As I Roved OutAs I roved out on a bright May morning,
to view the meadows and flowers gay, who should I meet but my own true lover as she sat under yon willow tree. I took off my hat and I did salute her; I did salute her most graciously. When she turned around, the tears fell from her saying 'False young man, you have deluded me'. 'A diamond ring that I owned I gave you, a diamond ring to wear on your right hand.' 'But the vows you made love you went and broke them, and married the lassie that had the land.' 'If I married the lassie that had the land, my love, it's that I'll rue until the day I die. When misfortune frowns no man can shun it, I was blindfolded I will not deny.' Now when I go to my bed of slumber the thoughts of my true love run in my mind; when I turn around to embrace my darling instead of gold, it's brass I find. And I wish the queen would call home her armies from the West Indies, America and Spain, and every man to his wedded woman, in hope that you and I will meet again. |
Notes: This is one of the first traditional songs which I remember really standing out in my mind after I heard it at a session, and making me want to start singing traditional songs myself. As I recall, it was a session in O'Grady's pub in Coolaney (Co. Sligo) and the song was sung by an Englishman called Jim who was visiting the area, perhaps on holiday. I must have been quite a small boy at the time. Maybe the main reason the song was so memorable is the lovely tune to which the words are sung. I later found a recording of Andy Irvine singing the song, and have heard several others singing it since. The title 'As I Roved Out' seems to be a common one for traditional songs, probably due to many first lines starting with these words. |
Cavan Girl
As I walk the road from Killeshandra,
weary, I sit down, for it's twelve long miles around the lake to get to Cavan town. Though Oughter and the road I go once seemed beyond compare, now I curse the time it takes to reach my Cavan girl so fair. Now autumn shades are on the leaves, the trees will soon be bare; each red-gold leaf around me seems the colour of her hair. My gaze retreats to find my feet, and once again I sigh, for the broken pools of sky recall the colour of her eyes. At the Cavan cross each Sunday morning, there she can be found, and she seems to have the eye of every boy in Cavan town. If my luck will hold, I'll have the golden summer of her smile, and, to break the hearts of Cavan men, she'll talk to me awhile. So Sunday evening finds me, homeward, Killeshandra bound, to work the week, till I return to court in Cavan town: when asked if she would be my wife, at least she's not said no, so, next Sunday morning, rouse myself and back to her I'll go. As I walk the road from Killeshandra, weary, I sit down, for it's twelve long miles around the lake to get to Cavan town. Though Oughter and the road I go once seemed beyond compare, now I curse the time it takes to reach my Cavan girl so fair. |
Notes:
A song written by Thom Moore in 1978. Thom's own recording of it is included on his album Seven Things Aloom. This newspaper article tells the background story of the song. |
The Boys of Barr na Sráide
The town it climbs the mountain,
and looks out on the sea. At sleeping time or waking time, it's there I'd like to be; to walk again those kindly streets, the place I grew a man, with the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren. With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt the dreoilín. We searched for birds in every furze from Litir to Dooneen, we danced for joy beneath the sky, life held no print or plan, and we boys in Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren. And when the hills were bleeding, and the rifles were aflame, to the rebel homes of Kerry the Saxon stranger came, but the boys who dared the Auxies and who fought the Black and Tans were once boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren. And here's a health to them tonight, those lads who laughed with me by the groves of Carhan River or the slopes of Bi na Tí - John Dalaigh and Batt Andy and the Sheehans, Con and Dan, and the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren. Ah but now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way, deep in the heart of London town or over on Broadway, and I am left to sing their deeds and praise them while I can, those boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren. And when the wheel of life runs down and peace comes over me, just take me back to that old town between the hills and sea. I'll take my sleep in those green fields, the place my life began with the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren. |
Notes:
This is justifiably one of the most respected and appreciated of Irish traditional songs. Barr na Sráide is a street in Caherciveen, Co. Kerry. I learned the song a long time ago from Seán Garvey. A few years ago, I was in Caherciveen and decided to have a look at famous Barr na Sráide. A lady in a shop directed me, and I found that, as in the song, Barr na Sráide does indeed climb the hill behind the town and overlooks the sea. Here are some photos I took that day. There was a tradition in Ireland of hunting a wren (pronounced 'ran' in the song) on December 26. The 'Wren Boys' then went about the locality with the captured bird, playing music, singing or dancing, and collecting any donations the people made. The custom of wren boys doing the rounds on December 26 is still carried out sometimes, and any money collected might be given to a charity in some cases, though thankfully I have never seen a captured wren used as in the past. The word 'dreoilín' in the second verse of the song is the Irish word for wren.
The third verse refers to the Auxies and the Black and Tans. Auxies were members of the Auxiliary Division of the Royal Irish Constabulary, former British soldiers who were recruited during the War of Independence in Ireland, their main role being opposing the Irish Republican Army of the time and launching revenge attacks, often on civilians. As with the Black and Tans, their presence in Ireland was sorely resented by many. This song was written by Sigerson Clifford. |
The Diamantina Drover
The faces in the photograph are fading,
I can’t believe he looked so much like me, for it’s ten long years today, since I left for old Cork Station, and I won’t be back till the drovin’s done. For the rain never falls, on the dusty Diamantina, A drover finds it hard to change his mind The years have passed and gone, like the drays at old Cork Station, and I won’t be back till the drovin’s done. Seems to me the sun comes up each morning, sets me up, then takes it all away. Dreaming through the night, by campfire light, Ends with the coming of the day. For the rain never falls, on the dusty Diamantina, A drover finds it hard to change his mind The years have passed and gone, like the drays at old Cork Station, and I won’t be back till the drovin’s done. I sometimes think that I’ll return to Sydney But it’s been so long and it’s hard to change my mind. For the cattle trail goes on and on, and the fences last forever and I won’t be back till the drovin’s done. For the rain never falls, on the dusty Diamantina, A drover finds it hard to change his mind The years have passed and gone, like the drays at old Cork Station, and I won’t be back till the drovin’s done. |
Notes:
A song written by Hugh McDonald. The Diamantina is an ephemeral river in Australia, made up of several shallow channels, which dry up at times, surrounded by the broad, flat Diamantina river basin. The area was used for grazing cattle at times of the year when grass was available, though the climate is very hot and dry for much of the year. |
The Mountains of Pomeroy
The dawn was breaking bright and fair, the lark sang in the sky, when the maid she bound her golden hair with a blithe glance in her eye. For who beyond the gay green wood was awaiting her with joy? Oh, who but her gallant Renardine on the mountains of Pomeroy. An outlawed man in a land forlorn, he scorned to turn and fly but he kept the cause of freedom safe on the mountains of Pomeroy. Full often in the dawning hour, full oft in twilight brown, he met the maid in the woodland bower where the stream comes falling down, for they were faithful in a love no war could e'er destroy. No tyrants law touched Renardine on the Mountains of Pomeroy. "Dear love," she said, "I'm sore afraid, for the foe-man's force and you, they've tracked you in the lowland plain, and all the valley through. My kinsmen frown when you are named, your life they would destroy, Beware, they say, of Renardine on the Mountains of Pomeroy." "Fear not, fear not, sweetheart," he cried "Fear not the foe for me, no chain shall fall, whate'er betide on the arm that would be free. Oh, leave your cruel kin and come when the lark is in the sky and it's with my gun I’ll guard you on the mountains of Pomeroy." The morning come, she rose and fled from her cruel kin and home and bright the wood and rosy red and the tumbling torrent's foam. But the mist came down and the tempest roared and it all around destroy, and a pale drowned bride met Renardine on the mountains of Pomeroy. An outlawed man in a land forlorn, he scorned to turn and fly but he kept the cause of freedom safe on the Mountains of Pomeroy. |
Notes: A tragic love song, written I believe by a Dr. George Sigerson, set in the hills near Pomeroy, Co. Tyrone. The tune is often played separately as a march, though the song is best sung more slowly. |
Galway
A grey town in a country bare,
with the leaden seas between, When the light falls on the hills of Clare, And shows her valleys green. Take in my heart your place again Between your lake and sea, O city of the watery plain, You mean that much to me. Your cut stone houses row on row, Your streams too deep to sing, Whose waters shine with green as though They had dissolved the spring. Streets that still bring into view The harbour and the spars, The chimneys with their turf smoke blue That never hides the stars. Take in my heart your place again Between your lake and sea, Like crimson roses in grey walls Your memories to me. It is not very long since you, whose memory is long, Saw her I owe my being to, And heart that takes to song, Walk with a row of laughing girls From Salthill to Eyre Square. And the light from the water on their curls Was never lit so fair. Take in my heart your place again Between your lake and sea, O city of the watery plain, You mean that much to me. And again will come your glory days, Those ships sail back to port, And to your city's shining ways The Spanish girls resort. And ere the tidal water falls, Those ships pull out to sea, Like crimson roses in grey walls Your memories to me. Take in my heart your place again Between your lake and sea, O city of the watery plain, You mean that much to me. |
Notes:
This was written as a poem by Oliver St. John Gogarty and adapted into song by Galway man Tony Small. I am grateful to Tony's sister Angela for giving me a recording of Tony singing the song. It was recorded by Tony for an album of his which unfortunately is not currently available. Tony Small died in 2013. A more recent CD of his, Mandolin Mountain, is available to buy, and is an interesting and enjoyable album. |
Skibbereen
Oh father dear, I oft-times hear
you speak of Erin's Isle; her lofty scenes and valleys green, her mountains rude and wild. They say it is a lovely land wherein a prince might dwell, so why did you abandon it, the reason to me tell? Oh son I loved my native land with energy and pride, till the blight came over all my crops, my sheep and cattle died. My rent and taxes were too high, I could not them redeem and that's the cruel reason why I left old Skibbereen. It's well I do remember that bleak December day when the landlord and the sheriff came to drive us all away. They set my roof on fire with their cursed Saxon spleen, and that's another reason why I left old Skibbereen. Your mother too, God rest her soul, fell on that snowy ground. She fainted in her anguish at the desolation 'round. She never rose, but passed away, from life to immortal dream and found a quiet grave, my boy, near dear old Skibbereen. And you were only two years old, and feeble was your frame; but I could not leave you with my friends, you bore your father's name. I wrapped you in my cóta mór, in the dead of night, unseen, and heaved a sigh and bid goodbye to dear old Skibbereen. But father dear, the day will come when in answer to the call, all Irishmen with a feeling stern will rally, one and all. I'll be the man to lead the van beneath that flag of green, and loud and high we'll raise a cry: 'Revenge for Skibbereen'. |
Notes: Skibbereen mentions some of the horrors of the famine which occurred in Ireland from 1845 to about 1852, and the feelings of some of those who emigrated at that time. The famine was caused by a long history of oppressive government which resulted in millions of people living in extreme poverty on tiny patches of land, for which they were expected to pay rent to landlords, many of whom resided in England. Much of this land, which originally had been in Irish ownership, had been seized two centuries earlier and allocated to various settlers from Britain. The severe poverty and lack of resources resulted in many people surviving mainly on potatoes, since these produce a higher yield per area than many other crops. However, during the famine years, the potato harvest dropped sharply due to the spread of potato blight disease. Large quantities of grain crops were still being grown in the country, but these were exported throughout the famine years for the profit of the landlords. Some versions of the song also include this verse: It's well I do remember the year of forty-eight, when we rose with Erin's boys to fight against our fate. I was hunted through the mountains, as a traitor to the queen, and that's another reason why I left old Skibbereen. 'Van' in the last verse means the leading division of an army. |
St. Helena's Shore
My name is Napoleon Bonaparte, I am the conqueror of nations.
I banished German legions and drove kings from their thrones. I banished dukes and earls, oh tremendous congregations but now I am transported to St. Helena’s shore. My golden eagle was cast down by Wellington’s allied armies, o’er Russian hills through frost and snow I still my laurels wore, but I severely felt the rod, for meddling with the house of God, pious and graven images in thousands down I threw. And I stole Malta’s golden gates, I did the work of God’s disgrace but if he’ll give me time and space back to him I’ll restore. Some say the cause of my downfall was the parting of my consort, but to wed the German’s daughter, it grieved my heart full sore. The female frame I will not blame, she did never me ashame, she saw me in battle-flame, and she did me adore. Now I’m on a desert island, the rats the devil they would affright, but I intend to shine in armour bright through Europe once again. My name is Napoleon Bonaparte, I am the conqueror of nations. I banished German legions and drove kings from their thrones. I banished dukes and earls, oh tremendous congregations but now I am transported to St. Helena’s shore. |
Notes:
One of several traditional songs about Napoleon. Frank Harte used to do a fine job on this one. |
On Raglan Road
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue; I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way, And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day. On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge Of a deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge, The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay - Oh I loved too much and, by such and such, is happiness thrown away. I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known To artists who have found the true gods of sound and stone And word and tint, I did not stint, for I gave her poems to say. With her own name there and her own dark hair, like clouds over fields in May. On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay - When the angel woos the clay he'll lose his wings at the dawn of day. |
Notes: A poem by Patrick Kavanagh, sung to the tune The Dawning of the Day. |
Fare Thee Well, My Dearest Dear
Fare thee well, my dearest dear, fare thee well, adieu,
For I must go to sea for the love of you. Love have a faithful heart, for you must bear the smart, Since you and I must part, my own true love. Silver and gold, houses and lands, What more can you desire, love? Don't complain. Jewels you shall have, and servants at your command, But you must think of me when I am gone. Your gold I'll count as dust when you are fled, Your absence proves me lost and strikes me dead. And when you are far from home, servants I'll have none at all. For I'd rather live all alone than in company. So she dressed up herself all in man's attire, For to go to sea it was her heart's desire. And she cut her lovely hair, and no mistrust was there That she a maiden was, all at that time. So to Venice we were bound all in hearts content, No thought of our ship being wrecked, away we went. And from London but one day, then we were cast away, Which caused our lives to lay in discontent. Our ship being cast away, misfortune it did frown, I swam to the shore, but my love was drowned. And now she lies in the deep, in everlasting sleep, Which causes me to weep for evermore. So fare thee well, my dearest dear, fare thee well, adieu, For I must go to sea for the love of you. Love have a faithful heart, for you must bear the smart, Since you and I must part, my own true love. |
Notes: This old song survives due to a record by Ralph Vaughan Williams from 1904, when he visited a Harriett Verrall in Sussex, England, and noted down the tune and words from her rendition. |
When first I came to CaledoniaWhen first I came to Caledonia
and I got loading at Number 3, and I got lodging with Donald Norman, he had a daughter could make good tea. Now there was me and my brother Charlie, two bigger shavers you never did see. We were spearing eels in the month of April, we were starving slaves out on Scattery. So I went to Norman’s to buy some brochan, a cake of soap and a pound of tea, but Norman said that I could not get them, till fish grew plenty on Scattery. So I took myself down to that big harbour and I only went for to see the spray, and I spied a lass from Boularderie over, she seemed to me like the queen of May. Now if I had pen from Pennsylvania, if I had paper of snowy white, if I had ink of a rosy morning, a true love letter to you I’d write. I’d set my foot on the deepest ocean, as far from land as once I might be. When sailing over the deepest water, a woman’s love would not trouble me. And I’d set my head to a cask of brandy, and it’s a dandy I do declare, for it’s when I’m drinking, I’m seldom thinking, how to gain that young lady fair. When first I came to Caledonia and I got loading at Number 3, and I got lodging with Donald Norman, he had a daughter could make good tea. |
Notes: This is currently one of my favourite songs. It is set in Nova Scotia, Canada, and tells the story of a man who has gone there to work in the Caledonian coal mine (which helps to explain the second line), and who falls in love with a girl from Boularderie, an island off Cape Breton. Scattery, mentioned a few times in the song, is another island in the area. 'Brochan', as I understand it, is a type of porridge made with oats. I learned this song from a version recorded by Martin Simpson. |
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