Thoughts on Saint Patrick’s Day.
To day, Monday 17th March is Saint Patrick’s Day. It is a day when tens of millions of people all over the world will claim, rightly in most cases, some Irish ancestry. It might, without taking away any of the enjoyment of the day, also be a time to reflect why Irish men, women and children were scattered to the four corners of the globe.
Starvation. Transportation. Exploration. Enforced Exile. To name just four reasons.
A couple of songs for the day, I could not find a recording of the first……..
Poor Old Dan O’Hara…
Arra, my cushla, gal mo chroi, won’t you buy a box from me,
And you’ll have the prayers of poor old Dan O’Hara,
I sell them cheap and low, so buy a box before you go,
From poor old broken Dan from Connemara.
In the year of sixty-four, I had acres by the score,
‘Twas the finest land you ever ran a plough through,
But the landlord came, you know, and he left me poor home low,
So it is here I am today, broken hearted.
‘Twas the finest land you ever ran a plough through,
But the landlord came, you know, and he left me poor home low,
So it is here I am today, broken hearted.
Arra, my cushla, gal mo chroi,....
In the year of sixty-four, sure misfortune crossed me door,
And me poor old wife and I were sadly parted,
We were scattered far and wide, our poor children starved and died,
So it is here I am today, broken hearted.
Arra, my cushla, gal mo chroi,......
Last night, as I lay dreaming, of pleasant days gone bye,
Me mind being bent on rambling, to Ireland I did fly,
I stepped on board a vision, and I followed with the wind,
When next I came to anchor at, the Cross on Spansil Hill.
Me mind being bent on rambling, to Ireland I did fly,
I stepped on board a vision, and I followed with the wind,
When next I came to anchor at, the Cross on Spansil Hill.
And on the 23rd of June, the day before the fair,
When Irelands sons and daughters, and friends assembled there,
The young and the old, the brave and the bold, came, their duty to fulfil,
At the parish church at Clooney, a mile from Spansil Hill.
When Irelands sons and daughters, and friends assembled there,
The young and the old, the brave and the bold, came, their duty to fulfil,
At the parish church at Clooney, a mile from Spansil Hill.
I went to see me neighbours, to see what they might say,
The old ones were all dead and gone, the young ones turning grey.
I met the tailor Quigley, he’s as bald as ever still,
Sure he used to make be breeches, when I lived on Spansil Hill.
The old ones were all dead and gone, the young ones turning grey.
I met the tailor Quigley, he’s as bald as ever still,
Sure he used to make be breeches, when I lived on Spansil Hill.
I paid a flying visit to my first and only love,
She’s as white as any lily, and as gentle as a dove,
She threw her arms around me, saying, Jonnie, I love you still,
Oh, she’s Ned the farmer’s daughter, the pride of Spansil Hill.
She’s as white as any lily, and as gentle as a dove,
She threw her arms around me, saying, Jonnie, I love you still,
Oh, she’s Ned the farmer’s daughter, the pride of Spansil Hill.
I dreamt I held and kissed her, as in the days of yore,
Oh Jonnie, you’re only joking, as many a time before,
The cock he crew in the morning, he crew both loud and shrill,
I awoke in California, many miles from Spansil Hill.
Oh Jonnie, you’re only joking, as many a time before,
The cock he crew in the morning, he crew both loud and shrill,
I awoke in California, many miles from Spansil Hill.
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Have a wonderful day, and sure if there is not a drop of Irish blood coursing through your veins, you are welcome to join in the festivities - Failte agus Slainte go leir…..
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