SCRAPS OF HIBERNIAN BALLADS.
Being an Eighth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P. of Drumcoolagh.
I have observed, my dear friend, among other grievous misconceptionscurrent among men otherwise well-informed, and which tend to degrade thepretensions of my native land, an impression that there exists no suchthing as indigenous modern Irish composition deserving the name ofpoetry--a belief which has been thoughtlessly sustained and confirmedby the unconscionable literary perverseness of Irishmen themselves, whohave preferred the easy task of concocting humorous extravaganzas,which caricature with merciless exaggeration the pedantry, bombast, andblunders incident to the lowest order of Hibernian ballads, to the morepleasurable and patriotic duty of collecting together the many, manyspecimens of genuine poetic feeling, which have grown up, like its wildflowers, from the warm though neglected soil of Ireland.
In fact, the productions which have long been regarded as pure samplesof Irish poetic composition, such as 'The Groves of Blarney,' and 'TheWedding of Ballyporeen,' 'Ally Croker,' etc., etc., are altogetherspurious, and as much like the thing they call themselves 'as I toHercules.'
There are to be sure in Ireland, as in all countries, poems whichdeserve to be laughed at. The native productions of which I speak,frequently abound in absurdities--absurdities which are often, too,provokingly mixed up with what is beautiful; but I strongly andabsolutely deny that the prevailing or even the usual character of Irishpoetry is that of comicality. No country, no time, is devoid of realpoetry, or something approaching to it; and surely it were a strangething if Ireland, abounding as she does from shore to shore with allthat is beautiful, and grand, and savage in scenery, and filled withwild recollections, vivid passions, warm affections, and keen sorrow,could find no language to speak withal, but that of mummery and jest.No, her language is imperfect, but there is strength in its rudeness,and beauty in its wildness; and, above all, strong feeling flows throughit, like fresh fountains in rugged caverns.
And yet I will not say that the language of genuine indigenous Irishcomposition is always vulgar and uncouth: on the contrary, I am inpossession of some specimens, though by no means of the highest order asto poetic merit, which do not possess throughout a single peculiarityof diction. The lines which I now proceed to lay before you, by wayof illustration, are from the pen of an unfortunate young man, of veryhumble birth, whose early hopes were crossed by the untimely death ofher whom he loved. He was a self-educated man, and in after-life roseto high distinctions in the Church to which he devoted himself--anact which proves the sincerity of spirit with which these verses werewritten.
'When moonlight falls on wave and wimple, And silvers every circling dimple, That onward, onward sails: When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple Lend perfume to the gales, And the pale moon in heaven abiding, O'er midnight mists and mountains riding, Shines on the river, smoothly gliding Through quiet dales,
'I wander there in solitude, Charmed by the chiming music rude Of streams that fret and flow. For by that eddying stream SHE stood, On such a night I trow: For HER the thorn its breath was lending, On this same tide HER eye was bending, And with its voice HER voice was blending Long, long ago.
Wild stream! I walk by thee once more, I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar, I hear thy waters moan, And night-winds sigh from shore to shore, With hushed and hollow tone; But breezes on their light way winging, And all thy waters heedless singing, No more to me are gladness bringing-- I am alone.
'Years after years, their swift way keeping, Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping, Are lost for aye, and sped-- And Death the wintry soil is heaping As fast as flowers are shed. And she who wandered by my side, And breathed enchantment o'er thy tide, That makes thee still my friend and guide-- And she is dead.'
These lines I have transcribed in order to prove a point which I haveheard denied, namely, that an Irish peasant--for their author was nomore--may write at least correctly in the matter of measure, language,and rhyme; and I shall add several extracts in further illustration ofthe same fact, a fact whose assertion, it must be allowed, mayappear somewhat paradoxical even to those who are acquainted, thoughsuperficially, with Hibernian composition. The rhymes are, it must begranted, in the generality of such productions, very latitudinarianindeed, and as a veteran votary of the muse once assured me, dependwholly upon the wowls (vowels), as may be seen in the following stanzaof the famous 'Shanavan Voicth.'
'"What'll we have for supper?" Says my Shanavan Voicth; "We'll have turkeys and roast BEEF, And we'll eat it very SWEET, And then we'll take a SLEEP," Says my Shanavan Voicth.'
But I am desirous of showing you that, although barbarisms may and doexist in our native ballads, there are still to be found exceptionswhich furnish examples of strict correctness in rhyme and metre. Whetherthey be one whit the better for this I have my doubts. In order toestablish my position, I subjoin a portion of a ballad by one MichaelFinley, of whom more anon. The GENTLEMAN spoken of in the song is LordEdward Fitzgerald.
'The day that traitors sould him and inimies bought him, The day that the red gold and red blood was paid-- Then the green turned pale and thrembled like the dead leaves inAutumn, And the heart an' hope iv Ireland in the could grave waslaid.
'The day I saw you first, with the sunshine fallin' round ye, My heart fairly opened with the grandeur of the view: For ten thousand Irish boys that day did surround ye, An' I swore to stand by them till death, an' fight for you.
'Ye wor the bravest gentleman, an' the best that ever stood, And your eyelid never thrembled for danger nor for dread, An' nobleness was flowin' in each stream of your blood-- My bleasing on you night au' day, an' Glory be your bed.
'My black an' bitter curse on the head, an' heart, an' hand, That plotted, wished, an' worked the fall of this Irish herobold; God's curse upon the Irishman that sould his native land, An' hell consume to dust the hand that held the thraitor'sgold.'
Such were the politics and poetry of Michael Finley, in his day,perhaps, the most noted song-maker of his country; but as genius isnever without its eccentricities, Finley had his peculiarities, andamong these, perhaps the most amusing was his rooted aversion to pen,ink, and paper, in perfect independence of which, all his compositionswere completed. It is impossible to describe the jealousy with whichhe regarded the presence of writing materials of any kind, and his everwakeful fears lest some literary pirate should transfer his oral poetryto paper--fears which were not altogether without warrant, inasmuch asthe recitation and singing of these original pieces were to him a sourceof wealth and importance. I recollect upon one occasion his detecting mein the very act of following his recitation with my pencil and I shallnot soon forget his indignant scowl, as stopping abruptly in the midstof a line, he sharply exclaimed:
'Is my pome a pigsty, or what, that you want a surveyor's ground-plan ofit?'
Owing to this absurd scruple, I have been obliged, with one exception,that of the ballad of 'Phaudhrig Crohoore,' to rest satisfied with suchsnatches and fragments of his poetry as my memory could bear away--afact which must account for the mutilated state in which I have beenobliged to present the foregoing specimen of his composition.
It was in vain for me to reason with this man of metres upon theunreasonableness of this despotic and exclusive assertion of copyright.I well remember his answer to me when, among other arguments, I urgedthe advisability of some care for the permanence of his reputation, as amotive to induce him to consent to have his poems written down, and thusreduced to a palpable and enduring form.
'I often noticed,' said he, 'when a mist id be spreadin', a littlebrier to look as big, you'd think, as an oak tree; an' same way, in thedimmness iv the nightfall, I often seen a man tremblin' and crassin'himself as if a sperit was before him, at the sight iv a small thornbush, that he'd leap over with ase if the daylight and sunshine was init. An' that's the rason why I think it id be better
for the likes iv meto be remimbered in tradition than to be written in history.'
Finley has now been dead nearly eleven years, and his fame has notprospered by the tactics which he pursued, for his reputation, sofar from being magnified, has been wholly obliterated by the mists ofobscurity.
With no small difficulty, and no inconsiderable manoeuvring, I succeededin procuring, at an expense of trouble and conscience which you will nodoubt think but poorly rewarded, an accurate 'report' of one of his mostpopular recitations. It celebrates one of the many daring exploits ofthe once famous Phaudhrig Crohoore (in prosaic English, Patrick Connor).I have witnessed powerful effects produced upon large assemblies byFinley's recitation of this poem which he was wont, upon pressinginvitation, to deliver at weddings, wakes, and the like; of course thepower of the narrative was greatly enhanced by the fact that many of hisauditors had seen and well knew the chief actors in the drama.
'PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE.
Oh, Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, And he stood six foot eight, And his arm was as round as another man's thigh, 'Tis Phaudhrig was great,-- And his hair was as black as the shadows of night, And hung over the scars left by many a fight; And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eye like the lightnin' from under the cloud. And all the girls liked him, for he could spake civil, And sweet when he chose it, for he was the divil. An' there wasn't a girl from thirty-five undher, Divil a matter how crass, but he could come round her. But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, but one Was the girl of his heart, an' he loved her alone. An' warm as the sun, as the rock firm an' sure, Was the love of the heart of Phaudhrig Crohoore; An' he'd die for one smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, For his love, like his hatred, was sthrong as the lion.
'But Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well As he hated Crohoore--an' that same was like hell. But O'Brien liked HIM, for they were the same parties, The O'Briens, O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, and Cartys-- An' they all went together an' hated Crohoore, For it's many the batin' he gave them before; An' O'Hanlon made up to O'Brien, an' says he: "I'll marry your daughter, if you'll give her to me." And the match was made up, an' when Shrovetide came on, The company assimbled three hundred if one: There was all the O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, an' Cartys, An' the young boys an' girls av all o' them parties; An' the O'Briens, av coorse, gathered strong on day, An' the pipers an' fiddlers were tearin' away; There was roarin', an' jumpin', an' jiggin', an' flingin', An' jokin', an' blessin', an' kissin', an' singin', An' they wor all laughin'--why not, to be sure?-- How O'Hanlon came inside of Phaudhrig Crohoore. An' they all talked an' laughed the length of the table, Atin' an' dhrinkin' all while they wor able, And with pipin' an' fiddlin' an' roarin' like tundher, Your head you'd think fairly was splittin' asundher; And the priest called out, "Silence, ye blackguards, agin!" An' he took up his prayer-book, just goin' to begin, An' they all held their tongues from their funnin' and bawlin', So silent you'd notice the smallest pin fallin';
An' the priest was just beg'nin' to read, whin the door Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore-- Oh! Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, Ant he stood six foot eight, An' his arm was as round as another man's thigh, 'Tis Phaudhrig was great-- An' he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye, As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky, An' none sthrove to stop him, for Phaudhrig was great, Till he stood all alone, just apposit the sate Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, Were sitting so illigant out side by side; An' he gave her one look that her heart almost broke, An' he turned to O'Brien, her father, and spoke, An' his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong, and loud, An' his eye shone like lightnin' from under the cloud: "I didn't come here like a tame, crawlin' mouse, But I stand like a man in my inimy's house; In the field, on the road, Phaudhrig never knew fear, Of his foemen, an' God knows he scorns it here;
So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four, To spake to the girl I'll never see more." An' to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone, For he thought of the days when he called her his own, An' his eye blazed like lightnin' from under the cloud On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud, An' says he: "Kathleen bawn, is it thrue what I hear, That you marry of your free choice, without threat or fear? If so, spake the word, an' I'll turn and depart, Chated once, and once only by woman's false heart." Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl dumb, An' she thried hard to spake, but the words wouldn't come, For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her, Wint could on her heart as the night wind in winther. An' the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin' to flow, And pale was her cheek as the moonshine on snow; Then the heart of bould Phaudhrig swelled high in its place, For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face,
That though sthrangers an' foemen their pledged hands mightsever, Her true heart was his, and his only, for ever. An' he lifted his voice, like the agle's hoarse call, An' says Phaudhrig, "She's mine still, in spite of yez all!" Then up jumped O'Hanlon, an' a tall boy was he, An' he looked on bould Phaudhrig as fierce as could be, An' says he, "By the hokey! before you go out, Bould Phaudhrig Crohoore, you must fight for a bout." Then Phaudhrig made answer: "I'll do my endeavour," An' with one blow he stretched bould O'Hanlon for ever. In his arms he took Kathleen, an' stepped to the door; And he leaped on his horse, and flung her before; An' they all were so bother'd, that not a man stirred Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard. Then up they all started, like bees in the swarm, An' they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm, An' they roared, and they ran, and they shouted galore; But Kathleen and Phaudhrig they never saw more.
'But them days are gone by, an' he is no more; An' the green-grass is growin' o'er Phaudhrig Crohoore, For he couldn't be aisy or quiet at all; As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall. And he took a good pike--for Phaudhrig was great-- And he fought, and he died in the year ninety-eight. An' the day that Crohoore in the green field was killed, A sthrong boy was sthretched, and a sthrong heart was stilled.'
It is due to the memory of Finley to say that the foregoing ballad,though bearing throughout a strong resemblance to Sir Walter Scott's'Lochinvar,' was nevertheless composed long before that spiritedproduction had seen the light.
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