Irish Ballads 1. "The Shan Van Vocht" Thomas Moore (Romanticism) 2. "The Minstrel Boy" 3. "The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls" Anonymous 19th Century 4. "The Old Orange Flute" 5. "The Croppy Boy" Young Ireland 6. “Arthur McBride” (first collected in 1840) 7. "My Dark Rosaleen" (Clarence Mangan) 8. "The West's Asleep" (Thomas Davis) Fenian 9. "The Rising of the Moon" (John Keegan Casey) Easter Rising 10. "Boulavogue" (P. J. McCall, 1898) 11. "Whack Fol the Diddle" (Peadar Kearney, 1916) Contemporary: 1960s and 70s 12. "Four Green Fields" (Tommy Makem) 13. “Free the People” (Phil Coulter, performed by the Dubliners) 14. “The Town I Loved So Well” (Phil Coulter, performed by the Dubliners) 1. The Shan Van Vocht By Anonymous OH! the French are on the say, Says the Shan Van Vocht; The French are on the say, Says the Shan Van Vocht; Oh! the French are in the Bay, 5 They’ll be here without delay, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Van Vocht. Oh! the French are in the Bay, They’ll be here by break of day 10 And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Van Vocht. And where will they have their camp? Says the Shan Van Vocht; Where will they have their camp? 15 Says the Shan Van Vocht; On the Curragh of Kildare, The boys they will be there, With their pikes in good repair, Says the Shan Van Vocht. 20 To the Curragh of Kildare The boys they will repair And Lord Edward will be there, Says the Shan Van Vocht. Then what will the yeomen do? 25 Says the Shan Van Vocht; What should the yeomen do, Says the Shan Van Vocht; What should the yeomen do, But throw off the red and blue, 30 And swear that they’ll be true To the Shan Van Vocht? What should the yeomen do, But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they’ll be true 35 To the Shan Van Vocht? And what colour will they wear? Says the Shan Van Vocht; What colour will they wear? Says the Shan Van Vocht; 40 What colours should be seen Where their father’s homes have been But their own immortal green? Says the Shan Van Vocht. And will Ireland then be free? 45 Says the Shan Van Vocht; Will Ireland then be free? Says the Shan Van Vocht; Yes! Ireland shall be free, From the centre to the sea; 50 Then hurrah for Liberty! Says the Shan Van Vocht. Yes! Ireland shall be free, From the centre to the sea; Then hurrah for Liberty! 55 Says the Shan Van Vocht. Padraic Colum (1881–1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922. The title is literally “The Poor Old Woman.” This was a “secret” name for Ireland, like “Roisin Dubh” (the little Dark Rose) and Kathleen ni Houlahan (Kathleen the daughter of Houlahan). These “secret” names were given partly to hide what might be thought a seditious element in the utterance, and partly because of the Gaelic liking for what is esoteric and symbolic. The Shan Van Vocht is a peasant song made at the time when the Irish were expecting help from revolutionary France, in 1798. The Minstrel Boy The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone In the ranks of death you will find him; His father's sword he hath girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him; "Land of Song!" said the warrior bard, "Tho' all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!" The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain Could not bring that proud soul under; The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and brav'ry! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!" The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled – So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more! No more to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells: The chord, alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives! The Auld Orange Flute In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon, Where many the ructions meself had a hand in. Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade, And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade, On the Twelfth of July as it yearly did come, Bob played with his flute to the sound of a drum. You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute, But none can compare with the Old Orange Flute. Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in; He married a Papist named Bridget McGinn. Turned Papist himself and forsook the old cause That gave us our freedom, religion and laws. Now, boys of the townland made some noise upon it, And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught. He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot, And along with the latter his Old Orange Flute. At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds, He'd say Pater and Aves and counted his brown beads. 'Til after some time, at the priest's own desire He went with that old flute to play in the choir. He went with that old flute for to play for the Mass, But the instrument shivered and sighed, oh, alas, And try though he would, though it made a great noise, The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys." Bob jumped and he stared and got in a flutter And threw the old flute in the blessed holy water. He thought that this charm would bring some other sound; When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down." Now, for all he could whistle and finger and blow, To play Papish music he found it no go. "Kick the Pope" and "The Boyne Water" it freely would sound, But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found. At the council of priests that was held the next day They decided to banish the old flute away. They couldn't knock heresy out of it's head, So they bought Bob a new one to play in it's stead. 'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as a heretic. As the flames soared around it, they heard a strange noise; 'Twas the old flute still whistling "The Protestant Boys." "Toora lu, toora lay, Oh, it's six miles from Bangor to Donnahadee." The Croppy Boy Carroll Malone (AKA William B. McBurney) "Good men and true! In this house who dwell, To a stranger bouchal, I pray you tell Is the priest at home? Or may he be seen? I would speak a word with Father Green." "The Priest's at home, boy and may be seen; 'Tis easy speaking with Father Green; But you must wait 'till I go and see If the holy father alone may be." The youth has entered an empty hall - What a lonely sound has his light footfall! And the gloomy chamber's still and bare, With a vested Priest in a lonely chair. The youth has knelt to tell his sins: "Nomine Dei," the youth begins; At "mea culpa" he beats his breast, And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest. "At the siege of Ross did my father fall, And at Gorey my living brothers all; I alone am left of my name and race, I will go to Wexford and take their place. I cursed three times since Easter day - At mass-time once I went to play; I passed the churchyard one day in haste, And forgot to pray for my mother's rest. I bear no hate against living thing; But I love my country above my King. Now, Father! Bless me and let me go To die, if God has ordained it so." The Priest said nought, but a rustling noise Made the youth look up in wild surprise: The robes were off, and in scarlet there Sat a yeoman captain with a fiery glare. With fiery glare and with fury hoarse, Instead of blessing he breathed a curse - 'Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive, for one short hour is your time to live. Upon yon river three tenders float, the Priest's in one if he isn't shot - we hold his house for our Lord and King, and amen say I, may all traitors swing!" At Geneva Barrack that young man died, And at Passae they have his body laid Good people who live in peace and joy, Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy Boy. The Croppy Boy It was early, early in the spring The birds did whistle and sweetly sing Changing their notes from tree to tree And the song they sang was Old Ireland free. It was early early in the night, The yeoman cavalry gave me a fright The yeoman cavalry were my downfall And I was taken by Lord Cornwall. 'Twas in the guard-house where I was laid, And in a parlour where I was tried My sentence passed and my courage low When to Dungannon I was forced to go.