Tag Archives: Minnesota

12 Aug

The Roving Irishman

I am a roving Irishman that roves from town to town,
I lately took a notion to view some foreign ground,
So with my knapsack on my shoulder and shillala in my hand,
I sailed away to America to view that happy land.

When I landed in Philadelphia the girls all laughed with joy,
Says one unto another, “There comes a roving boy.”
One treated to a bottle and another to a dram,
And the toast went ’round so merrily, “Success to the Irishman.”

The very first night at the house where I was going to stay,
The landlady’s daughter grew very fond of me;
She kissed me and she hugged me and she took me by the hand,
And she whispers to her mother, “How I love this Irishman.”

It was early next morning when I was going away,
The landlady’s daughter those words to me did say,
“How can you be so cruel or prove so very unkind,
As to go away a-roving and leave me here behind?”

Oh, I am bound for Wisconsin, that’s right among the Dutch,
And as for conversation it won’t be very much,
But by signs and by signals I’ll make them understand
That the spirits of good nature lies in this Irishman.

Now it’s time to leave off roving and take myself a wife,
And for to live happy the remainder of my life;
Oh, I’ll hug her and I’ll kiss her, oh, I’ll do the best I can
For to make her bless the day that she wed with this Irishman.

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I sang this song for singer Len Graham of County Antrim, Ireland and he immediately recognized it as a version of “The Roving Journeyman” aka “The Little Beggerman.” I learned another version when I was a teenager up in Bemidji, MN but I didn’t realize they were related because I had a different melody (the one often called “The Red Haired Boy”) for my earlier version. Dean’s air is much more somber.

Later, I came across a version, called “The Rambling Kerry Lad,” recorded from Bridget Granbhil of the Dingle Peninsula that is very similar in melody and text to Dean’s version. You can hear Granbhil’s version on the Folkways album Traditional Music of Ireland, Vol. 2: Songs and Dances from Down, Kerry, and Clare. The song was a vehicle for the “traditional creativity” of other “woods singers” in Dean’s childhood home of St. Lawrence County, New York.  Two personalized versions, “The Roving Cunningham” and “The Roving Ashlaw Man” were recorded there by Robert Bethke in the 1970s from brothers Ted and Eddie Ashlaw.

We don’t know where Dean learned the song but his version bears the mark of more personalization – this time to the Midwest. The 5th verse is unique to Dean’s collection with its reference to the somewhat non-conversational Dutch of Wisconsin (“Dutch” here almost certainly means German, or Deutsch, rather than the modern usage of the word for folks from the Netherlands). This verse could easily have been composed by Dean himself.  In fact, my research has turned up a story of Dean reluctantly leaving Hinckley, Minnesota in 1889 for a brief stint as a bartender in a saloon in Superior, Wisconsin. He didn’t last long there and the Pine County Pioneer even reported that “Mike does not fancy the town.” Maybe this had to do with a German deficiency in the “gift of the gab” (or maybe it was just a crummy job). Also, since Dean was, by all accounts, a sociable bartender for most of his adult life, it’s easy to guess what is meant by “the spirits of good nature!”

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More detailed information on this song from the Traditional Ballad Index

Listen to other versions online!

Bridget Granbhil’s “The Rambling Kerry Lad”
Ted Ashlaw’s “The Roving Cunningham”
Eddie Ashlaw’s “The Roving Ashlaw Man”

 

 

04 Jul

Morrisy and the Russian Sailor (Laws H18)

Come, all you sons of Erin, attention now I crave,
While I relate the praises of an Irish hero brave;
Concerning a great fight, me boys, all on the other day,
Between a Russian sailor and bold Jack Morrisy.

It was in Tierra Del Fuego, in South America,
The Russian challenged Morrisy and unto him did say,
“I hear you are a fighting man and wear a belt, I see;
What do you say, will you consent to have a round with me.

Then up spoke bold Jack Morrisy, with a heart so stout and true,
Saying, “I am a gallant Irishman that never was subdued;
Oh, I can whale a Yankee, a Saxon bull or bear,
And in honor of old Paddy’s land I’ll still those laurels wear.

These words enraged the Russian upon that foreign land,
To think that he would be put down by any Irishman;
He says, “You are too light for me, on that make no mistake,
I would have you to resign the belt, or else your life I’ll take.”

To fight upon the tenth of June those heroes did agree,
And thousands came from every part the battle for to see;
The English and the Russians, their hearts were filled with glee,
They swore the Russian sailor boy would kill bold Morrisy.

They both stripped off, stepped in the ring, most glorious to be seen,
And Morrisy put on the belt, ’bound round with shamrocks, green,
Full twenty thousand dollars, as you may plainly see,
That was to be the champion’s prize that gained the victory.

They both shook hands, walked ’round the ring commencing then to fight,
It filled each Irish heart with joy for to behold the sight;
The Russian he floored Morrisy up to the elev,enth round,
With English, Russian and Saxon cheers the valley did resound.

A minute and a half our hero lay before he could rise,
The word went all about the field, “He’s dead!” were all their cries;
But Morrisy worked manfully and, raising from the ground,
From that until the twentieth theRussian he put down.

Up to the thirty-seventh round ’twas fall and fall about,
“Which made the burly sailor to keep a sharp look-out;
The Russian called his second and asked for a glass of wine,
Our Irish hero smiled and said, “This battle will be mine.”

The thirty-eighth decided all, the Russian felt the smart,
When Morrisy, with a fearful blow, he struck him o’er the heart,
A doctor he was called on to open up a vein,
He said it was quite useless, he would never fight again.

Our hero conquered Thompson, the Yankee clipper, too,
The Benicia boy and Sheppard he nobly did subdue;
So let us fill a flowing bowl and drink a health galore
To brave Jack Morrisy and Paddies evermore.

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This ballad has been found in Ireland and also in the Canadian Maritime provinces but the version here (like last month’s song) comes from Minnesota’s Mike Dean. It is the only version collected from a singer from the Great Lakes region. Dean’s text was printed in his own song book in 1922. His text and melody were printed in Franz Rickaby’s Ballads and Songs of the Shanty Boy in 1924 and then reprinted in 1927 by the famous poet, author and folk-song enthusiast Carl Sandburg in his enormously popular book the American Songbag.

Sandburg used Dean’s song to illustrate the popularity of Irish songs and Irish singers in the lumber camps. Indeed, the ballad’s hero is the famous Irish-born, bare-knuckle boxer John Morrissey who came to Troy, New York with his parents in 1833 at the age of two and whose colorful life stands as a testament to the wild ups and downs experienced by freewheeling Irish immigrant men of his generation. Morrissey was an Irish gang member in his youth, a prospector in the California gold rush, the champion heavyweight boxer of the world, a casino tycoon and a member of the U.S. House of Representatives. However, it seems that his fight with the “Russian Bear” was probably a fictitious creation of a ballad maker.

There is good reason to believe the song struck a chord with Dean and others like him. Many Irish lumbermen were proud of their ability to fight and some contended that it was indeed necessary to success in the environment they lived in. Lumberman John Emmett Nelligan’s 1929 autobiography “A White Pine Empire” is full of references to what he called the “hot headed, fighting disciples of Brian Boru.”[i]

Himself the son of Irish immigrants, Nelligan traces his career from 15-year-old rookie cook in a New Brunswick logging camp to successful logging company owner in Wisconsin, many times using his fists, or at least physical intimidation, to get out of a tough situation with other rough and tumble men. A song from the St. Croix Valley puts the exploits of another Irish-American lumberman, Ed Hart, in verse:

And on the Namekagon drive
With Tom Mackey I have been,
Where I fought the great Tom Haggerty—
While Bill Hanson stood between;

And I fought with big John Mealey—
And might have won the day,
If bould Jake Resser had been there
And seen I had fair play.[ii]

Indeed, Mr. Hart’s ability to hold his own served him beyond his time as a pioneer lumberjack. He later retired to a farm in the town of Bashaw, WI where he maintained a “stopping place” for itinerant shanty boys in the late 1800s. Ed was described by one acquaintance as “soft spoken until angered at which time he became a little hellion on red wheels.” If the boys at his stopping place would get out of hand “Ed would emerge from his house a-bellerin like the ‘Bull of Bashaw’ with his wispy whiskers stickin straight out carrying an axe handle. He was apparently not too particular who got an ‘almighty thunk on the head’ until peace was restored.”

Alan Lomax captured the essence of a “party piece” performance of “Morrissey and the Russian Sailor” on a visit to Ireland when he recorded Seán ‘ac Dhonnchadha singing a version with a similar text but different air (amid wild cheers of encouragement from the “audience”). You can hear that on World Library of Folk & Primitive Music, Vol. 2: Ireland. It’s well worth a listen!

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More detailed information on this song from the Traditional Ballad Index

 

[i] Nelligan, John Emmett. A White Pine Empire: The Life of a Lumberman. St. Cloud: North Star, 1969, p. 12.
[ii] From The Ballad of Mickey Free as printed in Dunn, Kames Taylor. The St. Croix: Midwest Border River. Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1965, p. 254-256.

18 May

The Flying Cloud (Laws K28)

From the singing of Michael Cassius Dean of Virginia, Minnesota.
Transcribed by Franz Rickaby about 1923.

My name is Willie Hollander, as you may understand,
I was born in the County Waterford in Erin’s happy land;
When I was young and in my prime, then beauty on me smiled,
My parents doted on me, I being their only child.

My father bound me to a trade in Waterford’s fair town,
He bound me to a cooper there by the name of Willie Brown;
I served my master faithfully for eighteen months or more,
Then I shipped on board of the Ocean Queen, bound for Bellefresier’s shore.

And when we reached Bellefreiser’s shore I met with Captain Moore,
The captain of the Flying Cloud, that sails from Baltimore;
He asked me if I would sail with him on a slaving voyage to go,
To the burning shores of Africa where the coffee seeds do grow.

The Flying Cloud was a clipper ship of five hundred tons or more,
She could easy sail ’round anything going out of Baltimore.
Her sails were as white as the driven snow and on them there’s no speck,
And forty-nine brass pounder guns she carried on her deck.

The Flying Cloud was as fine a ship as ever sailed the seas,
Or ever spread a main topsail before a freshening breeze;
I have oft times seen that gallant bark with the wind abaft her beam,
With her main top Royal and stun sails set taking sixteen from the reel.

The first place that we landed ’twas on the African shore,
And five hundred of those poor slaves from their native land we bore;
We marched them out upon our plank and stowed them down below,
It was eighteen inches to the man was all that there was to go.

Early next morning we set sail with our cargo of slaves,
It would have been better for those poor souls if they’d been in their graves;
For the plague and fever came on board, swept half their number away,
And we dragged their bodies on the deck and threw them in the sea.

In the course of three weeks after we arrived on Cuba’s shore,
We sold them to the planters there, to be slaves for evermore;
The rice and coffee seeds to sow beneath the burning sun,
To lead a hard and wretched life until their career was run.

And now our money is all spent and we are off to sea again,
When Captain Moore he came on board and said to us his men:
“There is gold and silver to be had if with me you’ll remain,
We’ll hoist aloft a pirate flag and scour the Spanish Main.”

We all agreed but five young lads who told us them to land,
Two of those were Boston boys, two more from Newfoundland;
And the other was an Irish lad belonging to Trimore,
I wish to God I had joined those boys and went with them on shore.

We sank and plundered many a ship down on the Spanish Main,
Left many a widow and orphan child in sorrow to remain;
We made them walk out on our plank, gave to them a watery grave,
For a saying of our captain was that a dead man tells no tales.

Pursued we were by many ships, both frigates and liners, too,
But for to catch the Flying Cloud was a thing they ne’er could do;
It was all in vain astern of us their cannons roared so loud,
It was all in vain to ever try for to catch the Flying Cloud.

Till a Spanish ship, a man-of-war, the Dungeon, hove in view,
And fired a shot across our bows as a signal to heave to;
We gave to her no answer, but sailed before the wind,
Until a chain shot broke our mizzen mast and then we fell behind.

We cleared our deck for action as she came up ’longside,
And soon from off our quarter decks there ran a crimson tide;
We fought till Captain Moore was killed, and eighty of his men,
When a bomb shell set our ship on fire, we were forced to surrender then.

Now fare you well, you shady groves and the girl that I do adore,
Your voice like music soft and sweet will never cheer me more;
No more will I kiss those ruby lips or clasp that silk-soft hand,
For here I must die a shameful death out in some foreign land.

It was next to New Gate I was brought, bound down in iron chains,
For the plundering of ships at sea down on the Spanish Main;
It was drinking and bad company that made a wretch of me,
So youths beware of my sad fate and my curse on Piracy.

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“The Flying Cloud” lent its title to and was the first song printed in Michael Cassius Dean’s 1922 songster. It was also the longest song in Dean’s book at 16 stanzas and nearly 800 words. The song is a lament of an Irish lad from County Waterford who joined the crew of a ship bent on slaving and piracy and who is now in London’s Newgate prison facing the hangman’s noose.

Dean may have chosen the song’s name for his book due to its high status as one of the “big” songs known in American lumber camps. Franz Rickaby wrote: “This is the ballad of which it was said that, in order to get a job in the Michigan camps, one had to be able to sing it through from end to end!”

Indeed, Dean himself reported learning his version from singer Jack Troy “in the woods of Lower Michigan” around 1883. Rickaby collected the song from Dean and from North Dakotan farmer Arthur Milloy who himself had come to work in the Michigan lumber woods from Peterborough, Ontario in 1885. A third version was picked up near Fremont, Michigan by Franklin Covell who grew up there in the same era that Dean and Milloy worked in the area. Covell carried the song to Minnesota where he was head keeper of the Split Rock Lighthouse from 1928 to 1944.[i]

There are a number of audio recordings of other variants of “The Flying Cloud” including one from “Yankee” John Galusha who was born around the same time as Dean on the opposite side of the Adirondacks from Dean’s birthplace. Sidney Robertson-Cowell recorded another version from Robert Walker in Crandon, Wisconsin. The airs used by Milloy, Galusha and Walker are all closely related to Dean’s.  A very different and quite hauntingly beautiful air was recorded by MacEdward Leach in Newfoundland from singer John Molloy is worth listening to for anyone intrigued by this song.

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More detailed information on this song from the Traditional Ballad Index

 

[i] Covell’s version, supplemented by another Minnesotan singer Ole Fonstad, was published in 1922 (the same year as Dean’s songster) in The Journal of American Folk-Lore, XXXV, 370-372 and reprinted in 1924 by Roland Palmer Gray in “Songs and Ballads of the Maine Lumberjacks.”