Songs of our land, ye are with us forever,
The power and the splendor of thrones pass away,
But yours is the might of some far flowing river
Through Summer’s bright roses and Autumn’s decay.
Ye treasure each voice of the swift passing ages
And truth, which time writeth on leaves or on sand,
Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and sages
And keep them among us, old Songs of Our Land.
(Frances Brown (1816-1879), The Blind Poetess of Stranorlar)
On Saturday, June 7th, Danielle Allison took Elizabeth Ursic and me to Knochcroghery for the monthly South Roscommon Singers Circle. It’s held in the back room of a tiny pub called Jimmy Murray’s. The seats around the perimeter of the room were filled when we arrived, so we pulled stools up to the outside of a couple of table and listened to the song in progress. They took a break shortly afterwards and Danielle told the emcee, Declan Coyne, that I would be happy to tell if he wanted me to.
When they started back up we heard a song or two and then Declan introduced me. I told “A Whole Brain,” a story from Kazakhstan of how storytellers came into the world. As I finished, I said “And that’s how singers like . . .” and I indicated their special guest singer. But as I started to point to the singer, Declan called out, “Vincent Pearse,” and that’s when I realized that Vincent, a local storyteller, was there and I said, “Yes, that’s how Vincent Pearse came to be here telling stories to us all.”
The evening was great we heard song after song, most of which I did not recognize. I did know a few, including “She Moved Through the Fair,” “The Patriot Game,” and “Dear Old Skibbereen.” Here are the first two stanzas of Skibbereen:
Oh father dear, I often hear you speak of Erin’s isle
Her lofty hills, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild
You say she is a lovely land wherein a saint might dwell
So why did you abandon her, the reason to me tell.
Oh son, I loved my native land with energy and pride
Until a blight came on the land, my sheep, my cattle died
My rent and taxes went unpaid, I could not them redeem
And that’s the cruel reason why I left old Skibbereen.
On the next break I got to talk with Vincent for a few minutes. I had heard him the first year I was here in a storytelling and music program at the Dean Crowe Theater in Athlone. He said he is doing quite a bit of telling throughout the country. I also visited with Declan who is the founder of the circle. He looked familiar to me, and Danielle confirmed later that I had met him and heard him sing at the Ballinasloe River and Arts Festival two years ago. He also organizes the South Roscommon Singers Festival and the “Annie McNulty Award," which recognizes significant contributions to the art of traditional singing.
I learned this about him from a book he authored called Alone by the Wildwood: A Roscommon Song Book. The book, which comes with a cd, includes lyrics and background information on songs that have come from Roscommon. I have the book because of the raffle that was held that evening. I didn’t actually win the book, but most of the people attending already had it. After the fourth or fifth try, someone said, “Just give it to the Americans.” I was delighted to get it.
Several people chose to tell stories or recite during the evening. Danielle did a nice job with the story of the thieves’ child who steals the midwife’s wedding ring. Vincent Pearse told a story about a man who married a bossy woman from America. She wants him to greet the priest in a very precise way which of course goes all wrong. Another man told a funny story about two men who see a man with a big salmon. He tells them he caught the fish by lowering himself over the bridge and waiting for a salmon to come by and then grabbing it with his hands. They like this idea, so they go to a bridge and the stronger one lowers the other one over the bridge by his ankles.
All of a sudden the one waiting to grab the fish says, “Bring me up! Bring me up!”
The other says, “Did you catch something?”
“No! There’s a train coming!”
We really enjoyed the evening. About midnight, someone came around with several baskets of chips and sausages and we dug in with everyone else. The only downside to the evening was the noisy drinkers in the front of the pub. Declan told me that the former owner, who passed away in January, would never have allowed the noise during a singing circle. When I was telling my second story, several people loudly shushed them.
I got the poem at the beginning from Declan’s book, Alone by the Wild Wood. The picture at the top is Danielle telling her story; Declan Coyne is at the far left. Below are the three of us outside the pub.
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