I never saw it (but I saw the aftermath … his face was like Beirut!). Someone told me that throughout, Seamie had held on to his pint with his right hand. (I asked if he was out to get Big Arthur next time they met. He laughed and said he’d never fell out yet with anybody over the head of a fight.)
We were unlikely friends … but he was my da’s cousin and maybe blood IS thicker than water after all. Whatever, for a few years we were at each other’s heels.
I saw him, one foggy day, near Raughlan, lob a huge stone with unerring accuracy 75 to 100 yards to land with a soft thud on top of a rat which was blithely nibbling a potato in the corner of a dug-up field. On the same day, coming home through Arty McShane’s fields, we helped ourselves to carrots and turnips fresh from the chilly ground. We wiped them clean on the dewy grass and ate them raw and, fresh and free as they were, no vegetables ever tasted better.
Neither Seamie nor I were superstitious types … unlike many of our compatriots who were forever banging on about banshees and ghosts and poltergeists. But we were both involved in an “incident” which neither of us were able to explain and which gives me the willies even yet to think about.
(I’ve had to blank out the place-names in the following. Local people might recognise instantly some of the locations. They might not be best pleased about a pair of yahoos from the wee North causing ructions. Suffice to say for the time being that the events took place on Ireland’s west coast.)
We were on holiday, Seamie, myself, my mother and my sister. The night before we’d been on the tear and woke up bleary and choking with the drooth.
I’d told Seamie that there was a salt-water lagoon some way off and that it was alive with mullet and flatfish and eels. We’d meant to get there earlier in the holiday and now, with only a few days remaining, he was anxious that we should get out of the house as soon as possible. A lift? Bollocks to that. We’d use shanks’ mare. I groaned. It must be six miles from our holiday house to the lagoon. But six miles to Seamie was a mere stretch of the legs.
It was, as I recall, a baking hot day. By the time we reached our spot, we were dripping sweat. No mind! We’d brought a six-pack of Smithwicks with us and we anchored the bottles in the cool waters of the lagoon and cast our lines into the mirror-like waters.
The heat and stillness may have had a lot to do with the fact that neither of us had so much as a nibble all day. Seamie was the most engaged of fishermen when the fish were biting. But after a few hours he started twitching. We’d drunk our beer. The effects of last night’s overindulgence, combined with the relentless heat of the day, had given the pair of us a raging thirst. The thought of the long haul home depressed me.
We made for the road, spitting feathers.
Seamie spotted the cottage before I did. It was a long time since it had been lived in. But unlike so many abandoned cottages in this neck of the woods it appeared to be relatively intact. Overgrown – but in one piece. And Seamie reckoned that there might – if we were lucky - be a pump somewhere about.
We crashed our way up the overgrown path and skirted around the little house towards its back yard. No sign of a pump or a well anywhere. Seamie peered through the scummy windows. No pump handle was visible in the scullery. We retraced our steps to the front of the house. Seamie stood with his back to the house, looking out over the salt water lagoon. He took me by surprise by kicking backwards on the cottage’s front door, wrenching it off its hinges.
“Come on! Quick, now!”
We pushed the door aside and stepped into the cottage.
I was surprised. The place looked as if it had been abandoned in an instant. Magazines, covered in dust, lay unread on the kitchen table. A letter half-written. I explored. A dresser full of blue delft. An old valve radio. I went into a bedroom. Two dresses – similar in style to those I’d seen my ma wearing in pictures taken when she and my da were courting – hung over the bedroom door. I checked the date of the dust-covered magazines August and September 1962. The date of the partially-written letter? 28th September 1962.
Back in the bedroom again, I opened the top drawer of the dressing table. Perfume bottles, gew-gaws, slides, combs. And a silver claddagh ring. Badly tarnished. But undeniably solid silver.
I slipped it into my pocket.
Seamie and I rendezvoused in the living room. He’d been exploring the scullery area. Not a sign of a pump! What was through there? I told him it was a girl’s bedroom. He suggested we check out the other door which led off the living room. I turned the knob. We both stood just inside the doorway.
The room was totally bare. And hot. Unbearably hot. Despite the fact that it was the shadiest part of the house, under a dense carpet of ivy and shrubbery. The heat was stifling. And – in the short time we stood in the doorway – it appeared to intensify. It felt very strange indeed. I wasn’t happy. Neither was Seamie. We glanced at each other and laughed nervously, then fled. Seamie paused briefly to prop the front door up against its frame. From a distance it wasn’t obvious that it had been interfered with.
We walked at a furious pace until the cottage was far behind us and out of sight. As luck would have it, my ma passed us shortly after we made the main road.
“What have you two been up to?”
Seamie shot me a “careful what you say” look.
“Fishing.”
“I don’t see much fish.”
“It was too hot.”
Seamie leaned in towards the driver’s seat. “Just drop us off at the pub.”
My ma glared at me. I looked out the window.
She pulled up. “Don’t yous two be rollin’ in at all hours of the mornin’ and wakin’ everybody up. Y’hear me?”
The bar was empty apart from the pair of us. We discussed in a low murmur, for fear of being overheard. We reached a consensus. Something strange had happened in the house. Otherwise It wouldn’t have been abandoned so hastily. The “hot room”? We couldn’t explain that … but we’d not be spooked. There was probably some explanation that we couldn’t think of there and then. Of course, some local people might have the story. But we couldn’t ask. Because to have discovered this strange cottage would have meant that we had broken in. Who knows who might be a relative of the original owners? And just how pissed off they might be that two lachakoes from the North had been kicking in the doors of their people’s houses?
I felt easier having discussed it. And, as the pub filled up and the evening progressed, I’d put the event out of my mind altogether.
Despite my ma’s warnings it was well gone two o’clock when Seamie and I crashed our way home. Seamie noticed the intruder before I did. He had no liking for cats and there, in the living-room window, sat a huge tabby. It glowered at us.
“Where did that boyo come from?”
Seamie made a grab for it. There was a loud screech and blur of fur. Seamie, for his pains, received a scratch which ran the length of his inside forearm from elbow to wrist. “Jesus! I’ll strangle that bastard cat.” I opened the front door and the cat sped through. It leapt on to the whitewashed wall which surrounded our house and gave a last, filthy look in our direction. Then it loped off into the darkness.
Seamie was scratching his head. “I’ve checked every window and every door in the place. For the life of me I can’t see how that hooring cat got in here!”
“It probably slipped in behind one of the others when they got home. I wouldn’t worry my head about it.”
Next morning, as usual, the pair of us were up at the crack of dawn. We were hoping for a day’s sensible fishing from the rocks, for mackerel. Sod that lagoon malarkey!
Seamie drew back the curtains. “Christ Jesus!” The tabby cat sat on the window ledge. It hissed malevolently. “Get the front door!” Seamie reached for the brush and goaded the cat. It swiped with a large paw at the head of the brush, then eased itself to the ground and padded out through the door.
Seamie completed another check of the house. There was no way the cat could have re-entered.
As we walked the mile or so to our favoured fishing spot, Seamie puzzled the cat business over and over in his head. Could it somehow have been connected with the earlier incident? Was our feline visitor an emissary of the original inhabitants of the abandoned cottage?
I was conscious of the claddagh ring in my pocket. As Seamie mused I became convinced that my having stolen the piece of jewellery was somehow connected with our visitation by last night’s and this morning’s furious cat.
And so, when Seamie’s attention was distracted, I flung the ring as far as I could into the sea. I may even – I’m embarrassed to admit – have muttered under my breath some form of generalised apology for having taken it in the first place!
We didn’t have a nocturnal visitor that night, or the night after, or the night after. And then we were ready for the off.
Seamie and I occasionally mentioned the events of that day and night, but increasingly rarely.
A postscript to this story took place many years later. In the same place. I’d come on a long holiday. Ostensibly to do some serious thinking about big life decisions which I had to make. However the period of quiet reflection which I envisaged didn’t emerge. Instead I got caught up in a riotous swirl of boozing and music and general debauchery.
One evening I fell in with Teresita – a beautiful Portuguese woman. She told me she was a Romany witch, like her mother and grandmother and six generations of female ancestors before. Each generation’s powers were greater than the generation before. Until the seventh generation, when the powers peaked and the cycle started again. I’m a complete scptic when it come s to such matters and normally would angrily dismiss such talk as bollocks. But I had a gra for this diminutive, intriguing woman and so I was quite happy to allow her to continue.
“Let me read your palm.” She traced my lines with her finger. “You have much luck. Much luck.” Her brow furrowed. “You are in a place now that is important.” She looked into my eyes. “Have you taken something from this place?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something that belonged here, that you have taken.”
The ring! “I might have done. But I didn’t keep it!”
“I can see that. You no longer have the thing from this place which does not belong to you. And though the thing remains here, you did not return it properly. And so you have to pay with some of your luck. An unlucky thing will happen to you in this place.”
“How unlucky?”
Teresita looked at me sadly. “Very unlucky. But you have much luck. You will have some bad luck and it will be a sad time. But you will prosper.”
I felt a black cloud hover over my head. Teresita smiled. “But you will prosper. Your future is to prosper. You cannot escape your future. Trust me!”
And this bad luck? Did it happen? Well, that’s the thing. I’ve had lots of bad luck in that place. Before and after the ring event.
However, later that night, I managed to get Teresita off the “psychic” stuff. We sat in on the session. I played a few numbers. She accepted a few drinks from me. All the signals were there … I felt brave enough to suggest that maybe we might have a walk together along the beach when the pub shut. She consented. Just let’s finish this drink. She squeezed my hand. And then she stiffened …
“I must go.”
“What?”
“The man who has just come in.”
I looked towards the door. A man stood in the doorway, scanning the packed pub.
“He is my boyfriend. I haven’t been entirely honest with you. He said he would go to bed tonight. He was tired. He has driven a long way.”
She hung her head. “I don’t like him. He is boring. But …”
“But?”
“But I am along way from home. I must go to him.”
She squeezed my hand again and smiled sadly. Then she waved towards the door. Her boyfriend spotted her and smiled broadly.
Maybe that was my bad luck! I became very drunk that night.
Pay The Reckoning makes no secret of the admiration which it has for Ciaran Carson, flautist, philosopher, poet, author of the best book yet written about Irish Traditional Music, Last Night's Fun.
Last Night's Fun is a collection of vignettes and essays, misty memories and newspaper cuttings, hungover mornings and festive nights, buttons, bows, jigs, reels, full and empty glasses. Each chapter goes by the name of an Irish song or a tune.
Without Last Night's Fun, there'd be no Pay The Reckoning. A good thing or a bad thing depending on your point of view, but a fact nevertheless.
As a taster of what you might find should you chance upon a copy in your local bookstore, here's one of his pieces, by the name of The Bush In The Tux.
I never met The Shadow, but I heard these things about him.
No one I have asked is exactly sure why The Shadow was so-called. Some claim he shadowed the fiddle-player Sean McGuire. Others deny this; he was a fiddle-player in his own right. Some attribute it to his long thin height and his dapper dude rancher style of dressing.
The Shadow painted a copy of the Sistine Chapel ceiling on his ceiling.
Some believe The Shadow just appeared, without having gone through the motions of getting there.
The Shadow reputed to be the best hitch-hiker in Ireland. Dressed in cowboy hat and boots, a guitar case slung over one shoulder and a fiddle case slung over the other, he presented an intriguing figure to the passing traffic.
Often it was felt that the session lacked a certain je ne sais quoi without The Shadow's presence. People looked for him when he wasn't there.
It put me in mind, somehow, of the late Mickey Golly of Colmcille, who I was told was a great fiddle-player. The only time I met him, in the Sliabh Liag Hotel in Carrick, he was playing "air" or "poteen" fiddle: playing with no fiddle and no bow. But the shapes he made convinced me.
The Shadow, according to one source, was also "a very loud guitar-player and at times could be mistaken for a lightly played piano".
The Shadow was invited to be present at the only meeting of the great fiddle-player John Doherty and the great box-player Joe Cooley. This took place in O'Beirne's Hotel in Carrick, and I'm trying to establish if this was, in fact, a former name for the Sliabh Liag. During lulls between tunes, The Shadow would take up his guitar and launch into his repertoire of cowboy songs. Among his favourites were "The Yellow Rose Of Texas" and "The Red River Valley". John Doherty was reputed to have been much taken by The Shadow's rendition of the American fiddle tunes "The Orange Blossom Special" and "The Mocking Bird", and learned them then and there. The trio - Doherty, Cooley and The Shadow - played for three days and three nights, and each night was better than the last. The year was 1952.
The Shadow was the pseudonym of Sean McLoughlin of Armoy, County Antrim.
The Shadow's last request was to be buried with his boots on, wearing a white tuxedo with a half-bottle of Bushmills in the inside pocket.
Liz Carroll, that fine fiddler from Chicago, is pretty unique among Irish traditional musicians in that a large part of her recorded work is composed by herself. She wrote the following in the sleeve notes of her album of last year's album "Lost In The Loop".
"When I was nine years old, with much ceremony, I sat down and composed a reel. I can remember that this felt very special, different from learning a tune, varying one, or hearing one for the first time. I had a melody that had come to me, and it didn't exist anywhere else. I was at once the first person to hear it, to vary it, to learn it, and ultimately to perform it. I can't tell you how excitig that was!
Since that day, through my school years, Irish dancing years, many years of playing and teaching this Irish music I love, and now here with a family of my own, I've had this extra solitary activity that's brought me much joy: composing."
This piece prompted Aidan Crossey, Pay The Reckoning's resident tunesmith, to respond.
Liz, those words struck a real chord with me. I, too, take great delight in learning a jig or a reel. Playing it through tentatively the first few times, then "getting it" - the twists and turns inherent in the tune coming to life somewhere between what my left hand is doing, and my right hand is doing and the response of the wood and steel of mandolin or banjo. And then, more confident, varying the turn just a little, putting my own stamp on it.
The pleasure can only be bested by writing a tune from scratch. They've come to me in all sorts of places. I've written a jig sitting in the passenger seat of our family car on the way home from a holiday in Cornwall. I've woken up in the middle of the night and grabbed my mandolin and a sheet of paper to note down a tune that's been flitting through my head. In short, as long as I have my instrument in my hand, it's possible that I'll create some sort of a tune.
There are, of course, big gaps of experience and talent between us. Unlike you I didn't come from a family steeped in the tradition and I found my own way here, late in life (by trad standards). As a result I'm about twenty five years short on practice! But I believe that there are similarities in the way we "see" the music. (If you hadn't come up with the title "The Road To Recovery", I swear I'd have tripped across it myself!)
Anyway ... I'm pleased to have come across your fiddling and your composing and I look forward to lots more in the years to come.
Slan go foill.
The following piece - by Oliver Burns - first appeared in Ireland's Eye. We hope that Ireland's Eye don't throw a wobbly at our including Oliver's piece here! In fact we'd recommend that anyone who finds Oliver's writing amusing ought to get themselves a regular copy of said organ. It may be a bit twee, and a tad over-obsessed with Catholicism, but there are gems of local history and whimsy tucked away within its pages.
Those wonderful people of yesteryear, the street entertainers have all passed on, but they have left pleasant memories of summer days in the crowded streets of Lurgan. There were lots of different characters who made their way into the streets in the mid-forties, such as the street-singers, accordion-players and a varied assortment of other performers.
One act which was very popular with the older generation was the so-called escape artist "Tie The Boy". From the stories told, this impersonation of Harry Houdini was more akin to Tommy Cooper as more often than not when he was secured by some hefty worthy, it was usually left to a sympathetic bystander to release him. One old man I can vividly recall singing his one and only song, The Boys of Wexford, in a manner which suggested that he had great difficulty in breathing. As he sang each word he would pause for breath. As can be expected, this staccato method of singing didn't draw the crowds. but after he had finished the song with cap in hand he would knock on each door and as poor as his unappreciative audience might have been they always contributed to the poor man's cause.
Another act which did guarantee a full street was the duo with the Bull-Whip. The loud crack of the whip sounding like rifle fire was the signal for the doors to be opened all along the street. The performance would begin with the lady holding a sheet of paper between her teeth. The man would then lash out with the whip, sending pieces of paper flying. This would continue with each bit of paper reducing in size until the lady was left with a small fragment protruding. The man would then begin his final build-up by cracking out a few practice strokes and then with a final flourish remove the paper to wild cheers from the crowds of children squatting on the kerbs.
The Bull-Whip act was certainly one of the big attractions as was another act of great interest. This involved a traveller whose "props" consisted of a roll of sacking and a bag of broken glass. The traveller would roll out the sacking on the ground and distribute the broken glass on it. He would then strip to the waist and before beginning he would explain to the onlookers that his body was so fit and hard that the glass could not penetrate his skin. With his back exposed on the broken glass he would then invite a hefty onlooker to apply more pressure by standing on his chest. After three of four men had performed the duty, he arose, displaying his back to the assembly and on examination, apart from a few marks, there was no visible sign of blood. His invitation to the spectators to follow suit was always declined.
These acts, although fascinating to the young mind, paled into insignificance when it came to the greatest street performer of all. We knew him as Tommy Farr and it was only recently that I learned that his name was Tommy Fair or McAuley. Other performers may have casually entered the street, sang their song or acted their part and, after ten minutes or so, collected their takings and moved on. It was much different when McAuley made his entrance; the street was his theatre. Tommy didn't do things by halves. There was nothing casual about his performance. From the moment he began, it was all quick-fire movement.
He would begin with a song, moving up and down the street, his megaphone held to his mouth and his free hand displaying all the movements associated with some top vocalist of the day. Tommy always ad-libbed his way through every song, to the delight of the adults. "Galway Bay" was one of his favourites. The composer may have "lit a penny candle from a star" but Tommy's was lit "in Dromore". With the song ended, we would await McAuley's show piece, the Tommy Fair-McAuley version of the 1938 World Heavyweight Title fight between Joe Louis and Tommy Farr. Away in the far-off USA, little did Joe Louis know that he was about to lose his hard-earned title on the streets of Lurgan! The "Rumble in the Jungle" had nothing on McAuley's megaphone meandering, as Tommy Farr in this corner was described as the greatest heavyweight of all time and, in the other corner, poor Louis was given the "bum's rush". The fight began with Farr down and McAuley urging the youngsters in the crowd to count to nine, all of this taking place at breakneck speed. With Farr up and down like a yo-yo (according to Tommy) and out hero on the point of exhaustion, Louis was finally despatched to the canvas and at last we could count to the magic ten as Tommy Farr in the guise of Tommy Fair-McAuley was crowmed Heavyweight Champion of the World. Cheered to the echo and lathered in sweat, Tomy would take up his capful of coppers and, bidding his cheering fans farewell, move on to a new venue in another part of town.
McAuley also entertained along the queues that formed outside the Lyric and Fosters cinemas and in one hilarious episode he made it to the stage of the Town Hall. The famous hypnotist Edgar Benyon "Bamboozled" was appearing in a week-long show in Lurgan and, between acts, a Talent Competition took place. One evening whilst resting after a show, Benyon overheard McAuley's voice coming through from the street. He enquired as to who the singer was. On being told, he asked someone to bring Tommy to the back of the stage. When the Talent Competition was finished, Benyon then gave Tommy the stage. The lull in the proceedings soon turned to bedlam. The audience of course recognised the new performer and the bould Tommy, at last performing on a proper stage, was in Paradise. A close friend who witnessed the scene told me that Benyon was fascinated by Tommy's act and especially with the audience reaction. The trouble began when Edgar Benyon from the wings tried to inform McAuley that his time was up. Tommy paid no heed until a frsutrated Benyon grabbed a replica gun and ushered McAuley off the stage, thus bringing to an end Tommy's ten minutes of fame. From a chance meeting with a son of Tommy's Ilearned he was found dead in 1975 on a Belfast street.
McAuley's act was not only confined to Lurgan, as various people have told me that they had seen Tommy doing his stunts in Portadown and Belfast. Joe Louis may have been official World Champion but in our youthful days there was only one Champion, and that was Tommy Fair-McAuley, The King of the Street Entertainers.
Tarry Flynn, the classic novel by Patrick Kavanagh (author of Raglan Road) about the eponymous poet, farmer and lover-from-afar of beautiful young virgins, ends with a poem, to which he doesn't attach a title. It's one of Pay The Reckoning's favourites of Kavanagh's works. We include it here for your enjoyment and enlightenment.
On an apple-ripe September morning Through the mist-chill fields I went With a pitch-fork on my shoulder Less for use than devilment The threshing mill was set-up, I knew In Cassidy's haggard last night, And we owed them a day at the threshing Since last year. O it was delight To be paying bills of laughter And chaffy gossip in kind With work thrown in to ballast The fantasy-soaring mind As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered As I looked into the drain If ever a summer morning should find me Shovelling up eels again And I thought of the wasps' nest in the bank And how I got chased one day Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind, How I covered my face with hay. The wet leaves of the cocksfoot Polished my boots as I Went round by the glistening bog-holes Lost in unthinking joy I'll be carrying bags today, I mused, The best job at the mill With plenty of time to talk of our loves As we wait for the bags to fill ... Maybe Mary might call round ... And then I came to the haggard gate, And I knew as I entered that I had come Through fields that were part of no earthly estate
Flann O'Brien takes many a potshot at the Sweeney writings in "At Swim Two-Birds" (one of Pay The Reckoning's Bibles, having eschewed the Holy Book in favour of soething a little closer to home). Buile Suibne - The Madness Of Sweeney - is a mediaaeval speech-poem describing the descent into madness of the poem's subject. Pay The Reckoning suspects that - as with An Beal Bocht (The Poor Mouth) hhis parody of An t-Oileanach (The Islandman) - the piss-taking is informed by affection for the Sweeney poems as much as by exasperation at their litany of catastrophes. Anyway make your own mind up. We include below one of the passages in the Sweeney catalogue - Sweeney In The Snow
I am in great grief tonight The pure wind has pierced my body My feet are wounded; my cheek is pale Great God, I have cause to be so Last night I was in the Mourne Mountains Rain beat upon me in cold Aughty Tonight all parts of my body have been shattered In a tree-fork in bright Gaille I have endured many assaults Since feathers grew on my body As each night and day pass by More and more hardship do I endure I have been tormented by frost (weather which is not pleasant) Snow has beaten on me in the Kerry Stacks Tonight, far from the heather of pleasant Gleann Bolcain The wind has wounded me Restless my wandering from region to region It has befallen me to be without reason or wits From Moylinny I wander over to Mag Li From Mag Li over the rough Liffey Valley I traverse Segas on the Fews mountains In my rush I reach Rathmore Passing through Mag nAi and the Plains of Boyle I reach the hill of goodly Cruachan From the Knockmealdown mountains (it is no easy expedition) I come to the river in pleasant Gaille From the Gaille river (though it is a long journey) I make my way east to music-haunted Slieve Brey Gloomy is the life of one who has no house It is a wretched life, good Christ Everlasting green-topped cress for food Cold water from a clear stream for drink Falling from the tops of withered branches Going through furze (a deed truly done) Shunning mankind, keeping company with wolves Racing a red stag across a moor To pass the night without feathers In a wood in the top of a dense bushy tree Hearing neither voice nor speech Son of God, is a great cause of grief I rush wildly to a mountain-peak Few have vanquished me in activity I have parted from my unexcelled good looks Son of God, it is a great cause of grief
(translated from the Mediaeval Irish by Gerard Murphy)
Lurgan's most famous (infamous) legend (or myth) concerns a certain Margorie McCall, whose tombstone in Shankill Graveyard carries the inscription, "Lived Once, Buried Twice". (Her name is spelt as Margery in certain texts which we have seen ... however the spelling used throughout is that on her gravestone.)
The McCalls lived in Church Place. Margorie - as her husbands and friends thought - died and, after a few days, was duly interred in Shankill Graveyard. At the time of her passing away she had on one of her fingers a very valuable ring which friends and family tried in vain to prise from the corpse. To no avail. And Margorie was buried, ring and all.
This fact somehow came to the knowledge of a local thief who was determined to get his hands on the ring at any cost. On the very night of the poor woman's interment, he entered the graveyard, began to dig and uncovered the coffin in its fresh grave. He levered open the lid and his eyes lit on the prize he was after. No amount of tugging and hauling would shift the rig, however. And so, since continued skulduggery in the grave would increase his chances of detection, he decided to take a drastic course of action. He produced a knife and set about the gruesome task of severing the corpse's finger.
No sooner had he drawn blood than the "corpse" sat up in the coffin and confronted him. Like a bat out of hell he tore of the grave and across the graveyard!
In the meantime, Margorie's poor husband had been sitting alone, mourning his loss, when he heard a knock at the door. He recognised the knock as being similar to Margorie's. "If she was alive, I'd say that was her at the door!" But when he opened the door to receive the evening visitor, to his astonishment there stood Margorie, in her grave-clothes. He fainted on the spot!
But, thankfully, he soon recovered and found that his wife, supposedly dead but who had in reality been in some sort of a "swoon", was restored to him. Both Margorie and her husband lived for some years after this event. And when at last Margorie departed this life for real, her gravestone recorded the fact that although she lived only once, she had been buried twice!
Pay The Reckoning cannot, of course, shed any light on the possibility of such an event occurring "in real life". Real or not, it's a good yarn and one which is still current in Lurgan ...
Aidan Crossey has been impressed by the collection of songs by Jimy Creaney which have turned up on this site and has written the following tribute to Jimmy Creaney. It goes to the air of "The Stronsay Waltz". If you're not familiar with this tune click the following link. The Stronsay Waltz
Good friends that I love dearly Come listen now, and hear me To tell you the news I have sped I carry sorry words Bad news that I have heard They're saying that Creaney is dead Singers and musicianers Steeped in a tradition of Ballads, come-all-ye's and crack Come and lend a hand And pay tribute to the man Who is gone where there's no coming back CHORUS So raise and drain your glasses You Lurgan lads and lasses To Creaney, who's gone to the grave Wherever fortune finds us His stories will remind us Of our home in the town of the spade In England or Australia Or Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Wherever we happen to roam To hear an oul' rendition Of Creaney's compositions Reminds us of Lurgan and home I've read the works of Homer The bards of Greece and Rome are A hard bunch to beat for the rhymes But if they'd heard a mention Of Creaney's oul' inventions They'd have found his creations sublime Of William the Quilliam I've had far more than my filliam At school they force-fed us his odes But for all of his fine words There's not one that I have heard That's the match of the Aghagallon Road CHORUS There's Yeats and then there's Kates They're very hard to bate As poets they're out on their own One speaks of daffodils And the other Bulben's hill And they're masters of rhythm and tone But put them to the test and We'd find that Creaney'd best them For songs of the Peters and Clans Freecrow never featured In their iambic pentameter And nor did the plain working man CHORUS Ah friends that I love dearly Come, gather now and hear me The songs of Jim Creaney I'll sing You'll hear no fancy words About ladies, knights or lords Nor of bishops, nor viscounts or kings Instead you'll be regaled With Jimmy Creaney's tales There's no better oul' numbers to croon Football on a Sunday And back to work on Monday And greyhounds and Janie Falloon
Pay The Reckoning regulars have asked if we can include a few more songs in these pages. Here are two that are based in County Armagh.
The Rollickin' Boys Around Tandragee is a cracking song set to a tasty jig. Tommy Makem belted out a fine version of this ... but none can beat Paddy Tunney's rendition!
THE ROLLICKING BOYS AROUND TANDRAGEE Good luck to all here now barring the cat That sits in the corner there smelling a rat O wheesht your philandering girls and behave And saving you presence, I'll chant you a stave I come from the land where the pritties grow big And the boys neat and handy can swirl in a jig And the girls they would charm your heart for to see Those darling colleens around Tandragee Chorus So here's to the boys who are happy and gay Singing and dancing and tearing away Rollicksome, frollicksome, frisky and free We're the rollicking boys around Tandragee No doubt you have heard of Killarney I'm sure And sweet Innishowen for a drop of the pure Dublin's the place for the strawberry beds And Donnybrook Fair for the cracking of heads Have you e'er seen an Irishman dancing palltog How he faces his partner and turns up his brog (brogue) He shakes at the buckle and bends at the knee They're wonderful dancers in Tandragee Now the oul jaunting car is an elegant joult And Derry's a place that is famed for a hoult Among the green bushes that grow in Tyrone And the County Fermanagh for muscle and bone But for feasting and dancing and fun at the fair Sure there's no one can match with the Rakes of Kildare Green Erin's my country, the gem of the sea But the gem of oul Ireland is Tandragee O where is the man, either Christian or Turk Could equal the bold Robert Emmett or Burke O where is the lawyer can speak up like Dan The devil another, bad luck to the one. And where is the singer can sing like Tom Moore Whose melodies charm all dull care from your door But we'll beat them all yet boys, and that you will see For we're raring fine fellows round Tandragee.
This version of "Granemore" was recorded by Steeleye Span as The Hills of Greenmore (sic) on their debut album "Hark The Village Wait", sung (practically unintelligibly) by Terry Woods. The song is a very close relative of "The Granemore Hare".
The Hills Of Granemore One fine winter's morning my horn I did blow To the green fields of Keady for hours we did go We gathered our dogs and we circled around For none loves the sport better than the boys in May Down. And when we arrived they were all standing there We set off for the fields, boys, in search of a hare We didn't get far till someone gave the cheer Over high hills and valleys the wee puss did steer As we flew o'er the hills, 'twas a beautiful sight There was dogs black and yellow, there was dogs black and bright As she took the black bank for to try them once more Oh it was her last ride o'er the Hills of Greenmore. In a field of wheat stubble this pussy die lie And Rory and Charlie they did pass her by And there as we stood at the top of the brae We heard the last words that this wee puss did say: ``No more o'er the green fields of Keady I'll roam To trip through the fields, boys, in sport and in fun Or hear the long horn that Joe Toner does play Or go home to my den by the clear light of day.'' You may blame ol' Mac Mahon for killing the hare For he's at his ol' capers this many's a year On Saturday and Sunday he never gives o'er With a pack of strange dogs round the Hills of Granenmore.
In Finnegans Wake, James Joyce sets out a poem "The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly", which has since been altered slightly, set to music and sung, very effectively, as a nonsense ballad, notably by Luke Kelly of the Dubliners. The sung version usually goes under the title Humpty Dumpty.
The song is something of a favourite with Pay The Reckoning. If you're not familiar, we hope that you'll see why when you read the following! (Some notes follow to help make sense of it ... not that you need to make sense of it, mind you ... Pay The Reckoning believes that it's OK just to wallow in the wash of sound.)
The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty How he fell with a roll and a rumble And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple By the butt of the Magazine Wall, (Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall, Hump, helmet and all? He was one time our King of the Castle Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip. And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship To the penal jail of Mountjoy (Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy! Jail him and joy. He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace, Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week, Openair love and religion's reform, (Chorus) And religious reform, Hideous in form. Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it? I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling, Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys All your butter is in your horns. (Chorus) His butter is in his horns. Butter his horns! (Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt on ye, Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns! Balbaccio, balbuccio! We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox and china chambers Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman. Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him. When Chimpden first took the floor (Chorus) With his bucketshop store Down Bargainweg, Lower. So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited company With the bailiff's bom at the door, (Chorus) Bimbam at the door. Then he'll bum no more. Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island The hooker of that hammerfast viking And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay Saw his black and tan man-o'-war. (Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war On the harbour bar. Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod. (Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod. He is, begod. Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann, the rhyming rann! It was during some fresh water garden pumping Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey Made bold a maid to woo (Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo! The general lost her maidenloo! He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher, For to go and shove himself that way on top of her. Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue Of our antediluvial zoo, (Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo. Noah's larks, good as noo. He was joulting by Wellinton's monument Our rotorious hippopopotamuns When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus And he caught his death of fusiliers, (Chorus) With his rent in his rears. Give him six years. 'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children But look out for his missus legitimate! When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker Won't there be earwigs on the green? (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green, The largest ever you seen. Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses! Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meeting For to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery. And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown Along with the devil and the Danes, (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes, And all their remains. And not all the king's men nor his horses Will resurrect his corpus For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell (bis) That's able to raise a Cain.
Here's an explanation of sorts: ... from the books of verse produced by Joyce, Chamber Music and Pomes Penyeach, it is impossible to take the novelist very seriously as a poet, but The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly is in a different class. It is written in the language of Finnegan's Wake, which is a kind of 'Babylonish Dialect' - a phrase used by Dr Johnson is speaking of Milton's language in Paradise Lost. Mr Eliot has pointed out the parallel between the blind and musically gifted Milton and the blind and musically gifted Joyce. Joyce's blindness or near-blindness forced him away from the visual to the musical and emotional associations of words, and his linguistic erudition supplied another element for the construction of the language of Finnegan's Wake... ... Finnegan's Wake - 'a compound of fable, symphony and nightmare' (Campbell and Robinson) - is an allegory on many planes of 'the fall and resurrection of mankind. The 'hero' is H. C. Earwicker, a Dublin tavern-keeper in Chapelizod, whose universal quality is indicated by the names Here Comes Everybody and Haveth Childers Everywhere. He is a candidate in a local election, but he loses his reputation as a result of some never quite defined impropriety in Phoenix Park, and suffers from the guilt of it ever afterwards. In another context of meaning Phoenix Park is the Garden of Eden and the impropriety is Original Sin. Three down-and-outs, Peter Cloran, O'Mara and Hosty, 'an ill-starred beachbusker', pick up the rumour of Earwicker's Fall, and Hosty lampoons him in the 'rann', 'The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly'. Note that perce-oreille = earwig.
-- Kenneth Allott, The Penguin Book of Conntemporary Verse.
A song we tripped across in the Bodleian Ballads site (see Links page). A broadside ballad, there is no indication as to the tune to which the song would have been set. A fascinating find ...
The summertime being in its prime The weather calm and clear My troubled mind no rest could find For thinking of my dear I left that town called Portadown Unto Woodside I came Where all alone I made my moan To Kelvin's purling streams Stream said I as I passed by Give ear to what I say How can you roll without control To such a foreign key Your murmurs bewail my bosom sorely Here stands an apprentice boy He'll never prove false to the girl he loves Till Kelvin stream runs dry There is many a pretty little fish Swims in yon river clear There is many a long and weary mile Between me and my dear There is many a flower grows in yon bower But none my fancy please He sobbed and cried he loved a maid Lived near to Lurgan Brae There is a bonnie wee lass In my own country Ad her I will go and see But if she's dead or wed I'm at my liberty If ever I chance to go that way As I suppose I may I will call and see the lass I loved Who lived on Lurgan Braes
The Bann
BANNA, formerly Ban-dea, 'Female god,' 'Goddess' (dea, 'a pagan god')
This derivation, proposed by T. F. O'Rahilly, is the most recent and authoritative that we have. River names, as a class, are very ancient and deman highly expert study. It has been established that the early Celtis peoples, like others, regarded some rivers as divine beings and habitually gave them names that were primarily goddess-names. But as a rule these names specify the kind of divinity that the river was supposed to be. For instance several Scottish rivers were called 'Lochy,' representing Gaelic Locha, formerly Loch-dea, 'Black goddess' (Watson, Cletic Place-names of Scotland, pp. 50, 426, 521). Here it may be recalled that 'Locha' is perhaps the oldest Irish name that we have for the Lagan (Onomasticon Goedelicum, Hogan, p. 494a; xii 80).
On the analogy of Scottish Locha (Loch-dea), 'Black goddess,' such a name as Bana, Banna (with first a long) would represent Ban-dea, 'White goddess.' But Irish scholarship gives us no encouragement to regard the a of 'Bann' as the lonh a of ban, 'white' (see O'Rahilly, Early Irish History and Mythology, pp. 3, 6).
In the 'Maps of the Escheated Counties' (1609) and other old maps, the Upper Bann is called 'Banbrasil flu(men),' i.e., 'Banbrasil river,' probably because of its connection with Clann Breasail, and to distinguish it from the Lower Bann."
The Banks Of The Bann
When first to this country, a stranger I came I placed my affection on a comely young dame She being warm and tender, her waist small and slender Kind Nature had formed her for my overthrow On the banks of Bann water, where first I beheld her She appeared like fair Juno or a Grecian queen Her eyes shone like diamonds, her hair softly twining Her cheeks were like roses, or like blood drops in snow It was her cruel parents that first caused our variance All because I was poor and of a low degree But I'll do my endeavour to earn my love's favour Although she is come from a rich family My name is Delaney, it's a name that won't shame me And if I had saved money I'd have plenty in store But drinking and courting, night rambling and sporting Were the cause of my ruin and absence from home Had I all the money that's in the West Indies Or had I the gold of the African shore I would spend it on pearls, and on you my brown girl For there's no other love in this world I adore And now that I've found her I'm contented forever I'll put rings on her finger and gold in her hair And we'll live on the banks of the lovely Bann river And in all sorts of splendour I will style my dear
The above is a traditional song about the Bann, sung to the tune Slane (most popularly known as the air of the hymn "be Thou My Vision").
My granda, Arthur John Donnelly, remembered "lighters" ferrying cargo up and down the Bann. "The Breast", where John Joe McConaghy's cottage stood, was a busy port at one stage. The Mill Quay was, similarly, a working quay.
However, nowadays no working vessels use the Upper Bann. Apart from The Breast, I am aware of only one other piece of surviving tangible evidence that the Upper Bann was ever used for industrial/commercial transport, i.e. the Shillington's Bridge area of Portadown.
THE BANKS OF THE BANN (WILLIE ARCHER ON THE BANKS OF THE BANN) O as I was a-walking down by yon mill-town, The fair and lovely mountains they did me surround; 'Twas there I saw a fair maid, and to me she looked grand; She was plucking wild roses on the banks of the Bann. So I stepped up to this fair one, and to her I did say, "Since nature has formed us for to meet on this day -- Since nature has formed us, won't you give me your hand, And we will walk together on the banks of the Bann." Now it being a summer's evening and a fine quiet place, I knew by the blushes that appeared on her face.... We both lay down together unto a bed of sand, And she rolled into my arms on the banks of the Bann. "O young man, you have wronged me; won't you tell me your name, That when my babe is born I may give it the same?" "My name is Willie Archer, and I'd have you understand That my home and habitation lie close by the Bann. "But I cannot marry you, for apprenticed I'm bound To the spinning and the weaving in Rathfriland town. But when my time is over I will give you my hand And we will be married on the banks of the Bann." So come all you fair maidens, take warning by me: Don't go out a-courting at one, two, or three. Don't go out a-courting so late if you can, Or you'll meet with Willie Archer on the banks of the Bann.
The Bann featured highly in the mythology of the Montiaghs. If you thought someone was playing you for a fool one of the standard retorts was, "D'you think I came down the Bann in a bubble?". (Depending on the seriousness of the situation, the remark above may have stood alone or it may have been suffixed by "you big bollix" (or some other such phrase) and/or by a "slap in the beak".)
There was an old, ruined vessel grounded near The Breast which provided a precarious, but nevertheless usable perch from which to fish. Myself and Seamie were sitting up there one evening. It was the year that the Ministry had introduced roach to the Bann. You could have walked from the Bannfoot to Maghery on their backs. English anglers were pouring over to take advantage of huge catches.
Seamie wasn't impressed. "What's the big attraction? Thon buggers are playing a fortune, you know. And for what? There's no sport. Bung the line out. Bang! Another one! I'm away off for a walk."
I fished on. Personally, I didn't mind. I'd fished in the Bann for years and been sun-scorched, bollock-frozen and rain-lashed and came away most days with nothing to show for it!
Seamie came back with a plastic margarine tub and a little toy soldier which he'd found washed ashore up-river. He cut himself two pieces of fishing line - about two feet in length - and tied hookks to them. He punched two holes in the margarine tub and attached both pieces of line.
We cast out again. Bang! Bang! We landed a fish each.
"Give us thon roach, boy!"
I was reluctant.
"Go on!"
He fed a hook into the lip of each fish and carefully lowered them into the water. They moved off slowly, towing behind them toy soldier in his water-chariot. Seamie watched the contraption reach deeper water and then began dismantling his rod.
"To hell with this carry-on! I'm heading off to Kane's. What are you up to?"
"I'll see you there in a bit. I'll just have another half-an-hour or so."
"You're mad, you are!" He headed off. "See you in a wee bit."
I cast out over the margarine tub. It took two or three trials before I judged it right, but eventually I managed to make contact. I reeled in the two fish and unhooked them. They swam off to freedom.
Another song by James Garland. Written about the execution of four United Irishmen at Blarismoor (Blaris Moor?) near Lisburn. Like Dobbin's Flowery Vale, elsewhere on this page, the language is more florid than most of us can easily digest ... still, it was written in an earlier age, and Pay The Reckoning is always pleased to feature songs and music written by anyone from the Lurgan area!
THE BLARISMOOR TRAGEDY Oh, Lord! Grant me direction To sing this foul transaction Which causes sad reflection Late done at Blarismoor. By wicked Colonel Barber Should I proceed much further, And call his conduct murder 'Twere treason I am sure. Belfast may well remember When tyrants in their splendour, In all their pomp and grandeur They hoist them on a car While cavalry were prancing And infantry advancing And glitt'ring armour glancing All in the pomp of war. They were of good behaviour No heroes e'er were braver But a perjured base deceiver He swore their lives away For the sake of golden store This villain falsely swore And the crime we now deplore In sorrow and dismay. Amidst a hollow square Well guarded front and rear With guns and bayonets there Their constancy to move When they received their sentence Their hearts felt no relentings They bowed to each acquaintance And kneeled to God above. Their foes held consultation To find our combination And then this exhortation Curs'd Barber did propose: "Arise from your devotion Take pardon and promotion Or death will be your portion Unless you now disclose." Some moments then they mused For their senses were confused But, smiling, they refused And made him this reply: "We own we are United Of death we're not affrighted And hope to be requited By Him who rules on high." The guns were then presented The balls their bosoms entered While multitudes lamented The shocking sight to see; Those youthful martyrs four Lay weltering in their gore And the plain besprinkled o'er With the blood of liberty. In coffins they were hurried From Blarismoor were carried And hastily were buried While thousands sank with grief. Crying,"Grania, we much wonder You rise not from your slumber With voice as loud as thunder To grant us some relief."
What are you waiting for. A poet has given us these titles, secreted in the words he set down for our edification. Pay The Reckoning has merely lifted them from his works and spread them out before you. Tunesmiths, get writing!
| Angelhood | The Onion-Box | The Wedding Festoonery | The Wedge-Shaped Cabin |
| The Bung-hole | The Twenty-Acre Waste | The Greedy Pike | All Tilled And Tamed |
| The Cranky Old Elm | The Cold Kitchen | The Bewitched Hills | The Distillery Chimney |
| The Prosperous Smoke | The Sun-Dazzled Tide | The Hill of Mullacrew | The Scant Mail |
| The Pig-Named Townland | The Railway Gate-House | The County Highway | The Three-Thirty Train |
| The Important Connection | The Smoky Thirst | The Spoiled Child | The Private Affair |
| The Bread-Cart | The Whimsical Prophesy | The Butt Of The Assembly | The Net Of Love |
| The Snub-Nosed Hills | The Centre Of Gravity | The Pair Of Shop Boots | The Measurer |
| The Material Garment | The United House | The Dropping Shilling | The Gnarled Stick |
| The Sheet Of Foolscap | The Permanency Of Print | The Seed Of Connaught | The Delf Jug |
| The Preposterous Heirloom | The Handmaid Of Prudery | The Evening Memories | The Haze Of Years |
| The Rent Receipt | The Brass Veneer | The White-Whiskered Man | The Laneway |
| The Journeyman Shoemaker | Black Bread And Tea | Dan The Butt | The Pink Bib |
| The Floral Design | The Bundle Of Tools | The Royal Invitation | The Western Sun |
| The Basil Apron | The Old Brogue | The Hard Case | Dundalk Jail |
| The Option Of A Fine | The Plain Philistine | The Prophet's Beard | Burned Whisky And Boiled Nettles |
| The Sour Men | The Secret Nook | The Old Prophecy | The Forgotten Ballad |
| The Settle-Bed | The Batter Of Money | Full And Plenty | The Ransomer |
| Does He Mane Business? | The Marryin' Man | The Pamphlet | The Rag-Ball |
| The Quare Handful | The Strawberry Cow | The Nettle-Forest | The Heart-Scald |
| The Ridge Of Cabbage | The Bad Article | The Water-Beetle | The Red-Water |
| The First Impression | The Cranny | The Sleuth-Hounds | The Cobbler's Gossoon |
| The Priestly Laugh | The Tax-Gatherer | The BurningWool | The Endless Feud |
| The Merry Pagan | The Sheltered Spot | Praties And Gravy | The Unvarnished Truth |
| The Blind Man's Hat | The Low-Necked Blouse | The Penny Doctor | The Box-Barrow |
BAILE AN AIMHREIDH 'Place of the rough (or difficult) land'
Three subdivisions of Ballynery are mentioned in the Brownlow Survey of 1667 : (1) Derryinislintry, now Slantry, represents Doire na slinntreach or sleanntrach, 'Oakwood of the shingles,' i.e., wooden roof-tiles; (2) Derrinenarragh (Harry's Island?) may stand for Doire na n-araidheach, 'Oakwood of the roof-beams' (araidhe, 'a cross-beam'); (3) Derrivarvenagh, now Venagh, may stand for Doire mhar bheitheanach, 'Big birchen wood' (beith, 'a birch'). Mar is an old form of mor (big). This is probably the place that is written Derryvee (Doire bheithe) on a map of Lough Neagh Basin (1783), and Derryvein (D.bheitheain) on Rocque's map.
I prefer the above spelling to the one advocated by Dean Mooney.
I remember vaguely there being some sort of kerfuffle when a road sign was erected at Ballinary Turn which read "Ballynery Road North".
"Sure, for Christ's sake, every eejit knows that you spell it B-A-L-L-I-N-A-R-Y.!"
Some smart-ass interjected. "In his book, the Dean spells it B-A-L-L-Y-N-E-R-Y."
A look of disgust passed over the other one's face. "Sure what the hell's blazes would he know! Sure isn't he from out Newry way! What would them boys know about how we go about spelling the places we grew up in!"
Thus the Dean's intellectual prowess and capacity for dogged scholasticism foundered on the rocks of begrudging territoriality.
Ballinary is a big area, home to one of the few pubs in the Montiaghs - Kane's.
The importance of Kane's as a social epicentre of the Montiaghs cannot be overestimated. I recall how, when my da was running his own business - without a phone - Kane's served as a virtual office. A place to do deals, to get new business, to pay the men. But base your business in a pub (and you maybe have a wee bit of a fondness for the booze - let's face it, which of us don't have a taste for the falling-down water?) and the business isn't going to be very profitable! So my da found out anyway!
Now, every Boxing Day for a few years, Kane's has played host to a session. I've tended not to be around much. But a couple of years back, I found myself kicking my heels. It was my sister suggested that I wander down to Kane's.
"I would. But I've nothing with me."
"Take a lend of my guitar, for God's sake!"
The session was held out in the back room. By the time I arrived it was in full swing. There were a lot of people I didn't know. But a few that I did - Plunky was battering away on a bodhran aand Martin Molloy was rising it up on the banjo.
I listened in for a while, until Plunky hollered. "Are you going to get thon yoke out of its case and give us a song, or what?"
I sang Peggy Gordon. And then strummed along with a few tunes. And then sang The Hills of Granemore. I believe I might have sung John Prine's Come Back To Us Barbara Lewis Hare Krishna Beauregard. I realised I was getting lost in the mass of reels and jigs that the musicians were playing. The other guitarist in the room couldn't help me much as he was playing with DADGAD tuning and the chords didn't look anything like those which I was used to making. So I put the guitar to one side and listened.
Oh, and drank, by the way.
Guinness and Black Bush. By the fistful. After a couple of hours they had begun to take effect. I opened my mouth and gave vent to a confident, powerful version of Sullivan's John. Likewise Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore.
And then - during a string of sets - I tipped over the edge. I started to sing England's Motorways, but forgot some of the words and lost my equilibrium. I'd had too much. I'd shut up from this point on. I put the guitar away.
The session was starting to break up anyway. I got the guitar out again for a final time to strum along to an uilleann piper playing Midnight On The Water. He was amazed that I knew the tune. He was even more amazed that I was able to put words to it, courtesy of Ron Kavana. "I've never been one/For much fancy dancing/My two big left feet/Follow my wandering eye/But when I hear a slow air/played in 3 / 4 time/I'd dance with my darlin'/Until morning light."
And then I found myself in the bar with Plunky. Sobriety was just a name on a map at this point, some place we'd left behind hours ago. But now our journey was taking us - at a frightening pace - to places we probably should have avoided. We'd already passed through Merry, burnt rubber on our way through Tipsy, lingered briefly in Steaming. Ahead lay Stocious, Polluted, Wasted and Bollixed.
But we'd plotted our course and planned to stay the distance. Which meant jumping into a taxi at midnight and heading for the Bay Hall. My memories at this point are vague. There was some sort of drunken altercation in the car park with a mate which ended in the usual "You're my bestest friend" embrace ...
And then I woke up. Head pounding. Eyes refusing to open. Mouth and throat like the bottom of a budgies' cage. I didn't know if I'd have the strength to open my cigarette box.
I managed and sucked in a lungful of smoke. And thought "Thank Christ! There's Christmas over with for another year!"
Ed Reavey was a fine fiddler and composer of tunes - some say he wrote as many as 500 tunes over the course of his life - cracking tunes they were too. Pay The Reckoning's attention was drawn recently to the poem which follows, by "Father Michael". We know nothing else about it. However we were arrested by it completely. As tributes go, this is a fine piece of work. And Reavey deserved, if anybody did. If there's an afterlife, let's hope they don't give him one of those silly harps. A good fiddle and a well-rosined bow's what he'd need.
HOW COULD REAVY DIE! By Father Michael The plumber of the hornpipes is dead. The old diviner with the hazel bow, That found the Shannon's source And made its magic waters flow across the world. "No" she said "he's not dead, How could Reavy die!" And who are you to say! "I am the Wind: The Wind That drove the clouds in herds Above the Cavan hills and Drexel too And whispered to the oats in Barnagrove. I am the breeze that kissed O'Carolan's face With moisture on my lips 'Til notes danced within his mind Like flames behind a blind. I am the breath in Reavy's body I used to whistle in his mouth Merely oxygen upon arrival But virgin music coming out. He would hold me in the evenings And we'd play within his soul He tamed me with his reverence But I always had to go . . . So I bore him sounds of sweetness Some were sad and some were glad And he composed half a thousand tunes About the happy time we had." Hush! I whispered. Did you see his fiddle On the altar - silent as a stone And his body on the grave in Drexel Hill? Clamped on the hole in a final salute Like an old finger frozen on a flute. Did you see the people in a circle Standing sadly in the snow, When the pipes refused to play in the cold? "I was there" she said I am the Breath of the earth. Every mouth is a wisp of my prayer Breathing blessings of incense on the bites of the air Because life has the edge on the ice. Listen my friend, to the lad with the whistle With his finger tips timid and cold. See the life that he brings to the old man's tune And the leaks that he brings to the eyes. See Reavy arise from the holes in the tin . . And announce on his grave "I'm alive!"
To the singer of folk songs and the player of traditional music, songs and tunes from from the place they were born and reared have a particular appeal. Hence Pay The Reckoning's eager seizing upon the songs by Jimmy Creaney provided by Oliver Burns and published previously.
The time's right for publishing a few numbers which are a bit better known than Jimmy's pieces, fine though the latter were!
A few songs follow, but first of all click here to hear the jig, The Road to Lurgan. This tune is contained in "O'Neill's 1001" and so it is regarded as an integral part of the tradition.
The song, Master McGrath, is remarkable in that it's rare for a folk song to speak so affectionately about a Lord of the Realm. It's even rarer for people of the Nationalist persuasion to sing such a song. And yet on a Friday or Saturday night, someone somewhere in Lurgan will be giving this one a turn.
Anyway ... Master McGrath won the Waterloo Cup in 1868, 1869 and 1871, before dying of pneumonia over the Christmas of 1871. There are two monuments to the "gru" in County Waterford.
MASTER MCGRATH Eighteen sixty-nine being the date of the year Those Waterloo sportsmen and more did appear To gain the great prizes and to bear them awa' Never counting on Ireland and Master McGrath On the twelfth of November that day of renown McGrath and his trainer they left Lurgan Town A gale in the channel, it soon drove them o'er On the thirteenth they landed on England's fair shore And when they arrived there in big London town Those great English sportsmen they all gathered round One of the gentlemen standing nearby Said "Is that the great dog you call Master McGrath?" Oh well one of those gentlemen standing around Says "I don't care a damn for your Irish greyhound." And another he sneered with a scornful "Ha! Ha! We'll soon humble the pride of your Master McGrath" Lord Lurgan stepped forward and he said, "Gentlemen, If there's any among you has money to spend, For you nobles of England I don't care a straw. Here's five thousand to one upon Master McGrath." Oh McGrath he looked up and he wagged his oul' tail Informing His Lordship, "Sure I know what you mane Don't fear, noble Brownlow, don't fear them a grath We'll soon tarnish their laurels" said Master McGrath White Rose stood uncovered, the great English pride - Her master and keeper were close by her side. They let them away and the crowd cried, "Hurrah!" For the pride of all England and Master McGrath. As Rose and the Master, they both ran along, "I wonder," said Rose, "What took you from your home. You should have stayed there in your Irish domain And not come to gain laurels on Albion's plains." "I know," said McGrath, "We have wild heather bogs, But you'll find in old Ireland we have good men and dogs. Lead on, bold Britannia, give none of your jaw; Snuff that up your nostrils," said Master McCrath. The hare she led on, just as swift as the wind He was sometimes before her and sometimes behind He jumped on her back and he held up his paw; "Long Live The Republic," said Master McGrath.
The next song - Lurgan Town - is the subject of some controversy. Those of the Loyalist persuasion claim it as their own. Nationalists claim that it's a Nationalist song written to parody the feelings of Orangemen in and around Lurgan. If it's a song that can be sung simultaneously in "The Foresters" and an Orange Hall, then to Pay The Reckoning's mind that makes it a fine song indeed!
LURGAN TOWN Oh Lurgan town's an altered town, Since papish Hancock he came to it If ye walk on the twelfth day of July, Ye may depend he'll make you rue it, And if you sing an Orange song, Ye'll be jailed for eight and forty hours. Fresh orders he has gave the police, To make prisoners of none but ours. cho: Whack fol la, Too rye ay Whack fol right fol too rye addy Lurgan hill is one high hill, The devil's hill the truth I tell ye. The Fenian master he lives there Besides his name is Francis Kelly; And every night the meeting's held, About Repeal and Dan O'Connell; And divil the man dare pass that way, Unless his name is Pat or Donal. We held a dance in ould Kilmore, The Fenian bulldogs they came to it. They danced our maids right round the floor, And ordered Patrick's Day to play it Garryowen and the White Cockade, These were the tunes that they did want sirs, As round the floor they danced our maids, Sayin' "You never stood before such dancers." The twelfth day of July came round, We raised up thirty stand of colours; And on that hill we raised an arch, And on it printed "Here's no cowards," "Now," says Kelly, "If you come through Your Orange blood we'll surely scatter." We turned, shook hands, all we could do, Was say, "Boys remember the Boyne Water."
Dobbin's Flowery Vale is a well-known tune in the folk and traditional canon. It may be a bit on the florid side, but sure let's not let that concern us here! The song was written by a Lurgan man, James Garland, about whom Pay The Reckoning knows nothing apart from the fact that he died in 1842.
DOBBIN'S FLOWERY VALE One morning fair as Phoebus bright her radiant smiles displayed When Flora in her verdant garb, the fragrant plains arrayed As I did rove throughout each grove, no care did me assail When a pair I spied by a riverside in Dobbin's Flowery Vale As I sat down, them to behold beneath a spreading tree The limpid streams that gently rolled conveyed these words to me Farewell sweet maid, the youth he said, for now I must set sail I'll bid adieu to Armagh, you and Dobbin's Flowery Vale Forbear those thoughts and cruel words that wound a bleeding heart For it is true that we're met here alas! so soon to part Must I alone here sigh and moan, to none my grief reveal But here lament, my cause to vent, in Dobbin's Flowery Vale? There's many a youth has left his home to steer for freedom's shore Been laid beneath the silent tomb where the foaming billows roar Take my advice, do not forsake or leave me to bewail But still remain with your fond dame in Dobbin's Flowery Vale Unwilling I am to part with you, no longer can I stay For love and freedom cries "pursue", those words I must obey; In foreign isles where freedom smiles or by the earth concealed I will come home, no more to roam from Dobbin's Flowery Vale It's when you reach Columbia's shores some pretty maids you'll see You'll ne'er think on the loving vow that you have made to me May hope content life's ending pain! My thoughts would oft prevail Of seeing no more the youth I adore in Dobbin's Flowery Vale Do not reflect that you're alone nor yet am I untrue If e'er I chance now for to roam my thoughts will be on you There's not a flower in shady bower on verdant hill or dale But will remind me of the maid behind in Dobbin's Flowery Vale It's mutual love together drew both with a kind embrace While tears like rosy drops of dew did trickle down her face She strove in vain him to detain but while she did bewail He bade adieu and I withdrew from Dobbin's Flowery Vale
ACHADH CAMAN 'Field of hurleys'; 'Hurling field' (achadh, "a field")
The ancient game of hurling (caman) survived as a popular pastime, in the Lurgan area, down to the middle of the last century. Writing in the year 1834, O'Donovan reported that it was then the custom for the young men of the neighbourhood "to play 'common', i.e. a game called hurling" on Easter Monday, in front of Waringstown House (Name Book, Donaghcloney). The proprietor of Waringstown at the time was Rev. Holt Waring.
The only hurler of any note in Aghacommon in my youth was Arthur McCarron. Big Arthur. So called because he was big. Myself and a few others from round about fancied ourselves as hurlers and joined Sean Treacy's from Lurgan - an outfit so chronically bad at the time that I managed to make the under-18 line-out almost every game. We used to practise occasionally at the Tones' new pitch. One night Leo Curry ambled by - drunk as a lord as usual - and ventured to join in. Dressed, as usual, in his string vest and shapeless trousers, and swaying with the drink, he nevertheless picked up a piece of scrap wood that was lying around and gave an amazing exhibition of skill. (If we'd loaned him a hurling stick we might have imagined ourselves to have been in the presence of a former County player.) Until, of course, the exertions became too much and Leo clutched his stomach before letting rip with an ample gutful of recently-guzzled dark rum. The man could hurl in two ways!
He slunk off malodorously towards Kane's pub, where, no doubt, he stopped off to tend once again to his drooth.
While we're on the subject of hurling I remember the time when Sean Treacy's under-18s lined out against a South Armagh team. I have no wish to knock some of the fine players in Sean Treacy's team at that time. There were a few. But unfortunately they were outnumbered by the knock-kneed, the overweight, the baggy-arsed and the tremulous.
We were pissed on from a great height by the superior side, who by half-time had managed 11 goals and 3 points to our less than impressive duck.
A whitewash was on the cards. Until ... I still can't believe our luck!
The other team made a few changes to its line-up at half-time and fielded a new player who had a heavy five o'clock shadow (and it only gone three o'clock!) A BIG lad! If you recall Flann O'Brien's description of Finn MacCool in "At Swim Two Birds", you'll get the picture. "... The arms to him were like the necks of beasts, ball-swollen with their bunched-up brawnstrings and blood-veins, the better for harping and hunting and contending with the bards. Each thigh to him was to the thickness of a horse's belly, narowing to a green-veined calf to the thickness of a foal. Three fifties of fosterlings could engage with handball against the wideness of his backside, which was wide enough to halt the march of warriors through a mountain-pass. etc."
If he was under-18, then I was knocking 80!
We put a proposition to the referee. Either he could disqualify the other side and declare us winners - an option that was likely to incur the wrath of the whole of South Armagh, and would be to the benefit of neither them nor us nor him - or he could allow us to play a ringer as well to even things up.
It was a difficult choice! But common sense prevailed.
However the ref, and the opposing team quailed when when they saw our ringer prepare himself for the fray. Tighe was no slouch in the bulk department - and every ounce of it solid muscle. &nbssp;To quoe our friend Flann O'Brien again., "The neck to him was as the bole of a great oak, knotted and seized together with muscle-humps and carbuncles of tangled sinew, the better for good feasting and contending with the bards. The chest to him was wider than the poles of good chariot, coming now out, now in and pastured from chin to navel with meadows of black man-hair and meated with layers of fine man-meat the better to hide his bones and fashion the semblance of his twin bubs."
Tighe's marking effectively ruled the big fella from the other team out of the game. The final result 24 goals and 7 points to our paltry 2 points. But in the minibus back to Lurgan, Sean Treacy's celebrated a moral victory!
Here's another hundred tunes that have yet to be written!
| The Missal | The Rosary Beads | The Heart of Hearts | The Prime Minister |
| The Back Terrace | All The Big Fellow | The Notion of Superiority | The Glorious Day |
| The Return To The Town | The Fully-Fledged Clergyman | The Bannered Streets | The Open-Topped Bus |
| The Knitting Machine | The Little Wave | The Front Pew | The Monsignor |
| The Seven Long Years | The Gable End | The Gravelled Circle | Far East |
| The Bond Of Affection | The Familiar Sight | How's Tricks? | The Fierce Attack |
| The Sizzling Plate | The Grey Balaclava | The Buckrake | The Conjecture |
| The Sense of Purpose | The Supple Leather | Holy Orders | The Early Stage |
| The Queer Look | The Surfeit Of Pride | The Discarded Haybag | The Binding Of Gold |
| The Rattling Pearls | The Clouds Of Powder | The Knitted Scarf | The Different Turn |
| The Retreat | The Goodness and Beauty | The Unblemished Visage | The Wild-Haired Creature |
| The Very Selfsame | The Egregious World | The Myriad Depravities | The Hideous Figure |
| The Splayed Legs | The Informed Conscience | The Immense Relief | The Unfailing Conviction |
| The Place Of Residence | Far Beyond Doubt | The Fateful Day | The Unsettling Incident |
| Under Cover Of Darkness | The Little Treat | The Hiding Place | Behind A Wall |
| The Good Humour | The Bonhomie | The Tassel | The Man Possessed |
| The Great Distress | The Shriek Of Horror | The Glowering Adversary | The Predatory Companions |
| The Bewildered Shaking Of Heads | The Raucous Laughter | The Eager Minions | The Railway Gates |
| The Sense Of Comfort | Journey's End | The Time Of Trial | The Sound Of Angels |
| The Thought Of Revenge | Like The Clappers | The Bladderesque Monstrosity | The Expression Of Peace |
| The Last Moment | The Wide-Eyed Look | The Renewed Vigour | The Malevolent Gaze |
| The Inner Strength | The Enduring Legacy | The Fierce Grip | The Wanton Destruction |
| The Cruel Joke | The Lifelong Friend | The Cold Casket | The Chimera |
| The Private Crisis | The Wisps Of Cloud | The Balloon Of Hope | My Seventieth Year |
| The Unforgettable | The Moth To The Flame | The Maelstrom Of Possibility | The Obsessive Fury |
Thanks are due again to the selfless Oliver Burns for letting Pay The Reckoning have sight of the following. Oliver says that it was used by Francis McCorry (the local historians' local historian!) in one of his publications on the history of the Montiaghs. Its author is unknown.
I shall ne`er forget the morning That I left old Erin's Isle. The birds were singing sweetly And all nature seemed to smile. But my heart was sad and weary As I bid my friends goodbye And set off for Amerikay, My fortune for to try. Though it`s fine out here in Boston Where there`s plenty all around Where the Irish dominate the scene And where lots of friends I`ve found Where the buildings are palacious And the streets are simply grand Yet I love my home in Derrytagh By the lovely River Bann. I roam once more in fancy By Lough Gullion`s lovely shore From Portadown and Lurgan And through lovely Tannaghmore. Through `Trasna on to Derryveen, And likewise to the Bay Where I long to stand and gaze On beautiful Lough Neagh. Please God some day I will return To those spots so dear to me Where a hearty welcome waits me By my friends across the sea There I'll settle down forever Oh sure it will be grand In that little house in Derrytagh By the lovely River Bann.
Keep them coming, Oliver! They'll find a home in these pages.
In the sleeve notes to Paddy Keenan's fine album, the Na Keen Affair, there is a fine poem by Des Walsh, dedicated to Paddy Keenan. Called Talamh An Eisc (Land Of The Fish), it's an evocative piece that has Newfoundland and Ireland in it, the bitterness of exile, the harshness of living from the sea, the hope that comes from good music, the music that comes from sadness and fear. We felt compelled to reproduce it here and that's likely not within the spirit of copyright law. I hope Des forgives us!
Across centuries of salt-drenched myths, this is where we live now, this is where we belong, our hearts lined with fragments, butlike the lichen-covered rock, unaffected by storm. Our souls are in every boulder that inches its way to the sea, we rule the meadows they have claimed and the gulls that rest there. We sing to the drowned, tear-soaked families and cling to the broken truths that made us call this home, our voices crying out over the pounding waves, only to be blown back to a sparrow's throat, to have the melody cradled in the arms of spruce and wind. We are the songs of the weather. Back then, when these harbors showed themselves only to St. Brendan and the Beothuck, we came for fish, their scales becoming ours their justice becoming ours. Back then, when the echoes of a single note would ring out and caress our granite graves, we would sing ourselves to sleep, women would kiss the ocean, their mouths smoothing the water that has called us all back to this place, to hear that note again, that will sound in our hearts forever.
Like Pay The Reckoning, you may want to take a wee pause after reading that before getting on with your life!
Oliver Burns wrote to us again with a poem he has gathered on his travels. I often my granda, Arthur John Donnelly, recite the first few lines of this. Many thanks to Oliver for completing the jigsaw! (As Oliver says himself in his e-mail to me, the poem was likely good enough for the age of innocence. Oliver ... the poem's good enough for any age! Go raibh mile once again.)
My name is James Haughian the poet, I come from the shores of Lough Neagh, Although I`m not willing to show it, I have always got something to say, Before the poet got married, He used for to wear a green tie, Now all of his courage is buried And must bid his comrades goodbye. CHORUS For you know it is youth and folly, That makes a young man change his life, But I`ll mind the day I took Sally, And promised to make her my wife. The first time I met my wee dearie, I thought there was no one like her, And it done my heart good for to see her, And walk her along the Lough shore. And when we were, walking and talking, And having a houl on the sly, She would take envy by kinks of laughing When she would look at my Bonny Green Tie CHORUS But now it`s an old greasy muffler, Instead of a Bonny Green Tie, In an old pair of shoes I must shuffle, Let the weather be cold, wet or dry, For a boy who is fond of old Ireland, Is fond of a pretty girl too, For you must mind the land we were reared in Its hard for to find a true blue. CHORUS So my name is James Haughian the Poet, A true son to old Granny Nale, Though sometimes I now have to toe it, All over the green hills and dales, I always delight in a sing-song And I will to the day that I die And when the old wife starts a fighting I`ll sing her The Bonny Green Tie.
Rest in peace, James Haughian. Sure the Bay ones could write poems to give Jimmy Creaney a run for his money!
Jerry Murphy is a mandolincafe regular, a supporter of Pay The Reckoning and a musician from the same camp as ourselves. (Click here to listen to Jerry's foot-tapping jig, "Weeds In The Garden" and here for the sheet music.)
Jerry recently e-mailed Pay The Reckoning with a poem by Ferlinghetti which caused Pay The Reckoning to sit up and take notice. We wouldn't have thought that a Bay Area hippy poet would have had much to say to the trad-obsessed folks at Pay The Reckoning. But we were wrong. See for yourself!
The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't mind happiness not always being so very much fun if you don't mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine because even in heaven they don't sing all the time The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn't so bad if it isn't you Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't much mind a few dead minds in the higher places or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregations and congressional investigations and other constipations that our foor flesh is heir to Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as making the fun scene and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs and having inspirations looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking and kissing people and making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing and going swimming in rivers on picnics in the middle of the summer and just generally 'living it up' yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician
There's something for yez all to think about!
A good oul' blood-'n'-guts epic song from the pen of Aidan Crossey. One of our regulars may recognise one or two hints that suggest one of their works may have had an influence!
Me name is Joe Donnelly From an old Montiaghs family We lived by the shores of Lough Neagh But the Lough's reedy shores I'll see them no more Cos I write from a long way away Far away, me boys, far away I write from a long way away It wasn't for fortune It wasn't for fame That I've wandered so far in the world The cause was Pat Gannon And when I catch that hallion I'll kill him for stealin' away me girl Ah me girl, brave boys, ah me girl I'll kill him for stealin' away me girl I didn't like the sea It wasn't like Lough Neagh The waves were higher than the hill of Ardmore I vowed when I got home I never more would roam I would sail upon the ocean never more Never more, me boys, never more I would sail upon the ocean never more Through England I did stray It took a rake of days But the people tret me daycently and kind A crust or two of bread And some straw to make a bed And some company to help to pass the time The time, me boys, the time Some company to help to pass the time But the cause that had me there To tell I wouldn't dare For them people they would think me hard and cruel But I'm neither cruel nor mean I reckon I'm a daycent bein' But I won't stand bein' taken for a fool A fool, me boys, oh a fool I won't stand bein' taken for a fool Well I made it safe and sound To the heart of London Town I was frightened as a rabbit I would say The noise, the crush, the smell To me it was like Hell And I longin' for the shores of Lough Neagh Lough Neagh, me boys, Lough Neagh I longin' for the shores of Lough Neagh In a spot called Clerkenwell I heard Pat Gannon dwelled With my lassie by the name of Maureen Hoy She arrived a pretty girl Her dark hair full of curls But they say that the gin has her destroyed Destroyed, me boys, destroyed They say that the gin has her destroyed Every ale-house, every inn Every dive and house of sin I searched for the treasure of my heart And I thought of what I'd say When we met along the way How I'd take her home, no more from her to part To part, me boys, to part I'd take her home, no more from her to part This London Town was grim I damn near jacked it in And made the journey home to Derryadd But one evening getting late I spied Gannon and his mate Alight in Charing Cross from out a cab A cab, me boys, a cab Alight in Charing Cross from out a cab I followed close behind I tried to still my mind My heart was racin', hands began to shake They came upon an inn Two glasses of cheap gin And me watching every move they thought to make Thought to make, me boys, thought to make Me watching every move they thought to make When I saw Maureen Hoy My heart it leapt for joy Then it hammered out a rhythm of distress It was clear for all to see She was drunk as she could be And the clothes were hangin' off her in a mess In a mess, me boys, in a mess The clothes were hangin' off her in a mess Gannon's arm snaked round her waist And I watched the durty baste Grab a houl' of her rear-end fornent us all He nearly died of fright When I cried "Let go, you shite" And strode out into the middle of the hall The hall, me boys, the hall I strode out into the middle of the hall I didn't say another word That anybody heard But my hands were in an instant round his throat And for everyone to see I stood impassively While Gannon coughed and spluttered, then he croaked He croaked, me boys, he croaked Gannon coughed and spluttered, then he croaked I turned round for Maureen She was nowhere to be seen They tell me that she ran like the wind Gannon lay upon the floor His woman-stealin' days were o'er And I couldn't feel a twitch of guilt because of him 'Cos of him, me boys, 'cos of him I couldn't feel a twitch of guilt because of him They took me out of there in chains And threw me in the jail It appears that what I did is thought a crime And I'm to be hung For the deed that I have done And I swing in twenty-one days' time Hard times, me boys, hard times I swing in twenty-one days' time I stand on the deck With a rope round my neck Rougher hemp you'd look long and hard to find To the shores of Lough Neagh Cold and bleak and grey I bid farewell as I dangle in the wind In the wind, me boys, in the wind Fare thee well as I dangle in the wind
Regular visitors to Pay The Reckoning will have noted our love affair with the parochial. Thankfully in Oliver Burns we have an industrious ally, who shares our taste and is prepared to provide us with some material!
The following ditty - to the be sung to the air of "The Girl I Left Behind Me" - is another example of the work of Jimmy Creaney of Lurgan. Published in "Glor Lurgain" - a Gaelic League publication - in 1945, the song tells of a football match between Clan-na-Gael, the Shankill based GAA football team in Lurgan, and St Peter's - the team based in Freecrow. The wee song demonstrates the best features of this genre of verse-making; the liberal use of vernacular, the "bit of slagging", the overinflated language, the crafty - opportunistic - rhymes (e.g. whopper/stop 'er and overwhelm/Phelim). Fair play to you, Jimmy Creaney, you kep' the crack going!
Oh list to the wails of the Clan-na-Gaels And see their sad tears flowing For the Green Cross Cup is papered up And to Freecrow it is going. Now the Clans I know, did boast and blow - Believe me when I tell it They even vowed the Peters' crowd Would never even smell it Well, man alive, at half past five On a Sunday that game started When I saw the Blues - give them their dues - I was a bit downhearted. And I can't deny at the start, sure I Had got an awful feeling, That the boys in Blue were going to Give our Wee Whites a creeling Well the Clans with speed took a two-point lead That left the Peters flustered But to my delight the boys in White Their forces soon had mustered And Tommy Doran, the Whites' star turn Sent a beauty o'er the rafter And my spirits soared when Dessie scored Another point soon after To take a free went Joey, he Put the Whites in front, boys! Then Sean McCann, the Clans' best man Up the field the ball did punt, boys. And young McStay, without delay, For the Clans sent in a whopper, And the outstretched hands of Harry Sands - Alas! they failed to stop 'er. Well, you know the rest, though they tried their best The Whites to overwhlem There is no doubt they were held out By Casey, Young and Phelim. And at time up we'd won the Cup, And our hearts with joy were brimming, For 'twas grand, bedads, to see our lads Give the Clan-na-Gaels a trimming.
Thanks again to Oliver Burns. If we made any money out of this oul' caper, Oliver, we'd give you shares!
This came from Gaelic News, August 1948, a limited circulation newsletter which did the rounds in Lurgan. Reprinted in this issue was an old ballad writen on the subject of a meeting held at McGreavy's Corner, Derrymacash, on Sunday 2nd October 1904. There was no tune given - but Oliver and Pay The Reckoning have decided it ought to go to the air of "The Wearing Of The Green" or "The Rising Of The Moon".
Oh Ireland you may well feel proud of Derrymacash this day For in your ranks there can't be found more manly men than they They love you with their Irish hearts, as all your sons should do And with their sagart at their head, would strike a blow for you When persecution, years ago, was raging o'er the land When Catholics got no law at all, these brave men made a stand, To save their little chapel being wrecked and knocked to smash And warmed the orange and purple hides in style at Derrymacash They made the wreckers rue that they had had the luck to come And some down Raughlan Avenue made speedy tracks for home Of course when things became too hot all rear-cuts were in So those Orange bloods must be excused for running hard to win Last Sunday at McGreavy's Hill, that old historic ground The gallant men of North Armagh in thousands gathered round Their loyalty to pledge anew to Ireland's holy cause And to denounce in language strong proud England's cruel laws God bless brave Farther McCartan, who came and took the chair And our brilliant patriotic priest, young Father Frank O'Hare Long may they both be o'er us spared to be our guide we pray And share our joys and troubles too, along life's weary way The orange magistrates of Lurgan town, a couple of weeks before Did loudly bark and show their teeth and raise a great uproar They thought our meetings to suppress to frighten us with bosh But we showed them we were Irishmen that live at Derrymacash The lamp of patriotism is burning brightly still In Saunderson's constituency, against these bigots' will And there it shall remain and burn, a light that never dies Nor cannot be extinguished by orange bigotry nor lies Brave men were there from Maghery, Aghagallon, Lurgan town Ballinary, Derrytrasna too and orange Portadown With pretty girls in blouses white to brighten up the scene For they are Irish too you know and love the flag of green Green banners floated in the breeze, green arches spanned the ways Hibernian bands played Irish airs to poor ould Granu's praise That day the green was raised on high, it looked both bright and fresh 'Tis a nasty pill for Saunderson - such work in Derrymacash That brilliant Irish orator, Joe Devlin, from Belfast And Dick McGhee, who served so well his country in the past Were there that day and told us all in language clear and plain That soon we'd have our country, boys, a nation once again For near at hand upon the waves a tiny spark is seen With the precious cargo of Home Rule for Erin's Isle so green Oh, Irishmen, one final stand - unite, be firm and true And God will soon that little barque, steer safely o'er to you And when that happy day comes round how glad we all shall feel To know we lent a helping hand, our country's wounds to heal That when she, bruised and bleeding, lay beneath the tyrant's lash None treated her more friendly than the sons of Derrymacash
There's an often-quoted line in one of O'Casey's plays, "What are the stars?"
Well this wasn't a play.
I'd had a falling out with Harry in the Corner House (a not infrequent occurrence), the upshot of which was - for the time being at any rate - I was persona non grata in the Aghacommon hostelry. Therefore it being a mid-week evening and I couldn't face the long haul into town, I found myself perched at the bar of the Tones' Hall. Mid-week and mid-winter. The sky had been clear of cloud as I made my way down Wolf Island hill. A frost was already setting in.
I was halfway through my second pint when the buzzer sounded. Joe checked the CCTV and let him in.
"Rough night, there!"
"A coul' one, right enough! It would freeze the bark off ye!"
"The usual?"
"Aye!"
He settled himself in, nodded at a few of the regulars, all of the same vintage as himself.
He drew his pint over towards him and had a long pull at it. "Ah, Jesus! There's a great pint, what?" There was a murmur of assent.
He reached inside his coat and pulled out a packet of fags. He picked one out and lit it, blowing a thin stream of smoke out the side of his mouth. Another suck on the fag and then he said to everyone, to no-one, "There was a quare rake of stars out the night, boys. The sky was full of them. And I was wonderin' to meself, what the oul' stars are. Have any of yez ever asked yourself about the stars?"
There was a mumbling and a shaking of heads which indicated that none of them had ever given the nature of the stars a second thought. But, now that you mention it, the stars are a mystery, right enough.
"Well, " he continued, "I was lookin' at them the night on my way down past Ruddle's Bogs. Hundreds of them. Blinking away there. When I thought, what are they all about? Where do they come from?" He dragged down another chestful of smoke and took another slug of his pint. "And then it occurred to me! There and then! The stars are just holes in the sky!"
There were a few exclamations of delighted surprise! One oul' fella raised his glass. "Jesus! Ireland's rearin' the scholars yet, eh!"
That was the evening I decided to leave Derrymacash.
Shay thought he was being patronised and if there was one thing he didn't like ...! (Well, actually, there were a number of things he didn't like. Tarot cards was a thing he had no time for ... but that's another story.)
The German fella was sitting around with us in Shay's breakfast room one fine morning. We'd been sitting gassing for a good hour or more, each of with his or her own reasons for not making their way just yet out into the glorious day. In my case it was a slight hangover that lashings of hot coffee was gradually diluting.
How the talk got around to the internet I can't quite remember. The German fella's ears pricked up and he was off on some technical explanation. He pulled himself up short and - making a great deal out of his apology - said he was sorry if he'd lost anyone en route. Turning his attention to Shay he asked if everyone knew what the internet was. (Shay told me later that Achill was at the forefront of new technological revolution. An estate of new houses built at Purteen had ISDN lines installed as standard.)
I saw Shay bristle - then catch himself. He relaxed into the seat.
"D'you know sheep?"
The German fella looked puzzled. "Sheep?"
"Aye, sheep! The white hairy boys. Baa!"
"Yes ... and?"
"Well, " said Shay, "have you ever noticed that when you're out for a drive they flock around in front of the car and slow you down. You try to go round them on the left and they all move over to the left.. You try to overtake them on the right and they all flock right."
"Yes ...?"
"And then now and again the whole flock stops and you have to stop behind them and wait till they move on?"
"I think so ..."
"Well, have you ever noticed that when they stop it's outside a shop, or a pub, or a restaurant."
"Yes ...?"
"And so the chances are you might think 'That's a nice shop. I'll have a look in there!' or 'A pub! Great! I could do damage to pint!" or "A café! And here's me so hungry I could eat a baby's are through its nappy!"
"Eh ...?"
Shay brought his hand down on the table with a flourish. The German fella jumped. "Well, it's obvious, I thought a clever lad like yourself would have seen it a mile off. They're remote controlled over the net by Bord Failte at Achill Sound."
The German fella started to work out the joke. The rest of us kept a straight face. Shay winked at me on his way out to the kitchen to make some more coffee.
Another song by Aidan Crossey - written some time ago.
Come all you young hallions that take joy in beer Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay I'll tell you a story who's moral is clear Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay Me name is O'Neill from the town of Kilkeel First tasted whiskey when I was sixteen But now I am sick and there's none that can heal me, ah Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay In the beer and the whiskey I took great delight Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay First thing each morning and last thing each night Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay And many's the night that I spent in the cells Many's the mornin' I'm goin' through hell Till Wee Annie would open, a galss and all's well, saying Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay A night in the ale house is a rare oul' pastime Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay Drinking and singing till last orders chime Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay Then rollin' on home to your wee soft warm head A song in your heart and a fire in your head Lyin there on your back as if you were dead, dreaming Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay But the money runs low and you're out on the street Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay Drinking the Buckfast so heavy and sweet Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay And you lie down to sleep in a fine mist of rain Waking up screaming and writhing in pain Waking up with a jolt in the jailhouse again, crying Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay Come all you young hallions that take joy in beer Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay I've told you a story who's moral is clear Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay Me name is O'Neill from the town of Kilkeel First tasted whiskey when I was sixteen But now I am sick and there's none that can heal me, ah Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay Too-ri-lye-oo-ri-lye-ay
Pay The Reckoning is indebted yet again to Oliver Burns for providing us with the lyrics to the following three songs by Jimmy Creaney. Jimmy was a Lurgan man and a prolific songwriter. His da , John Creaney, lived until he was 101 and his brother, Janty, was well-known as a kite-maker. The Irish Class concerns a revival of interest in the Irish language which took root in Lurgan in the 1940s. It is to the tune of MacNamara's Band.
I joined an Irish class a little while ago And I get lessons twice a week in a hut down in Freecrow And though a Gaelic speaker I intended for to be Sure here is all the Gaelic they could batter into me Chorus Cad e mar ata tu is how are you Sin ceart means that's right Ta me go maith I'm very well And oiche maith good night Cad e an taim what's the time Nil's agam I don't know At least that's what they taught me In the class down in Freecrow Well I met Big Eddie McLoughlin in the street the other day Cad e mar ata tu Eamon I merrily did say Oh he started talking Gaelic till my poor head did ache so And I'm awful sorry Ned but this is all I know Chorus Now the Feis adjudicator at me looked stern and grim He asked me twenty questions but not one I answered him He asked me this and he asked me that, then in despair he cried Do you know any Irish at all at all, then proudly I replied Chorus Now one day with the help of God and a bit of studying too I'll pass out for my fainne and this is what I'll do I'll start a nice wee Gaelic class and I'll say now eist le mi Bigi cuain le do thoil and say this after me Chorus The next song - Going To The Dogs - is to the air (more or less) of "The Ducks of Magheralin". Celtic Park stood where St Paul's Chapel now stands. I'm Pat McCann a Lurgan man who's feeling sad and blue For I strated backing greyhounds and a winnerI can't do I have lost a mint of money and bit of duds as well And if you meet me in the street it's easy for to tell Chorus That I'm going to the dogs, yes I'm going to the dogs For I pawned my shoes and I pawned my shirt and pawned my Sunday togs Now all I have is my dungarees and a pair of well-worn clogs And as I go by, you'll hear them cry "He's going to the dogs" Last Friday night I met a bunch of fellows that I know They said "C'mon Pat me lad and make some easy dough" So up and I along with them as happy as a lark Sure I'm sad to say I lostmy pay that night in Celtic Park Chorus I'm going to the dogs, etc. I took a fancy to a dog, his name was Freecrow Lad The price O got was two to one so I put on all I had And as he was coming round the straight he was fifteen lengths ahead But before he reached the winning post the bloody dog dropped dead Chorus I'm going to the dogs, etc. Now listen all you idle chaps that like to wear nice clothes Keep as far as possible from the bow wow wow wow wows For if you start this habit you'll find it won't be long That you'll come home one night singing this wee song Chorus Oh I'm going to the dogs, etc. Finally - for the time being at any rate - Creaney's masterpiece "Jane Falloon". Set to the air of "The Bright Silvery Light Of The Moon", Pay The Reckoning remembers Paddy McCann belting this one out at manys a "social" in and around the Montiaghs. We gather that the second verse is by Oliver himself. One evening as I strolled down the Aghagallon Road I met a girl whose name was Jane Falloon Well we had a pleasant talk and she asked me for a walk By the bright silvery light of the moon How I cursed my bloody lot as I cuddled this oul' bat For my ass it turned a lovely shade of blue As I lay in the dust and the dirt nothing on but a wee short shirt By the bright silvery light of the moon Now she was no beauty queen for her teeth were turning green She had a pimple on her nose like a big balloon And by her breath 'twas plain to see she had scallions for her tea By the bright silvery light of the moon Oh says she I've got no charm but I own a nice wee farm And you could be its owner very soon Now if only you'll decide to make me your sweet bride By the bright silvery light of the moon Oh says I my darling Jane you make this plea in vain And although that I make look a silly loon I'd rather die a pauper's death than catch the smell of your oul' breath By the bright silvery light of the moon If Oliver has any more of Ceaney's songs at home, maybe he could bung them over! Pay The Reckoning/Oliver Burns/Jimmy Creaney July 2001
It was Friday, mid-afternoon. The Corner House was quiet - the lull before the Friday evening madness.
Myself and Tony nodded to one or two regulars at the bar as we entered.
"The lads! What'll it be?"
"Two pints of Guinness there, Hughie"
"You were in right order last night, big fella." He pulled the pints.
"I'd a bit of a win on the horses."
"So I heard! Fourteen-to-one."
"Aye. Still ..." I pulled out a twenty quid note to pay for the drinks, "... thon's the last of it now!"
We sat down at a table and drank in silence.
Apart from the locals, there was a tall, rangy man sitting alone at the bar, sipping slowly at a pint of Guinness. The big clock on the wall struck five and shattered the silence. I called for another two pints.
With which the door opened. In swaggered/staggered Barney Murphy - a local man of low character, a "poison", a mouthpiece!
Tony hissed at me ... "Thon bastard! I can't stand him!"
I couldn't agree more. I looked away from him. Eye contact might be seen as an invitation to join us. We hunched conspiratorially over our drinks in a manner which forbade any interruptions.
Murphy swayed the bar.
"A bottle of stout and a Bush, there, Hughie!" he goldered.
Hughie sized him up. "You've maybe a wee drop on you already, I'd say!"
"I'd say you were right." Murphy replied. "I'd say I'd maybe have a big drop on me and all!"
"Well make damn sure you mind your manners, Murphy. For if there's any oul shite out of you, I'll have you barred out of here!"
He affected a look of astonishment. "Me?! Ah Jesus, Mary ..."
Hughie threw him a look.
"Just give us the bloody drink, would you and quit nyarking at me. For Christ's sake ..."
Hughie set him up the drink. "Just mind that I'm watching you ..."
Murphy tilted the glass and, with a great deal of tongue-lolling concentration, poured his Guinness. He turned to the stranger.
"What do you make of thon? What way's thon to talk to a customer, eh?" He peered aggressively into the stranger's face. "What? What did you say? I didn't hear you! Do you have a tongue on you at all?"
He snorted.
The stranger appeared barely fazed by Murphy's lairiness. "I don't have that much of an opinion, no!"
Murphy's demeanour changed instantly. "Is thon an accent I hear?"
The stranger shifted uncomfortably.
"No, c'mon! Is thon a free state accent? Is it Cavan?"
The stranger shook his head. Murphy beamed. "Is it Monaghan?"
The stranger nodded. Murphy's smile widened. He stretched out his hand. "Here!" He nodded for the stranger to grasp his hand.
As he caught Murphy's hand, he yanked him out of his seat. His expression changed in an instant as he snarled "I HATE Monaghan men!"
The stranger withdrew his hand from the false handshake and turned to Hughie.
"I'm sorry about that ... " stammered Hughie.
The stranger motioned him to be quiet. "It's alright, mister. Just keep an eye on me pint, will you. Me and your man's going outside."
It was only a matter of seconds until the Monaghan man walked back in and settled himself again at the bar. He picked up a newspaper and began to read casually.
It was a few minutes later that we heard the scratching at the door. It opened a fraction. Then a little wider. A little wider. A hand was visible. It clawed around, found a little purchase. The door opened a little wider. Murphy's head appeared - bloody, bruised and battered.
"Could somebody phone me an ambulance?" he croaked.
Pay The Reckoning is indebted to Oliver Burns who recently took the trouble to e-mail us with some information on the meaning of place-names, derived from ancient Irish names, in and around Lurgan, County Armagh.
Pay The Reckoning had been in contact with Oliver and mentioned that we are in the process of developing a section of the site devoted to some very personal memories of the Montiaghs - a collection of townlands in Lurgan's hinterland. The "key" to this piece of work is to be Dean Mooney's 1954 essay on the Place-Names of the Parish of Seagoe.
Oliver, something of a local historian, was interested in Pay The Reckoning's "work in progress". Hope the finished article - due sometime in the late Summer/early Autumn lives up to expectations!
Those placenames marked with an asterisk are now no longer used, presumably having been lost as Lurgan expanded.
Shankill - Sean Chill - Old church (Shankill is the name of the Roman Catholic and Church of Ireland parish to which Lurgan belongs)
Lurgan - An Lorgain - Long Ridge or Shin Bone (or Lurga Bhaile Mhac Cana - Long Ridge or Shin Bone of the McCanns)
Annaloiste - Eanach Loiste - A Wet Meadow
Aghnacloy* - Ach na Cloiche - Ford of the Stone (Edward Street area)
Blough* or Ballyblagh* - Baile Blathach - Flowery Townland
Boconnell - Both Chonall - Conall's Hut
Boile - Boile - Milking Place
Clanrolla - Clann Raphuilbh - Ralph's Descendants
Cornakinnegar - Corn na Choinigier - Hill of the Rabbit Warrens
Derry* - Doire - Oakwood (an area covering St. Peter's in North Street)
Drumgask - Droim gCasga - Easter Hill Ridge (referring to Easter Customs)
Drumnakelly - Dromain-mhic-Eachmhiadh - McCauley's Hill Ridge
Derrylisnahavil - Doire lios na hAbhall - The Oak Grove of the Fort of the Apples
Drumnamoe - Droim-na mBo - The Ridge of the Cow
Dougher - Dubh Cairn - Black Cairn
Killaghy - Coill Eachaich - Horseman's Wood
Kilwilkie - Coill Mhilchu - The Church of Milcu
Kinnego - Ceann Gobhar - Smith's Headland
Lisacurran - Lios mhac Chorrain - MacCurran's Fort
Monbrief - Breach Mhaighe - Place of the Wolfs' Plain
Silverwood - Coill an Airigid - Silver Wood
Lurgantarry - Lorgain aTsamhraidh - Summer Hill (gathering place for milking)
Tullygally - Teach mhic Amhaighaidh - MacGalledy's Hill Top
Tirsogue - Tearsoge Diseart - Little Hermitage
Drumnakerne - Dromann-na-Kern - The Hill Ridge of the Foot-Soldier
Taghnevan - Teach n'Eumhin - Evin's House
Tullyconnelly - Tulach Conchalaigh - Congharach's Hill Top
Tannaghmore - Teach Meach Mor - Large Grassy Field
Toberhewny - Tobar na h'Aoine - Friday's Well or Canice's Well (Holy wells throughout Ireland were places of pilgrimage and Toberhewny's case, Friday was the special day.)
Tullydagan - Tulach Dagain - Dagan's Hill Top
Turmoyra - Tir Muireach - Murray's Land
Legahory - Lag-a Choire - Pot of the Hollow (so-called becuase of the townland's shape)
Knocknashane - Cnoc-na-Seangan - The Hill of the Ants
Knockramer - Cnoc Reamhar - Stout or Fat Hill
Carry me out from Wolfs Island, walk me past Arty McShane’s Down the Kesh Hill and, in front of the Tones, pause in the drizzling rain At Kitty Smith’s Corner remember the times that we spent in our youth Prowling and sporting and singing and taking good care of our drooth And over the bridge to the chapel, carry my bones in good style Sober and solemn and silent, carry my bones for a mile Make sure that there’s incense and candles, and tears and bitter regret Make sure there’s a fancy oration those present will never forget Then lower me down in the graveyard, with the pipes wailing Roisin Dubh Rest me among my people, whose bones have been buried here too And visit my grave in the winter when the trees stand stark and bare And the high lonesome whistling curlew yodels its notes of despair And visit my grave in the springtime and think of me cold in the clay For the day will come when you join me; we’ll all end up here one day
Michael from Australia dropped Pay The Reckoning a line recently.
He describes himself as a beginner Uilleann Piper. (So that means he’s been playing for about 400 years?)
Anyway his brother dropped in to see what the pipes were as he had heard them but not seen them. He managed to keep a straight face for all of about a minute or so as Michael strapped himself into his practice set. When Michael eventually began to play his brother finally begged him to stop as he collapsed on to the floor in tears of laughter.
He later said he wasn't sure whether Michael was going to "shoot up' or take off.
Never mind, Michael, keep practisin’ and keep a weather eye on Pay The Reckoning. We don’t laugh at pipers!
Regular visitors to Pay The Reckoning cannot help but have noticed the growing stock of original tunes by Aidan Crossey.
Here he makes a few points about the writing of “traditional” tunes.
The point has been put to me (forcefully on occasion) that the term “original traditional tune” is a paradox. One individual accused me recently of attempting to dilute the tradition by adding new tunes rather than allowing them to evolve naturally.
I have a little time for such arguments.
I accept that the defining features of most countries’ traditional or folk music is that the origins of particular pieces are lost in the mists of time. Tunes have been handed down from generation to generation, refined along the way by the musicians who have been entrusted with their care.
However in Irish music a large part of the tradition is “attributed” to or “connected with” certain players. (Let's leave aside for a moment the work of O'Carolan - the fact that a large body of work exists more or less in the tradition and can be traced back to one man is unusual.) Examples of such tunes are John Ryan’s Polka and Padraic O’Keefe’s Slide. It is by no means certain that John Ryan or Padraic O’Keefe composed the tune with which their name is associated. What is fairly certain is that John Ryan and Padraic O’Keefe may have been the first people in a certain area to have played the tune, that they played it regularly, even that they played the tune particularly well. When present at a gathering, other musicians would say, “John, give us a blast of that polka.” Or “Padraic, give that slide a go, would you?”
Later, at another distant gathering, a musician would play the polka (or slide). A fellow musician would comment “Jesus, man, but that’s a beltin’ tune. What would you call it?” “I don’t know the proper name of it. I suppose you'd call it John Ryan’s (or Padraic O’Keefe’s). After the man I heard it off.” And so it would get handed on.
There are other tunes that bear the name of an individual – but there’s little in the way of copyright implied. “Julia Delaney” for example is unlikely to have been by or associated with the playing of Julia Delaney as much as it may originally have been written by some now forgotten musician for the lady in question.
However, the 20th century saw a large number of tunes emerge whose composition by named individuals was a matter of record. Ed Reavey is a prime example of a musician who – over the course of a long and active involvement in Irish music – composed a large number of tunes which have made their way into the tradition. Few would dare to question the right of Reavey to compose such tunes.
And Reavey wasn’t alone, of course. The fact is that a large number of musicians find it practically impossible not to compose tunes. This is not to suggest that the number and variety of tunes in the tradition is insufficient to retain most musicians’ interest. Simply that when playing music it is difficult for a number of musicians not to improvise, to weave musical phrases which express their mood at the time.
In my case, I tend to try to capture such moments by working that phrase up into a tune. Doesn’t always happen, of course! There are a number of scraps of paper kicking around my house which have three or four bars of a tune scribbled down. If I’m being realistic, they’ll never be finished.
But I could never imagine that any of my tunes would make it into “the tradition”. I don’t play in a band at the moment, I don’t play at sessions, I don’t record (although I am contemplating putting together a tape of my stuff, when time permits), I don’t work with any music publishers. I simply post a few tunes to one or two websites because that is an extremely convenient way for someone who is otherwise not active in the traditional music scene to disseminate their material. Pay The Reckoning has a few visitors; mandolincafe has many more. However I would be surprised if their reach is likely to have a major influence on the tradition.
Another song from Aidan Crossey - yet another attempt to recreate a traditional feel.
A grenadier, a fusilier and a captain of the sea/Were drinking in a tavern, and spending money free/And boasting of their soldiery, comparing battle scars/Bragging of their bravery, in all their foreign wars
First up spoke the fusilier with his whiskers waxed and sleek/It was in the wars in India, I was scarred upon my cheek/It was in the northern mountains where the coldest winds do blow/We were set upon by bandits in the Himalayan snow
They were only few in number but they took us by surprise/And I watched first six, then seven comrades fall before my eyes/But their banditry could never match the power of our guns/We opened fire and within the hour we'd slaughtered every one
And then up spoke the grenadier, well done my soldiering friend/Your gallantry and mettle you have proved time and again/But listen to my story and you will clearly see/That I'm the bravest grenadier in all the King's army
It was on the plains of Africa, the heat and light were fierce/When suddenly from all around, with screams the day was pierced/Fifteen thousand Africans from the jungle did appear/Their sudden siege of our encampment filled us all with fear
But they made the same mistake, it seems, as the bandits we've heard tell/For heavy field artillery isn't fightened by a yell/We loaded up our field guns and we aimed them at the hordes/And when the smoke it settled, their grim attack was over
And then up spoke the captain, his grey beard trimmed and neat/Come listen to my stories of my service in the fleet/My friends, I fear your soldiering yarns will soon look rather pale/When compared with my adventures on the high seas in full sail
It was in the Bay of Biscay we engaged the foreign craft/A vessel to the fore of us, a vessel to the aft/I ordered that the ship be tacked so the foe was port and star/And on my command my gunmen put an end to the enemies' war
But then up spoke a drummer boy, who'd chanced to overhear/And being full of whiskey and being full of beer/And being full of anger at their boasting and conceit/He felt compelled to make a point, so staggered to his feet
Drummer boys, he banged his fist, face many dangers too/But unlike armed and practised men, unlike men like you/Drummers face their dangers armed with neither sword nor gun/They march towards the enemy, armed only with a drum
I've beat a march in cold mid-winter in the Hindu Kush/I've gone before the regiment for the final final push/On the plains of Africa I've dodged arrow, dart and spear/And all the while my drumming helped you fight against your fear
And I've been to France, I've been to Spain, to Ireland in my time/I've beat advances and retreats to keep you all in line/I've been shot and bayoneted, lost in action, left for dead/And I've never got a mention when the roll of honour's read
We were three sheets to the wind. We'd been giving it loads down below in the pub all evening. I didn't know who the party was in aid of. I barely knew where we were.
We staggered through the door. The Famous Flautist was standing - centre-stage - in the middle of the room. Flanking him on either side were two female flautists. Great musicians, but much lesser talents; stars dimmed by their proximity to the great man himself.
FF and the acolytes finished the tune. There was a ripple of respectful applause.
"Do you play requests?"
FF turned his gaze to me. Imperious yet benign. "Name it and I'll play it." He looked around the room, his smugness met - as he expected - with the degree of rapt attention he desserved.
"Can you play "The Sash"?"
FF exploded. I didn't quite catch every word ... but I got the gist. Essentially he wouldn't be playing The Sash, no. And if I didn't get my arse out of this house, I'd be requiring emergency medical treatment from a trauma specialist.
It was not my finest moment. After the melee which followed, the party seemed to go downhill. FF flounced off. Opinion was divided. There were those who thought my comment had been out of order. There were those who thought it was funny.
One of the former accosted me on his way home. "It's a great pity that some people have no respect. It spoils everybody else's enjoyment."
Shay half-smiled and said to the complainer. "It's a great pity that some people don't have a sense of humour!"
"Or, " I added, " ... a sense of proportion."
Splayed by oar, scythe and rope/Thorn-pricked, hammer-bruised and knife-nicked/The piper's fingers
They've not been spared/Work-hardened, cold-roughened, water-chapped/The piper's fingers
Balled into a fist/They blackened the eye of Drainey/Outside Ferris's one New Year's Day
And they tightened round Drainey's shoulder/As they lifted his da's coffin/For the long last walk to the grave
Forty years of tunes/Are stored as memories/In the piper's fingers
Stained by dirt and blood and time/Toil-thick, calloused, improbably nimble/The piper's fingers
Needless to say these tunes don't exist either. (Or do they?!)
| The Tossed Bed | The Shirt With The Ruined Collar | The Sharp Frost | The Swan In The Cut |
| The Black Sheep | The Apple Rind | The Groom Is Drunk | A Fork In The Road |
| The Cold Snap | A Night In The Alehouse | The Long-Tailed Shovel | The Rat In The Drain |
| The Man From Skibereen | No Show Without Punch! | Back From America | The Barman's Trousers |
| The Swallow In The Eaves | Two Spoons Of Sugar | The Full Regalia | The Running Tide |
| The Narrow Victory | Drinking-Up Time | Not Long Till Pay Day | Hugger Mugger |
| The Rock Pool | The Final Furlong | The Head of the Plain | The Otterbeds |
| The Wild Lilies | Ruddle's Bog | Losin' Gravy | The Late Vocation |
| Balls of Flour | Pride of the Parish | Send for the Priest | The Lay-By |
| The Grudge Match | All's Lost For The Want Of A Tenner! | The Second Sitting | The Conniption |
| I Was Read Out From The Altar | The Creepie Stool | The Postman's Bike | The Shy Milkman |
| Bog Oak | The Box Of Plaice | The Hole In The Road | The Moment Of Truth |
| The Five Pound Float | Keep To The Middle | As Good As He Got | The Scourge Of Pomposity |
| This Is A Spot Where Often She Sits | The Lost Cause | The Dip In The Bed | The Directions |
| The Evening Flight | The Good Intention | The Image Of His Ma | Wild Mint |
| Purgatory | The Dry Run | The Gold Fainne | The Open Goal |
| Myles O'Hara's Gap | Taking The Pledge | A Trip To Croke Park | Making Hay |
| The Golden Strand | Would You Buy A Rug? | The Creaking Stair | The Biscuit Tin |
| Straighten Yourself! | The Whip Round | Beetlin' The Champ | The Tidy Job |
| Fit As A Fiddle | Good Man, Your Da! | When The Money Runs Out | Flying Your Kite |
| Clear The Press | Walk On, Donkey! | Sportin' The Sprickley | The Ass and Car |
| The Police At The Door | Western Light | The Ripening Bud | The Light In The Window |
| Houl Yer Bake And Quit Yappin'! | The Heart of Darkness | Rounding The Point | The Palpitation |
| The Silver Beetle | Running The Lines | The Jackeen | Slemish |
| Dig The Bait | Back Of My Hand Off The Side Of Your Jaw | The Weasel | Derryveen Rampart |
When the rain clouds began to gather over Blacksod Bay, my sister suggested we head across the island to The Annexe. "Maybe we can get a bit of an oul' sing-song going?"
Maguire had never heard her sing before, and vice versa.
I was at the bar ordering a round when he leaned over. "Jays ... she's some voice on her that sister of yours."
A few minutes later he joined us. He sat quietly during her song and when it finished gave a warm round of applause. "By Christ, that was great!"
"I hear you're a quare singer yourself!"
Maguire shrugged and indicated the tumbler of whiskey sitting before him on the table. "I'm not much cop at the singing till I have a half-bottle of your man in me and it's dark."
I shouted to the barman. "How much whiskey has Maguire had today?"
"Half a bottle, more or less."
I excused myself from the session and made my way around the bar, drawing the curtains.
I slid back into my seat. "Well, Maguire! You've no excuses now!"
Here are titles for 200 tunes that haven't yet been written. Or have they? If you're aware that any of these tongue-in-cheek names for non-existent tunes are, in fact, in use, then please let us know. E-mail aidananita@se13.freeserve.co.uk
| The Hairy Eel | The Late House | The Bed Of Nettles | The Long Mass |
| The Giving Hand | The Crown Of Thorns | The Ignorant Carn | The Rat And The Banty |
| The Bitch In Heat | The Big Gulpen | The Lay Helper | The Beaten Path |
| The Through-Other Press | The Twenty Minute Confession | The Empty Glass | The Sudden Squall |
| The Hard Penance | Thirty Bottle Hughie | The Clip Round The Ear | Keep Out Of The Ditches! |
| The New Pullover | The Fine, Healthy Woman | The Straight Glass | The Whole Ching Bang |
| Now You're Talking! | The African Sea Horse | Asleep In The Hedge | Keep Her Lit! |
| The Bad Translation | Say Nothing! | Benburb Sunday | The Jug Of Sweet Milk |
| The Skin On The Custard | Steeping The Peas | The Early Corncrake | Belturbet Bill |
| The Black Ice | Pistols At Dawn | The Loud Golder | The Stifled Yawn |
| The Six O'Clock Start | The Three Day Bender | The Watery Sun | Six Hours At Maam Cross |
| Thye Tap On The Shoulder | The Drunken Nun | Same Again | The Non-Runner |
| The Hole In The Tooth | The Rough Crossing | The Steward's Enquiry | The Night In The Cells |
| The New Suit Of Clothes | Split Us A Farl | The Mouse In The Bread Bin | The Tin Bucket |
| Wetting The Tay | The Gravy Ring | The Young Buck | Trasna Hop |
| The Sickening Lurch | The Fly Blade | The High Moss | The Rusty Griddle |
| The Hard Oul' Station | The Rillagh | The Devil's Buttermilk | The Tidy Sum |
| The Long Time Dead | The Repeat Prescription | The Unmarked Grave | The Rallagh |
| The Damp Squib | The Scabby Donkey | The Fork In The Road | The Guest Tea |
| The Frosted Spuds | The Flooded Bog | The Laddered Stocking | Up To My Knees In Glar |
| The Nose In The Trough | The Dirty Boots | The Cheap Round | The Ring Round The Moon |
| The Long Stand | The Quarrelsome Priest | The Upturned Curragh | The Ill Wind |
| 700 Miles To Castlebar | The Swollen Ankle | The Marleygoogle | Martha Jane |
| The Afternoon Nap | The Dirty Clart | The Greyhound | The Unapproved Road |
| The Long Acre | The Bowl Of Stirabout | The Customs Hut | The Guttery Dub |
| The Pound Of Butter | The Plate Of Champ | The Leaking Crock | The Tired Postman |
| The Fight At The Centurion | The Rocky Outcrop | The Contusion | The Cormorant |
| The Quick Swallow | The Settled Claim | The Cold Scullery | The Christmas Box |
| The Raw Scallion | Raking The Ashes | The Wild Goat | Have You Seen Me Da? |
| The Falling Star | The Down Draught | The Finch In The Whin | The Ball Of Change |
| The Prize Canary | Dew On My Boots | The Five O'Clock Shadow | The Back Of Beyond |
| The Hound's Goul | Snow On The Pass | Actin' The Eejit | Neither Here Nor There |
| The Late Ferry | The Full Beard | The Seal On The Rock | The Bottle And Half-One |
| The Beached Dolphin | The Dollaghan | The River In Spate | Neckin' The Brandy |
| The Egg Man | The Pike In The Bog Hole | The Blow-In | Hide The Whiskey |
| The Hard Chaw | The Dry Wake | The Half Tear | The Full Tick |
| The Dressmaker's Dummy | The Face At The Window | The Wee Turn | The Old Pier In Ruins |
| The Basking Shark | Give My Head Peace! | How're You Cutting? | The Feed Of Pancakes |
| Sucking Diesel | The New Moon | The Rusty Pump | The Two Pound Lump Hammer |
| Cover The Lamp | Rags To Riches | The Bat-Fowler | Fall In Behind Me |
| The Double Yolk | The Dancing Medals | The Ornery-Lookin' Craytur | The Whip Hand |
| The Weak Heart | Drunk In The Afternoon | The Hard-Boiled Egg | The Slipper Limpet |
| The Bottle Of Buckfast | The Puc Fada | Red Biddy | Losing The Plot |
| Wreck-The-House | The Second Marriage | The Flat Battery | Street Angel, House Devil |
| The Redundancy Notice | Spare The Rod | The Parochial House | Breen's Van |
| The Mongrel | The Plastic Wreath | Hold Your Hour! | The Long-Range Forecast |
| The Second Cousin | Footing The Floor | The False Teeth | The Bed-Jar |
| Jim McElroy's | The Hornet's Nest | The Slow Worm | The Water Spout |
| Bury The Hatchet | Chasing The Badger | The Bag Of Slack | Donegal Stew |
| The Heritage Centre | The Charolais Bull | The Shambles | The Shiny Peaks |
A founder member of the Pay The Reckoning organisation - Aidan Crossey - was living a life of pleasant laziness in the summer of 1997 on Achill Island when the following few songs occurred to him. Ever since, he's thought of them as the Achill Suite. "Paddy's Day In London" is a piss-take based around a tired and drunken conversation. On the other hand, "Fire in Her Eyes" and "The Captain's Daughter" are attempts to "get right back". Crossey thinks that they more or less worked. If you agree or disagree, please let us know - e-mail aidananita@se13.freeserve.co.uk.
As I went a-walking one morning in Spring/My mind full of sorrow and my heart full of pain/As I went a-walking by the water so wide/I chanced on a gril who had fire in her eyes
She came up beside me and made not a sound/She came up beside me and looked me around/Then she took my hand by the water so wide/And asked me to ponder the fire in her eyes
Ah Johnny, now Johnny, you're a troubled young man/But give me your troubles, all into my hand/Give me your troubles, and I'll them deny/I'll calm your soul by the fire in my eyes
My troubles were many and weighed many a pound/But she held them lightly, cupped in her hands/Then she turned to the wind, and she bade them fly/And she calmed my soul by the fire in her eyes
Then she turned away from the waves and the wind/She'd taken my troubles, and left me behind/But as she walked away from the water so wide/My heart longed to cling to the fire in her eyes
I'll go a-ramblin' in France or in Spain/For here in this land I can never remain/Here in this long I can no longer bide/Unless I find another with fire in her eyes
Rolling home from Rio/The wind was in her hair/The cabin boy was smitten by/The captain's daughter fair/He never dreamed of danger/His heart was full of joy/When the captain's lovely daughter/Shared a berth with the cabin boy
But as the night wore on/In his arms she fell asleep/The rigging sang a song/And the timbers groaned and creaked/But the captain misses his daughter/And through the ship he creeps/Through the ship the captain creeps, brave boys/The pair of them asleep
The captain's daughter startles/As the captain screams in rage/"To think my lovely daughter/Would lie down with a page/Get back to your quarters/I'll deal with you in time/But first the serving lad must pay/A price to fit his crime
And as the night wears on/She lies in bed alone/The rigging sings a song/And the timbers creak and groan/And the cabin boy is taken/And shackled in the hold/And the captain says he'll pay, brave boys/For being so free and bold
It's early in the morning/The cabin boy is woke/His hands and feet are tethered/With coils of heavy rope/And in the deep green ocean/The cabin boy is hurled/And the captain screams revenge at him/For messing with his girl
But when she hears the news/The captain's daughter moans/The rigging sings a song/And the timbers creak and groan/And none aboard can save her/Her heart it is destroyed/And in ten more days, in sight of Cobh/She joins her cabin boy
The lachakoes of Omagh Town/The hallions from the County Down/The refugees from Portadown/They're on the tear today/The wide boys of Stillorgan/The bruisers from Killorglin/They know their vital organs/Will be in disarray/The mountain men of Donegal/The poitin men of Cushendall/Thirsty buggers one and all/They're ready for a spree/In the bars of Cricklewood/Hammersmith and the Goldhawk Road/The takings today will all be good/Each man jack drinking free
Hail glorious saint of the far-off days/You saved us from our pagan ways/Today we'll give you lots of praise/In the bars of London Town/The snakes and the druids fled in fear/Of your bishop's crook and your flowing beard/But today we'll drain ten kegs of beer/In honour of your renown
The dealin' men of Crossmaglen/They're up to their oul' tricks again/If ever you bump into them/Don't take any of their tay/A man from Enniskillen's/On a dose of penicillin/To cure his tennis uillean/And drinking coke all day/The smoky joes from Warrenpoint/Are out in the car park having a joint/Missing their footing and missing the point/A stoned, immaculate mess/In single file, the men of Dundalk/Talkin' their oul' political talk/Speeching and screeching, squeak and squawk/Jaysus, just give it a rest!
Hail glorious saint of the far-off days/You saved us from our pagan ways/Today we'll give you lots of praise/In the bars of London Town/The snakes and the druids fled in fear/Of your bishop's crook and your flowing beard/But today we'll drain ten kegs of beer/In honour of your renown
The fishermen from Killybegs/Are over for a couple of days/If you get a kick of their sea-legs/You'll rue the day for sure/The horsey-men from famed Kildare/Have slicked and combed their flowing hair/In velvet green they will appear/Before the night is through/My Lagan Love is with her mates/Drinking Diamond White in crates/Jesus, wouldn't it be great/If she returned my favour?/But let her go, the night's still young/It's time for me to hold my tongue/And get a bit more drinking done/In memory of Ireland's saviour
Hail glorious saint of the far-off days/You saved us from our pagan ways/Today we'll give you lots of praise/In the bars of London Town/The snakes and the druids fled in fear/Of your bishop's crook and your flowing beard/But today we'll drain ten kegs of beer/In honour of your renown
I'd heard through the rumour mill that Ron Kavana might be playing at tonight's session at the Stag's Head. So, having nothing better to do, wanting to get a decent seat near the session at the bar, and thinking "What's the harm in an early pint, anyway?", I made my way up the street before the tea had had a chance to settle in my stomach.
There wasn't what you might call a crowd in evidence, but try as I might I just couldn't catch the barmaid's eye. I must have been standing at the bar a full five minutes, brandishing my fiver, my tongue practically dragging the floor for want of a drink.
The governor appeared beside me. He wasn't a man that I knew well - other than to nod at and to say the occasional good day. But he was a pretty remarkable looking buck. He murmurred to me in a low, conspiratorial tone. "C'mon now, young fellow. Time you were off the premises."
"What?"
"If you want to debate it, then let's hit the air. There'll be no shananigans inside."
I didn't want any "shenanigans". I just wanted to find out what the hell was going on.
We stood at the door.
"So", I said, "... what's the crack?"
"Don't give me that oul' one!"
"No, seriously. I don't get it."
"You were here a few weeks ago?"
"Yeah, and?"
Oh, bloody hell. I'd been on the whiskey. The last thing I could remember was making a joke at the expense of some character at the bar.
"Look, I'd been on the whiskey ..."
"That's neither here nor there. You insulted a customer of mine. And then when I asked you to leave, you used language that wasn't very civil."
I had plenty of time on the way home to remember (and remember I did) and to ruminate.
I had been on the beer all afternoon and by nine or so started on the whiskeys. The party I'd been with had taken themselves off home and left me on my tod in the Stag's. Propped at the bar, next to some bloke who was chattering at the top of his voice - over the music - to his drunk mate. "Doesn't the chap playing the bod-ran look just like Oscar?" "... bod-ran ... bod-ran ... bod-ran ... bod-ran ..."
I had held my tongue for as long as I could. Eventually my irritation boiled over.
I tapped him on the shoulder and slurred. "The pronunciation you're looking for is bo-ron ... and you're a mod-ran."
The instant I said it, I regretted it ... the words didn't sound so funny hanging in mid-air as they had milling around in my fevered head.
Piers and myself were in Dillon's a few months later. By ten we were getting a bit restless. Piers suggested a sally doen to the Stag's Head.
"I'm barred."
"Oh yeah?" He smiled and rubbed his hands. "Stag's it is, then!"
I protested all the way there but to no avail. Piers' tendency to always do the wrong thing and my sense of curiosity combined to launch us out of the cold and into the warmth and comfort of the Stag's Head.
Micko and PJ were sitting in on tonight's session. After we ordered our pints Micko nodded me over.
"Would you give us a song and allow us a wee bit of a break?"
"Can I borrow your guitar?"
I perched myself at the end of the table and strummed the opening chords of the Hills of Granemore.
When I finished, there was a polite, muted round of applause, which quickly died down. Except that is for one person whose applause persisted for a few seconds longer than the rest.
It was the governor.
He looked at me and smiled, benignly. "That was one hell of a nice song, young fellow. Very nice indeed." His smile remained just as broad, but his eyes hardened. "Now get out of my pub and never set your foot back inside as long as you live."
I stopped into Filthy's midweek. Tom was perched on a stool.
"Tom!"
"Yourself!"
I called a couple of drinks. As the Guinness settled, I asked if he was playing on Sunday.
"S'posed to. What's up?"
"I was wondering if you'd play Madame Bonaparte."
His brow furrowed under his truly magnificent mop of hair. "The set dance?"
It was my brow's turn to furrow. "I thought it was a reel."
"No! It's a set dance! I remember dancing it as a boy."
For a moment I was stunned. Tom dancing? Proper dancing? As a boy? A wee innocent boy? But the only vision that I could entertain was Tom as he was now before me, big and shaggy, dressed from head to toe in black and two-thirds scundered, dancing on a stage before a panel of judges.
However, the fact that Madame Bonaparte was a set dance explained why I hadn't been able to work it out for myself.
Tom asked me to lilt a bit so he could be sure he remembered it right. "That's the one! The set dance! A great tune. Only one problem. You can't play it on the banjo."
"What?"
"It can't be played on the banjo. Pipes, whistle, melodeon, no problem. Banjo, forget it!" He shook his curls and swigged from his pint.
"Well, I'm not sure that you're right there, Tom. I mean, I can get the first part. I'm having difficulties with the second. But that's from playing by ear. I'm sure if I had sight of the tab ..."
Tom stopped me. "It can't be played on the banjo!"
I was becoming exasperated. "Well, look, I can half-play it and ..."
He grinned. "And you can't play the banjo!"
Although we didn't know it at the time, those dreaded "Guest Teas" at Trasna Community Centre, the Tones Hall or the Kesh Primary School, were probably our first introduction to live traditional Irish music.
The Guest Tea was essentially a ritual for the mammies, the grannies and the pioneers. The swaggering, swearing, bull-necked men of the parish didn't often make an appearance. Occasionally one or two of the older men would loiter near the door, muttering darkly, cigarettes cupped in their fists. More rarely some poor male would be "under orders" and made to attend the Guest Tea as a penance for an earlier misdemeanour. He'd be sweating and uncomfortable; his big horny fingers struggling with delicate china; cups that wouldn't would hold barely more than a decent swallow and sandwiches that wouldn't fill a hole in your tooth.
But the matrons of the Seven Derries were in their element. Big-breasted and alarmingly-thighed, clad in plaids and pleats, they bustled up and down the hall, their huge hips oscillating a beat or two behind or in front of the tread of their feet. (One of the old boys near the door sucks hard on his cupped cigarette and sneers "Beef to the heel. Like a Mullingar heifer.") Or stick-thin and purse-lipped, cobwebby and desiccated, their appearances bearing testimony to a meagre life, lived in modesty and moderation.
We young ones were made to sit around the edge of the hall while the tables were laid. Huge urns of tea were got ready, plates of sandwiches appeared - egg and onion, breaded ham, jellied veall, chicken, tinned salmon - buns and cake. As the guests arrived they were met at the door and led to their table.
When all were seated, the priest would make his way to the front of the hall and make his wee speech. "Very pleased to see you all... the ladies have made a grand job of the sandwiches... be sure and enjoy yourselves... there'll be a bit of a dance afterwards..."
The eating over, the tables were cleared away and William James McAlinden took to the stage. William James and his accordion provided the ubiquitous musical backdrop to the more genteel gatherings in the Montiaghs. Guest Teas, senior citizens' Christmas dinners, communions, confirmations, ordinations.
William James had a backing band, The Golden Nuggets. But I can't picture them in my mind's eye. I seem to remember Wiliam James alone of all the bunch, standing alone, pumping and squeezing on his machine.
William James' speciality was the old-time waltz. He'd play set after set of them. Sedate, lilting melodies that the old ladies would be content to dance to in each other's arms, warbling the lyrics as they promenaded around the room. The Homes Of Donegal, The Banks Of My Own Lovely Lee, The Boys From The County Armagh (although that had a tendency to get a bit rowdy if any of the local drunks had managed to sneak their way in!), The Rose Of Mooncoin, Slievenamon.
But I seem to remember the odd 6/8 or 4/4 tune making its way into the proceedings - an up-tempo version of The Dawning Of The Day, The Rakes Of Mallow, Harvest Home, a jig that wasn't far removed from The Lark In The Morning, another jig that I haven't heard anyone else play since.
And the ladies would gather together for these sets and perform the prescribed dances - The Siege Of Ennis, The Waves Of Tory, making great play of the exertion involved. ("Oh, God, Mary! I'm sweatin' buckets!" "You are indeed, Bridget! Will we go and have a wee mineral to cool down?")
And then William James would ask us all to be upstanding for the anthem. Everyone rose stiffly to their feet, arms pressed to their sides, gazing straight ahead with a misty look in their eyes.
Not ten minutes after the last note was played, the hall was deserted. William James would be packing his accordion into the car. The last stragglers would be saying their goodbyes. We young ones, like fish out of water all the night previously, fell asleep on the back seat of our das' cars as we made our ways home up and down the lanes and ramparts of Derrytrasna, The High Moss, Derryadd and Derrymacash.
"True Love Knows No Reason" - Planxty (The Well Below The Valley)
"St John of God's" - Shane MacGowan and The Popes (The Crock of Gold)
"On Raglan Road" - Patrick Kavanagh
"The Factory Girl" - Margaret Barry (Her Mantle So Green)
"A Nobleman's Wedding" - Altan (Harvest Storm)
It was pretty late. The phone rang.
"Hello?"
A crowded pub babbled contentedly in the background; glasses clinked. "Hello. It's PJ here."
"Who?"
"PJ. Last Friday night. Auntie Annie's. The session."
"Oh aye. You're the fella on the flute!"
"That's right. (A pause. Babble. Clink.) Do you remember my brother Mick? The accordion?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you give him the air of "Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore"?"
"Come again?"
"You were singing it last week. He had the tune and lost it ... he has a head like a sieve."
"Over the phone?"
"Yeah. Hang on I'll pass it over to him."
"A fumbling. Babble. Clink. Go ahead! (Different voice)"
So I sang the first verse.
PJ came back on the line.
"Hold on, he's going to play it back to you. (Muffled) Fire away, Mick!"
Babble. Clink. Then the sound of an accordion playing the tune note-perfectly.
Another fumble, then "Hello?"
"Hello."
"Was that OK?"
"Spot on."
"See you around."
The line went dead.
The story goes that a young piper had been making the rounds in Ireland and causing ripples in the traditional music world. The exuberance of his piping, his ornamentation and his dexterity caused many the piper to catch their breath.
And so it was engineered that the new piper would be introduced to Seamus Ennis, the daddy of all pipers.
Ennis turned up one night to a Dublin pub, where the new piper was in full session. Friends glanced nervously at each other and back to Ennis. And less nervously after a while when it became obvious that the great man was impressed.
After he'd piped his last, and had unbuckled his instrument, the piper was introduced to Ennis. The old-timer gripped his hand and pumped it furiously. "That was massive piping, young fellow. Grand altogether. And Seamus Ennis should know, for sure way back in the mists of time, way back in the days of the good, gentle folk, way back then, sure didn't Seamus Ennis invent the piping." (He was given to rambling.)
The he pulled the new piper closer to him and, now deeply serious, said. "I've only the one observation for you. Why do you play so fast?"
And Finbar Furey - he who had been causing the stir - replied without a moment's pause, "Because I can!"
"Garrett Barry's/The Bucks of Oranmore" - pipe solo by Paddy Keenan (The Bothy Band - Live in Concert)
"Madame Bonaparte" - Finbar & Eddie Furey
"At Swim Two-Birds" - Flann O'Brien
"The Derry Hornpipe" - Robbie Hannan (Ceirnini Cladaigh 4CC53)
"Dennis Murphy's Polka/The £42 Cheque/John Ryan's Polka" - Planxty (Cold Blow and The Rainy Night)
It was Wednesday evening, towards the beginning of summer. The day at work had been an absolute disaster from start to finish.
I leafed through the CDs. I needed to listen to something uplifting. The first Johnston's album, maybe. Skip the first few tracks. The mandolin solo that kicked off "The Rounding of Cape Horn" tinkled out of the speakers and then those crystal-clear voices ... "The gallant frigate, Anthracite ..."
I was opening a bottle of beer as the phone chirped in the living room.
"Hello?"
It was Piers. Could I lend him a tenner. He needed a drink. "Ah, come on, I get my giro tomorrow and I'll see you right."
I didn't need a lot of persuading. I'd meet him at Dillon's at half-eight.
As I wandered down Camden High Street, I thought I'd better get twenty for him. I was feeling thirsty - I needed someone to be around for the duration and a tenner wasn't going to see him through the night.
"How's the men?"
"Middling to reasonable, Rory. Yourself?"
"Fair enough. Here you go." Pints of Guinness set up with my initials on mine and a curlicued P on Piers'.
The night wore on in typical Dillons' fashion. A few of the trendy brigade made a brief glittering appearance; some of the estate lads bustled in, cropped heads and track-suits muttering under their breath about football and beer. Piers got another round in.
"Time to move on after this one?"
"Whatever."
I was in no hurry, mind. Dillons being fairly new meant that you could always get a seat and right now I couldn't bear the thought of standing in a crush at the bar of the Spread Eagle or the Dublin Castle or the Good Mixer.
At half-ten, Rory was called round the back to answer the phone. He peered around the corner. "Here lads, d'yous fancy a lock-in this evening?"
"What's the big occasion?"
"Shane's on the line. He wants a late one."
I didn't need asking twice. Rory explained the drill. When he called last orders, Piers and I were to make for the toilets. Go through the door marked private. Wait in there.
At eleven Piers trooped off as he'd said. I followed after a discrete moment. The door led to a small store-room. Piers was alreday sitting on a beer-case, making short work of a whiskey with a Guinness chaser.
"They think of everything!"
At ten past Rory gave us a shout. "C'mon lads!"
The bar looked spooky. The drawn curtains let light through from the outside - just enough to see our way to the bar.
"Are yous ready for another? They're on the house from this on in."
"Go on, then!"
The dim atmosphere had us talking in whispers so that we damn near jumped out of our skins when the door knocked.
Rory twitched back the curtain over the door and swiftly led Shane in, followed by a sombre acquaintance.
He scanned the bar.
"Who's your men?"
"It's all right. They're sound."
Rory made the introductions.
It wasn't long till the talk got round to music. Shane was testing. I was testing.
"So d'you sing then, like?"
"Sometimes."
"Sing us a song, then!"
I noticed Rory had slipped a guitar down from upstairs. I made to pick it up.
"No ... sing on your own, like."
I took a deep breath. And sang him Sullivan's John. Shane joined in with me on the reprise of the first verse.
The rest of the night was a blur. The morose sidekick fell asleep. Shane and I traded songs, the only one of which I remember with any clarity being a lazy version of "Me and Bobby McGee".
Suddenly he stood up. "Right Rory. I'm off!"
I looked at my watch. "Half-five!"
I made it home by six and sat on the edge of my bed, trying to figure out my dilemma. How drunk would I be at half-nine? Would I get away with it?
I set the alarm for seven. I'd waken up and take stock then.
The phone rang at eleven.
I slurred a hello.
"It's Mark here. Kim's going mad. Where are you? Why didn't you ring in?"
I gulped. "Tell her I'll be in at twelve or shortly after."
I arrived, unsteadily, at work and headed straight for Kim's office.
She looked up from her computer.
"Well?"
"Well. D'you know Shane MacGowan?"
She surprised me. "From the Pogues? That Christmas song. Ugly bloke. Yes?"
"I was out drinking with him last night, Kim. It got a bit late."
She considered her options. "Just phone in sick next time, like everybody else does! Shane MacGowan, my arse!"
It had been a long day when I reached Keel. I'd caught the train from London to Stansted, flown to Knock Airport, hitched a lift to Knock itself, only just caught the bus to Westport and then spent an eternity waiting around for the next bus to Achill Island.
At every B&B in Keel, I was turned away (cursing myself for making the impulse decision to get away from London for a few weeks). "Sure it's the Bank Holiday weekend, love. You'll be doing well to find anywhere to stay at this notice."
Rich View sits on top of a small hill on the way to Dooagh. A large, solid and - it seemed at the time - imposing building, overlooking Keel Bay and the Minaun Cliffs. Still, the sign read "Vacancies" and that was a sight for sore eyes.
"Hello there."
A Dublin accent boomed at me from within a forest of thick, curly beard.
"Any chance of a room?" I gestured at the vacancies sign.
He furrowed his brow. "For yourself, is it?"
I nodded. He peered out of the porch and scanned the road up and down, then leaned against the door frame. "Well now. It's like this. There's a big blonde one upstairs has a double room all to herself. If I asked her nice, maybe she'd let you stop in with her ..."
I was too tired and footsore to raise a smile. "Seriously ..."
"Ah Sweet Jaysus! I can see you're going to be hard work!" He ushered me in. "I've a room for you, so. And you're welcome to it. Here!" He stuck his hand out. "The name's Shay."
"Tea? Coffee?" He studied form. "Ah, no. No, I'd say a beer'd be more in your line."
There was a rattling down in the kitchen and a slow tread back up the stairs. "Here you go!"
He settled down on the arm of the chair opposite me.
"So what brings you to Achill?"
"Couldn't stand the heat in London another day and I needed a bit of fresh air. I just wanted to sit for a while on the rocks down near Purteen or climb a mountain. I don't know really."
"Aye, the London'd be the warm spot now in weather like this." While he was talking, he reached over to the side and fiddled with the CD player. I drained my beer.
"There's another one in the fridge."
"Ah, no. Sure it'll not be long till it's time for the pub."
"Not long?!" He snorted. "I'd give it a good few hours yet. Sure there's nobody hardly sets foot in the pub till ten o'clock these days. Th'oul sergeant's away off on his holidays and when he's off the island there's little danger of a pub shutting on time."
I shrugged. Shay took heed of my foot tapping along to the music. "D'you know this CD then? I'd say now it would have to be the best album I have in the house."
"Know it?!" I leaned forward. "I tell you what. Stick on Track 13."
"Track 13?" He tapped the number into the remote.
... And now we'll have a solo on the pipes from Paddy Keenan.
The first few notes of Garrett Barry's issued from the speakers. Shay smiled and waved his finger at me, muttering "D'you know it? D'you know it?" He shook his head as he fumbled with something in the porch.
"Did I say something stupid earlier about it being too early for the pub? Away and get your jacket!"
As we left the house, I noticed the sign on the door had been switched round to read "No Vacancies". Shay filled his lungs with evening air and said "I'm giving myself the afternoon off!"
It was Saturday afternoon. I'd been down in McMullan's with a few of the boys from the Kesh. One by one they'd drifted off, till I was left by just myself. Dead time. Four o'clock. Nobody here now but the hardcore, none of whom I wanted to get involved with and nobody new would turn up till after the tea.
I weighed up the choices. Either go home, go to the Corner House straightaway or mosey up the town and see if there was anything better going on anywhere else. The first option didn't have a lot to recommend it. The second was more tempting. It was closer to home, but chances were that at this time of the day, the Corner'd be as lifeless as McMullan's was. Maybe if there was nothing going on in town I could take a wander by the Corner later.
Walsh's was packed. Big Mick was standing at the bar, his mouth open, laughing like a drain. I came up beside him.
"Ah for God's sake! Would you look at the state of that!" He gripped me by my shoulders and shook me like a rat. "You're the answer till a prayer, boy." He motioned to his pals. "This shower are away off now any minute and I was looking for somebody to play with. What're you having?"
"I'll have a pint of Guinness, Mick."
"You will surely. But will you have a wee one with it?"
"Get us a Bush as well."
"Go you and grab thon table over there and I'll sort us out for the drink."
He crashed down beside me a few minutes later. "There you go." We clinked together our tumblers of whiskey.
"Blaaargh! Thon's the boy to put a fire in your guts!" He washed it down with a large gulp of his pint.
"Your ma tells me you're for the road soon."
"I'm off to England in a couple of weeks."
"Whereabouts are you for?"
"London. To begin with anyway."
"Are you all right for money?"
"I've enough to get me started anyway."
"Well now, if you need a few bob before you go, give me a shout!"
"Ah, Mick!"
"No, don't be giving me Ah, Mick! If you need a wee hand, I'll not begrudge you a shilling or two."
"Well, I won't be needing it."
"Fair enough. But for as long as you're in my company this afternoon, you'll not be sticking your hand in your pocket."
I could have protested, but I'd have got nowhere with him. "All right."
"Good. Now, same again?"
Earlier he'd said something about meeting somebody in the Corner House at 9.00. I could just about focus on the clock. "Did you say you had to be at the Corner for nine?"
He glanced up, blearily. Five to nine. Two fresh pints on the table, two half-drunk and two tumblers of whiskey. "Ah to Hell with the clock! We'll get these down us first."
It was half-ten when we eventually staggered into the bar of the Corner. Hugh gave the pair of us the once-over and decided that, though we were half-tore, we'd not be causing any trouble.
"Two pints of porter, Mick?"
"Aye. And a shot of Bush for the pair of us, too." He slung his arm round my shoulder. "Me and this boy, we've been on the go all day. This boy has matched me drink for drink, and you know what I'm going to say ..." He stared into Hugh's face. And his eyes watered and his voice softened. "Do you know, the only man that could match me drink for drink was his da, God rest him!"
Hugh looked at me, then back to Mick. "Ah, go on with you now, Mick! There's no call for that kind of talk."
"There is, too, call for talk like that. I miss that big fella, Hugh!"
"Here!" Hugh set up the drinks. "No, Mick, keep your money. This one's on me. Go on over there and sit down!"
"I'm not drunk, Hugh!"
"I know you're not, Mick. I know you're not. Just go on over there and get yourself a seat."
He motioned for me to stay behind for a bit. "He's plastered. Are you all right?"
"Scundered! But I'm still standing."
"Well, try and see to it that you don't get off your face, eh? He can be a right nightmare sometimes when he's got drink on him. And you're not far behind. I don't want to have bar either of yous."
My last memory of the night was myself and Mick, drunk as you can get, stumbling on to the dance floor as the band started a sentimental country and western number.
"Can you waltz?"
"I wouldn't know, Mick!"
"You'll find out. Here!" He threw his right arm round me shoulder and picked up my right hand. "I'm leading."
It wasn't long till Hugh came out from behind the bar to tap Mick on the shoulder.
"Come on now Mick. You're hardly fit for standing up, let alone dancing. Cut it out, now or I'm calling a taxi for the pair of yous and you can torture some other place."
Next morning, my ma scowled as I creaked slowly down the stairs. "What has you so bad today? As if I need to ask? What were you up to, anyway, all day yesterday away out of the house? Away since cock-crow and not home till the wee hours."
"I was dancing with Big Mick. Dancing with Big Mick."
Derrymacash, Deryadd, Derryinver, Derrytagh North and South and many other "Derry"s, The High Moss, The Bay Shore, The Wee Lough, The Clauset, Raughlan, The Rillagh and The Rallagh, Ruddle's Bogs, Ballynery, The Woodenbridge Road, McGurran's Shore, Ardmore, etc. All wee places in that once boggy strip of land, bounded on the North by Lough Neagh and on the South by the River Bann and growing gradually narrower until these boundaries converge at the Bannfoot.
All places in the Montiaghs ... mona ti ... place of the turf.
A place which, when I was growing up, townies despised. Some had never had any dealings with the place much, imagining it to be desolate - full of hard-bitten, hard-drinking, unwashed farmhands. Others had had dealings. Their mas and das had left the rough-and-readiness of the Montiaghs behind for the (relative!) sophistication of Lurgan. The odd visit to relatives was their only experience of the townlands that lay beyond the Head of the Plain or the end of the Lough Road, where the terraced houses began to peter out and "the country" began to begin.
For those of us childer growing up in the Montiaghs, an upbringing in the town seemed bleak in the extreme. We could throw our legs over our bikes and in minutes we could be fogging orchards, setting eel-lines in the drains in the Back Loanend, fishing at the Milk Quay or the Breast or the behind Haffey's Fields down near the Otterbeds. In the summer we could sneak into Matchett's Fields in front of Myles O'Hara's and make igloos out of the bales of hay. When they openend the dump at Ballynacor, we had great crack foraging about through the rubbish, setting fires here and there till we were chased off by the dump men.
But the townies didn't see that. We were smelly country people, "munchies" (compare with the Southern Irish term "culchies", derived from Kiltimagh). No-one in their right minds would live out there, in the bog, with its damp mists in winter and its dense clouds of flies in summer with the smell of pig dung on the fields and only the odd bus every day into town, away from all that bleakness.
So imagine my surprise when, ten or more years away from the place, every time I come back my eyes are offended by the sight of cluster upon cluster of identikit houses stretched here and there along the sides of the Derrymacash Road through Derryadd to Trasna. Kit-built estates with twee names assigned from some unholy bible of crap placenames by unimaginative, insensitive vandals with no sense of history or place or fittedness. "The Brambles", "Fox Grove", "Loughview Manor"!
And now the townies can't migrate fast enough to the Montiaghs to live in their formulaic centrally-heated "executive" Ponderosas with their tarmac drives and off-street parking and their children mope around with their hands in their pockets - neither robbing orchards nor fishing nor building straw igloos. And soon Derrymacash and Derryinver and Derrytrasna and The Reckie and The Palms, Slentry and Derrycrow will be just like everywhere else. And maybe that's a good thing! Good luck to yez ... it's not that long after all that your folks were sharing one room with the livestock, and that was no picnic either. But somewhere along the way we've all lost something that we'll never regain ...
Maguire played in the Annexe. Three or four hours every night. Sometimes one or two musicians would slip in beside him and give him a bit of support. Didn't matter either way. He could carry the evening by himself. A few songs, a few tunes, a few more songs, a few more tunes.
It had been a long afternoon. The past week had been flawless. We'd all had a bit too much of the great outdoors. Too much fishing, too long on the beach, walked too far on the mountains. So when we woke up that morning to the sound of rain pelting off the windows, we breathed a sigh of relief. A day of rest and relaxation stretched ahead. A lie-in after breakfast, then at a decent hour maybe take a walk down to the Annexe, or the Village Inn and maybe see if we could round up a few musicians for a trip down the road to Gielty's for an afternoon session.
A hasty conference in the Annexe. Someone shot across the road to the Village Inn and sauntered back again. "Right, there's a car heading out to Gielty's in ten minutes. Shay, are you game for giving myself a lift?" "Is there anybody else for Dooagh?"
Half an hour later three or four cars and vans pull into Gielty's front yard. A clunking of doors, careful and not-so-careful extraction of instruments, people racing head-down across the yard and diving through into Gielty's porch.
And inside, dripping and steaming, huddling round the bar. "Two pints!" "Give us four pints, there!"
A murmur of conversation. More cars pull up in the yard. "They told us at the Annexe you'd be here!"
As ever, the lull. The long moment before anyone deigns to even acknowledge the presence, heaped and scattered around the bar, of their instruments. The restlessness of those who've come to hear a bit of music begins to manifest itself. "Jesus!" someone mutters into my ear, "Are yous here to play a bit of music or what?"
But we can drag out this waiting game for a long time. "Give us another four pints, there!" A smile between myself and one of the other players as one of the Annexe crowd rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
The session starts by accident. Someone is showing someone else how you can alter the tuning of a flute and someone else slips his guitar out of its bag and strums along for a few measures. And then one of the crowd from Germany from off the campsite slips in along beside them and blows a few notes on a whistle.
We're well away by the time I notice Maguire come through the door. He nods in my direction and makes his way to the bar. I join him.
"Are you going to give us a couple of tunes?"
He grimaces. "Ah now! I just thought I'd see what the crack was. Have a couple of jars ... try to shift this hangover. I've got to give her stick all night tonight."
I didn't see him disappear. We were struggling a bit to keep in order. Too many musicians from different necks of the woods. The bar was rammed. I looked over to the bar and he was off. Ah well! I wanted to buy him a pint that I owed him. Maybe this evening.
"Here, Lurgan, give us The Shamrock Shore!"
I stubbed out my fag and took a deep breath. "From Derry Quay, we sailed away ..." It took a few bars to get proper order, but I could sense the growing quiet. I looked down at the loor to try to keep my concentration. When I got to the chorus a few voices piped in. Shay looked up angrily and they quietened down.
He'd slipped in when I wasn't looking. Over to my left I noticed him, strapping on the pipes. He winked. "So fare thee well, sweet Liza Jane ..." Softly he sent out a drone underneath my singing. "I'll return and I'll wed, the wee lassie I left on Paddy's green shamrock shore."
I have the vaguest of memories of that night. Next morning I woke to blazing sunlight. Back to the fishing, and the beach and the mountains. And Maguire can wait till darkness falls before he straps on the pipes again.
