Irish - evergreentrad

22 May

Jocky to the Fair

Was on the morn of bright May day when nature painted all things gay,
Taught birds to sing and lambs to play and guide the meadow air,
Then Jocky early in the morn,
He rose and tripped it o’er the lawn,
His Sunday suit he did put on,
For Jenny had vowed away to run with Jocky to the Fair.

The village parish bells had rung with eager steps he trudged along,
His flowery garment round him hung that shepherds used to wear,
Tapped at the window, “Haste my dear,”
When Jenny impatient cried, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me my love, there’s no one here,
Step lightly down, you need not fear with Jocky to the Fair.”

“My dad and mother is fast asleep, my brothers are up and with the sheep,
So will you still your promise keep that I have heard you swear?
Or will you ever constant prove?”
“I will by all that’s good, my love,
I’ll never deceive my charming dove,
Return those vows in haste my love with Jocky to the Fair.”

Then Jocky did his vows renew, they pledged their words and away they flew,
O’er cowslip bells and balmy dew and Jocky to the Fair,
Returned there’s none so fond as they,
They blessed that kind perpetual day,
The smiling month of blooming May,
When lovely Jenny ran away with Jocky to the Fair.

[repeat first verse]

In the world of competitive Irish step dancing, the tune “Jockey to the Fair” is one of the seven approved and strictly regulated traditional set dances. The tune, it turns out, originated with a popular English song of the 18^th century. It is somewhat ironic that the melody has ended up on this short list of official tunes in a realm so historically sensitive to maintaining Irish cultural purity! Of course, recent cultural historians have been increasingly willing to admit that melodies (and lyrics) have travelled back and forth between the two islands for centuries and that the Irishness of a song or tune is complex to calculate (and possibly not worth the effort). To this day, “Jock(e)y to the Fair” is a favorite of uilleann pipers and Morris dancers all over the world.

The song that accompanies the melody (or at least a close variant of the dance tune) is rarely heard in Irish circles so it was interesting to find it in Helen Creighton’s Nova Scotia recordings as sung by Irish-Canadian Edmund Henneberry of tiny Devil’s Island—a now-deserted island in Halifax harbor. You can hear Henneberry sing it on the album Folk Music from Nova Scotia which is available online via Smithsonian Folkways. My transcription was made from that recording.

09 Dec

Exile of Erin

“Oh, sad is my fate,” said the heart broken stranger,
             “The wild deer and roe to the mountains can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine or danger,
             A home and a country remains not for me;
Oh, never again in the green shady bower,
Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
             And strike the sweet numbers of Erin Go Bragh.

Oh, Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,
             In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore,
But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,
             And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more;
And thou, cruel fate, will thou never replace me,
In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me?
Oh, never again shall my brothers embrace me,
             They died to defend me or live to deplore.

Where is my cabin once fast by the wildwood,
             Sisters and sire did weep for its fall,
Where is the mother that looked over my childhood,
             And where is my bosom friend, dearer than all?
Ah, my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast fading treasure?
Tears like the rain may fall without measure,
             But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

But yet all its fond recollections suppressing,
             One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw,
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,
             Land of my forefathers, Erin Go Bragh;
Buried and cold when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields fairest Isle of the ocean,
And the harp striking bard sings aloud with devotion,
             “Erin Mavourneen, sweet Erin Go Bragh.”

We return this month to the repertoire of Minnesota singer Michael Cassius Dean who printed “Exile of Erin” in his songster The Flying Cloud. Dean’s book reaches its 100^th birthday next year having been printed in Virginia, Minnesota in 1922 while he was employed as night watchman for the Virginia-Rainy Lake Lumber Company mega-mill in that city. As I have written here before, Dean was visited by the wax cylinder recording machine of Robert Winslow Gordon in 1924 but his version of “Exile of Erin” does not appear to have been recorded at that time. We only have his text from the songster. The melody above is my own transcription of a version sung by Belle Luther Richards at Colebrook, New Hampshire for Helen Hartness Flanders in 1943. That recording is available on archive.org.

The Richards and Dean versions are the only versions collected from North American singers I have found. This is somewhat surprising given that the song was extremely popular in Ireland throughout the 1800s. It was popular enough to spark widely-publicized controversy over who wrote it! It seems fairly certain that the author was Scottish poet Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) who also authored “The Wounded Hussar.” Campbell reported that he wrote the song in 1800 in Hamburg after meeting a man named Anthony McCann who was exiled there for his role in the Rebellion of 1798.

It’s possible that Dean learned it from his Mayo-born parents. Mayo was a focus of action during the excitement of 1798 when French General Humbert landed with over 1000 troops at Cill Chuimín Strand, County Mayo in support of the revolutionaries in August of that year. It is also possible that Dean learned it from a source here in Minnesota. Minneapolis’ Irish Standard newspaper, to which Dean subscribed while living in Hinckley, printed the text of the song in 1886 and again in 1900.

26 Apr

Doran’s Ass

One heavenly night in last November, Pat walked out for to see his love,
What night it was I don’t remember, but the moon shone brightly from above,
That day the boy got some liquor, which made his spirits brisk and gay,
Saying, “What is the use of walking any quicker for I know she’ll meet me on the way.”

Whack fol loora loora loddy, whack fol right fol lie doe day.

He tunes his pipe and fell to humming, while gently onward he did jog,
But fatigue and whisky overcome him, so Pat lay down upon the sod,
He was not long without a comrade, and one that could kick up the hay,
For the big jackass he smelt out Paddy, lay down beside him on the way.

He hugged, he smugged this hairy old devil, and threw his hat to worldly cares,
“You’ve come at last, my Biddy darling, but, by me soul, you’re like a bear.”
He laid his hand on the donkey’s nose, just then this beast began to bray,
Pat jumped up and roared out “Murder! Who served me in such a way?”

He took two legs and homeward started, at railroad speed, as fast, I’m sure,
He never stopped his feet or halted until he came to Biddy’s door,
When he got there ’twas almost morning, down on his knees he fell to pray,
Saying, “Let me in my Biddy darling, I’ve met the Devil on the way.”

He told his story mighty civil, while she prepared the whiskey glass,
How he hugged, he smugged, this hairy old devil, “Go way” says she “that’s Doran’s ass!”
“I know it was, my Biddy darling.” And they got married the very next day,
Pat never got back the old straw hat, that the donkey ate up on the way.

We have another comic song this month that was once sung across the north woods region including here in Minnesota where a version was printed by Mike Dean in his 1922 songster The Flying Cloud. Lumberjack singer Charley Bowlen of Black River Falls, Wisconsin also sang a version for collector Helene Stratman-Thomas in 1940. In Ireland, it was printed by Colm Ó Lochlainn in his influential collection Irish Street Ballads.

The melody above is my transcription of a version recorded in the western Catskills by collector Herbert Halpert in 1941. The singer was Walter Wormuth of Peakville, New York who had himself worked in the lumber woods earlier in life. Most versions use a variant of the melody associated with the song “Spanish Lady” and Wormuth’s has a unique twist on that well-worn tune. The above text is primarily Wormuth’s but I borrowed a few lines from Dean and Bowlen here and there.