song - evergreentrad

23 Aug

Just Twenty Years Ago

I wandered to the village, Tom, and sat beneath the tree,
Upon the school house playing ground, that sheltered you and me,
But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know,
Who played with me upon the green, just twenty years ago.

The grass is just as green, dear Tom; barefooted boys at play,
Were sporting just as we were then, with spirits just as gay,
But the master sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o’er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding place, just twenty years ago.

The river’s running just as still, the willows on its side,
Are larger than they were, dear Tom, the stream appears less wide
The grape vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau,
And swung our sweethearts—pretty girls—just twenty years ago.

The old school house is altered some, the benches are replaced,
By others very like the ones our penknives had defaced,
The same old bricks are in the walls, the bell swings to and fro,
Its music’s just as sweet, dear Tom, as twenty years ago.

The spring that bubbled ‘neath the hill, close by the spreading beach,
Is very high—’twas once so low—that I could scarcely reach,
And stooping down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so!
To see how much that I was changed, since twenty years ago.

Close by this spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name,
Your sweetheart’s just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same,
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, ’tis dying sure, but slow,
Upon the graves of those we loved, just twenty years ago.

My heart was very sad, dear Tom, and tears came in my eyes,
I though[t] of her I loved so well, those early broken ties,
I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strew,
Upon the graves of those we loved, just twenty years ago.

Some now in that churchyard lay, some sleep beneath the sea,
But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me,
And when our time shall come, dear Tom, and we are called to go,
I hope they’ll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago.

Roud no: 765

We return this month to the book Jim’s Western Gems, a collection of songs and poems self-published in Minneapolis in 1913 by James J. Somers, a second-generation Irish-American born in the Georgian Bay region of Ontario. I shared five of Somers’ own compositions last year but the (text-only) book also includes some traditional songs including the above text.

Edward “Sandy” Ives collected the nostalgic “Twenty Years Ago” from John Banks of Prince Edward Island in 1968 and published that version in the book Drive Dull Care Away. Banks used a version of the “Banks of the Nile” melody for the song. “Banks of the Nile” was sung in Minnesota by Michael Dean so, above, I have wed the Somers text with Dean’s melody for a fully Minnesotan version!

The song is likely of American origin and it appears in published song books at least as early as 1859.

22 Aug

The Dublin Dancing Master

In Dublin city once there lived a cratur gay and hearty,
A dancing master he by trade his name was Teddy McCarthy,
He taught the girls and boys to dance and none could do it faster,
He always danced so neat and nice, the Dublin dancing master.

Down the middle, hands across, go a little faster,
In and out and round about, the Dublin dancing master.

Now Teddy taught both reels and jigs and all the other dances,
From highland fling to plain quadrille to please the ladies’ fancies,
Patsy Whelan, Mickey Flynn and a boy called Kit McAstor,
Came to learn a highland fling from the Dublin dancing master

Thus Teddy got the boys and girls proficient in their dances,
Polkas, jigs and schottisches, mazurkas, reels and lancers,
No matter what the dance he taught, none could go it faster,
And none could dance an Irish jig like the Dublin dancing master.

I happened on this song in my monthly search and thought it was the perfect choice as I am thinking this week about the passing of Séamus O’Shea. Séamus was a true modern day Dublin dancing master whose son Cormac carries on the family tradition here in St. Paul. Rest in Peace Séamus.

The Canadian Maritimes are, again, my source for this music hall song that migrated from the vaudeville stage to the voices of singers in their communities. The song was sung at Tony Pastor’s famous New York theater in 1866 by singer William Carleton (not to be confused with the author of the same name). In Eastern Passage, Halifax County, Nova Scotia, it was sung by Ben Henneberry (with fiddle by Ken Faulkner) for Helen Creighton’s recording machine in 1948. You can hear the Henneberry/Faulkner recording at the Nova Scotia Archives site.

The melody above is my transcription of Henneberry’s singing and the text is adapted from Henneberry with additional words from a version printed in Will Carleton’s Dandy Pat Songster (1866).

10 Mar

Saint Kevin and the Gander

As Saint Kevin once was travelling through a place called Glendalough,
He met with King O’Toole and he asked him for a shough,
Says the King “You are a stranger and your face I’ve never seen,
But if you want a taste of weed I’ll lend you my duidin.

While the Saint was kindling up his pipe the monarch gave a sigh,
“Is there anything the matter” says the Saint, “that makes you cry?”
Says the King “I had a gander, that was left me by my mother,
And the other day he cocked his toes with some disease or other.”

“Are you cryin’ for the gander? You unfortunate old goose,
Dry up your tears, in frettin’, sure, there’s ne’er a bit o’ use,
As you think so much about the bird, if I make him whole and sound?
Will you give to me the taste o’ land the gander will fly around?”

“In troth I will, and welcome,” said the king, “give what you ask,”
The Saint bid him bring out the bird and he’d begin the task,
The king went into the palace to fetch him out the bird,
Though he’d not the least intention of sticking to his word.

Saint Kevin took the gander from the arms of the King,
He first began to tweak his beak and then to stretch his wing,
The gander he rose in the air, flew sixty miles around,
“I’m thankful to your majesty for that little bit of ground.”

The King to raise a ruction he called the saint a witch,
And he sent for his six big sons to heave him in the ditch,
“Ná bac leis,” says Saint Kevin, “I’ll soon settle these young urchins,”
So he turned the king and his six sons into the seven churches.

Thus King O’Toole was punished for his dishonest doings,
The Saint he left the gander there to guard about the ruins,
If you go there on a summer’s day between twelve and one o’clock,
You’ll see the gander flying round the Glen of Glendalough.

Now I think there is a moral attached unto my song,
To punish men is only right whenever they do wrong,
For poor men they may keep their word much better than folks grander,
For the King begrudged to pay the Saint for curing his old gander.

This is one of two Saint Kevin of Glendalough songs that made their way into tradition. The other, sometimes called “The Glendalough Saint,” (Roud 8001) was sung by the Dubliners and Brendan Behan. The story of Saint Kevin, King O’Toole and the gander (Roud 17152) was sung by legendary Clare musician Micho Russell and others.

The only North American version I am aware of is a very small fragment, a bit of verses five and six above, sung in New Brunswick by the great woods singer Angelo Dornan. Dornan told Helen Creighton his father used to sing the complete song. You can hear Dornan’s fragment under the title “Gander and the Saint” at the wonderful Nova Scotia Archives site. From the fragment, his melody seems to be a version of that used by Limerick singer Con Greaney for “Carlow Town” so I used Greaney’s melody to fill in the blanks here.

Versions of this text were printed in Dublin as early as 1845 (Dublin Comic Songster). A writer with the initials F. P. R. put the text in the “Questions and Answers” section of the New York Times of January 5, 1908 with the following attribution:

The poem of Saint Kevin and King O’Toole was written by Thomas Shalvey, a market-gardener in Dublin, who used to write poems for James Kearney, a vocalist who used to sing at several music-halls and inferior concert rooms in Dublin a good many years ago. Kearney was very popular and some of his best songs were written by Shalvey.

It appears, with the same attribution, in The Humour of Ireland which was published in New York that same year. I incorporated Dornan’s fragment into the New York Times text above.

The song seems certain to have originated among street singers in Dublin in the mid 1800s. Dr Catherine Ann Cullen, a UCD Postdoctoral Fellow with Poetry Ireland, is currently researching and writing about Shalvey, Kearney and other fascinating 19^th century Dublin street poets and balladeers and her excellent blog gives more details on the world in which this song emerged.