Ireland, as a land, is living proof that the soul of a nation is not judged by its size: for this small island has greatly exceeded its quota of courage and inspiration through the course of its mesmerizing and troubled history. A land of mystical beliefs and legends; ancient Celtic lore and devout Christian faith; impassioned and tender love; poetry, song, and letters beyond its rightful dimensions; laughter and a sense of outrage, rebellion when called for, no matter what the odds; high spirits and sometimes high ideals - Ireland is a giant among the small countries of the earth. Compelling glimpses of this spirit can be found in the words and melodies of its traditional music. Following, are some samples of that wealth. For a more expansive inventory, see http://celtic-lyrics.com/lyrics/
Notes: The lyrics of traditional songs vary greatly from performer to performer: there is a general repertoire, with an ensuing pattern of missing verses, added verses, and altered words, so that what is presented here are basic texts within the standard borders of how these songs have come down to us through time. Samples of romantic/love songs are included, bits of Irish humor, and stories of rebels and outlaws (not always clearly separate categories in a land where authority was often associated with laws imposed and enforced by invaders). On the whole, not too much explanation of these songs is needed, they are readily comprehensible and understood by the human spirit. In the case of "The Wild Colonial Boy", it may be said that the Irish-British struggle no doubt remained in the psyche of this Irish transplant to the British colony of Australia, and that his outlawry in Australia could easily be romanticized by admirers of Irish extraction, who were living in that continent. "The Foggy Dew" is the story of a political rebellion in 1916 of Irish patriots against the British occupiers. For a brief period of time, they held their own in Dublin, until overwhelmed by superior force; and yet, as their leader Padraic Pearse had hoped, the sacrifice of the brave, doomed men who gave their lives in that gallant struggle, reanimated the Irish quest for freedom, which finally bore fruit with the establishment of a free Irish Republic in 1925 (minus "the North", which remained more closely linked to, and supported by, Britain). This song is a homage to the Irish freedom fighters who fell during that Easter Rebellion, as it was called, as well as to the young Irish men who were used by the British, in World War One, to fight on behalf of the British Empire while their own land lay in chains: many of these young men died during the ill-fated British invasion of Turkey.
Words to "The Minstrel Boy", an Irish classic, are by Thomas Moore (1779-1852), not to be confused, of course, with Sir Thomas More.
"Fionn and the Fian" is my own brief tribute to a facet of ancient Irish history, presented mainly through the words of Seumas MacManus (see below). I think you will see how it ties in with the spirit and issues pervading some of the songs you will find here.
The sampler nears its end with a poem by Ethna Carbery, a lover of Irish culture, with dreams of Irish freedom running through her veins. As Seumas MacManus writes in his wonderful book, The Story Of The Irish Race: "mo chraoibhin cno" (words in Gaelic) is "pronounced 'mo chreeveen no', 'my cluster of nuts' - my brown-haired girl, i.e., Ireland. During our many dark ages when it was treason for our singers to sing of Ireland, the olden poets sang of, and to, their beloved, under many such endearing and figurative titles." (p. 723) [Gaelic, of course, was the original language of Ireland, and a beautiful one to hear spoken aloud if you are lucky enough to find someone who knows it.]
Following is a small historical piece on the Celtic troscad, which I have included to balance out the picture of Ireland's Celtic past, as represented by the Fenians. I have also used this section to speak briefly on the struggle in the north of Ireland, which has produced a large repertoire of songs not yet in the public domain. I end this sampler with a prayer for peace.
Without further adieu, I invite you to step through this door of song, into one little room of the great house that is the Irish heart.
Fionn And the Fian (A Bit Of History)
Mo Chraoibhin Cno (By Ethna Carbery)
The Legacy Of The Celtic Troscad (A Second Bit Of History)
Gypsy rover, come over the hill, down through the valley so shady
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang and he won the heart of a lady
Ah dee doo ah dee doo da day, ah dee doo ah dee day dee
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang
And he won the heart of a lady
She left her fathers castle gate, she left her own fine lover
She left her servants and her estate, to follow the gypsy rover
Ah dee doo ah dee doo da day, ah dee doo ah dee day dee
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang
And he won the heart of a lady
Her father saddled up his fastest steed, and roamed the valleys all over
He sought his daughter with great speed and the whistling gypsy rover
Ah dee doo ah dee doo da day, ah dee doo ah dee day dee
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang
And he won the heart of a lady
He came at last to a mansion fine, down by the river Clady
And there was music and there was wine, for the gypsy and his lady
Ah dee doo ah dee doo da day, ah dee doo ah dee day dee
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang
And he won the heart of a lady
He is no gypsy, my father, she said, but lord of these lands all over
And I will stay til my dying day, with my whistling gypsy rover
Ah dee doo ah dee doo da day, ah dee doo ah dee day dee
He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang
And he won the heart of a lady
Oh the summertime is coming and the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather
Will ye go lassie go?
And we'll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme all around the blooming heather
Will ye go lassie go?
I will build my love a tower near yon pure crystal fountain
And on it I will build all the flowers of the mountain
Will ye go lassie go?
And we'll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme all around the blooming heather
Will ye go lassie go?
If my true love she were gone I would surely find another
Where wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather
Will ye go lassie go ?
And we'll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme all around the blooming heather
Will ye go lassie go?
Oh the summertime is coming and the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather
Will ye go lassie go?
And we'll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme all around the blooming heather
Will ye go lassie go?
As I walked out one morning, all in the month of May
down by a flower garden I carelessly did stray
I overheard a young maid, In sorrow did complain
all for her absent lover, who plows the ranging main
I boldly stepped up to her, and put her in surprise -
I know she did not know me, I being in disguise
I says, "Me charming creature, my joy, my heart's delight
How far have you to travel, this dark and dreary night?"
"I'm in search of a faithless young man; Johnny is his name -
and along the Banks of Claudy, I'm told he does remain"
"This is the Banks of Claudy, fair maid, where on you stand
But don't depend on Johnny, for he's a false young man -
Oh, don't depend on Johnny, for he'll not meet you here -
but tarry with me in yon green woods, no danger need you fear
Oh, it's six long weeks or better since Johnny left the shore
He's crossing the wild ocean, where the foam and the billows roar
He's crossing the wild ocean for honour and for fame -
but this I've heard: the ship was wrecked all on the coast of Spain"
Oh, it's when she heard this dreadful news, she flew into despair -
by the wringing of her milk white hands, and the tearing of her hair
Saying, "If Johnny he be drowned, no man on earth I'll take -
but through lonesome groves and valleys, I'll wander for his sake"
Oh, it's when he saw her loyalty, no longer could he stand
He flew into her arms saying, "Betsy I'm the man"
Saying, "Betsy I'm the young man, the cause of all your pain -
but since we've met on Claudy Banks, we'll never part again"
What shall we do with the drunken
sailor
What shall we do with the drunken sailor
What shall we do with the drunken
sailor
early in the morning ?
Put him in the bed with the captain`s daughter
Put him in the bed with the captain`s daughter
Put him in the bed with the captain`s daughter
early in the morning
Put him in scupper with the horsepipe on him
Put him in scupper with the horsepipe on him
Put him in scupper with the horsepipe on him
early in the morning
Hoist him aboard with a running bowline
Hoist him aboard with a running bowline
Hoist him aboard with a running bowline
early in the morning
Put him in the brig until he`s sober
Put him in the brig until he`s sober
Put him in the brig until he`s sober
early in the morning
Well, there was an old woman from Wexford, in Wexford she did dwell
She loved her husband dearly but another man twice as well
With me tiggery tiggery toram and me toram toram ta
One day she went to the doctor, some medicine for to find
She said: Will ye give me something that'll make me old man blind?
With me tiggery tiggery toram and me toram toram ta
Said he: Give him eggs and marrow bones and make him sup 'em all
And it won't be so very long after that, that he won't see you at all
With me tiggery tiggery toram and me toram toram ta
So she fed him the eggs and marrow bones and she made him sup 'em all
And it wasn't so very long after that he couldn't see the wall
With me tiggery tiggery toram and me toram toram ta
Said th'ol man: I'd go and drown meself, but that might be a sin
Said she: I'll come to the water's edge, and I'll help to shove you in
With me tiggery tiggery toram and me toram toram ta
Well the old woman went back a bit for to rush an' push him in
But the old man lightly stepped aside and she went tumblin' in
With me tiggery tiggery toram and me toram toram ta
Oh, how loudly she did yell and how loudly she did bawl
Hold your fish, woman, said he, but I can't see you at all
With me tiggery tiggery toram and me toram toram ta
Well feed him eggs and eggs and marrow bones will make your old man blind
But if you want to drown him, you must creep up from behind
With me tiggery tiggery toram and me toram toram ta
See the fleet foot host of men, that speak with faces one
From farmstead and from fishers cot, along the banks of Bann
They come with vengeance in their eyes, but too late, too late are they
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today
Up the narrow street he steps smiling, proud and young
About the hemp rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung
There was never a tear in his blue eyes, both sad and bright are they
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today
When he last stepped up that street, was with shining pike in hand
Behind him marched in grim array, a stalwart, earnest band
For Antrim town, for Antrim town, he led them to the fray
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today
There was never a one of all your dead, more bravely fell in fray
Than he who marches to his fate on the bridge of Toome today
True to the last, true to the last, he treads the upward way
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today
'Tis of a brave young highwayman this story I will tell
His name was Willie Brennan and in Ireland he did dwell
It was on the Kilwood Mountains he commenced his wild career
And many a wealthy nobleman before him shook with fear
And it's Brennan on the moor, Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted was young Brennan on the moor
One day upon the highway, as Willie he went down
He met the Mayor of Cashell a mile outside the town
The mayor he knew his features, he said: "Young man", said he
"Your name is Willie Brennan, you must come along with me"
And it's Brennan on the moor, Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted was young Brennan on the moor
Now Brennan's wife had gone to town, provisions for to buy
And when she saw her Willie, she commenced to weep and cry
He said: "Hand to me that tenpenny", as soon as Willie spoke
She handed him a blunderbuss from underneath her cloak
And it's Brennan on the moor, Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted was young Brennan on the moor
Now with this loaded blunderbuss, the truth I will unfold
He made the mayor to tremble, and he robbed him of his gold
One hundred pounds was offered for his apprehension there
So he, with horse and saddle, to the mountains did repair
And it's Brennan on the moor, Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted was young Brennan on the moor
Now Brennan being an outlaw upon the mountains high
With cavalry and infantry, to take him they did try
He laughed at them with scorn until at last, 'twas said
By a false-hearted woman he was cruelly betrayed
And 'twas Brennan on the moor, Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted was young Brennan on the moor
There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Duggan was his name
He was born and raised in Ireland, in a place called Castlemaine
He was his father's only son, his mother's pride and joy
And dearly did his parents love the wild colonial boy
At the early age of sixteen years he left his native home
And to Australia's sunny shore, he was inclined to roam
He robbed the rich, he helped the poor, he shot James MacEvoy
A terror to Australia was, the wild colonial boy
One morning on the prairie, as Jack he rode along
A-listening to the mocking bird, a-singing a cheerful song
Up stepped a band of troopers: Kelly, Davis and Fitzroy
They all set out to capture him, the wild colonial boy
Surrender now, Jack Duggan, for you see we're three to one
Surrender in the King's high name, you are a plundering son
Jack drew two pistols from his belt, and proudly waved them high
I'll fight, but not surrender, said the wild colonial boy
He fired a shot at Kelly, which brought him to the ground
But turning round to Davis, he received a fatal wound
A bullet pierced his proud young heart, from the pistol of Fitzroy
And that was how they captured him, the wild colonial boy
As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I
There Armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by
No fife did hum nor battle drum did sound it's dread tattoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell rang out through the foggy dew
Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Seddel Bahr
And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through
While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy
dew
'Twas Britannia bade our Wild Geese go that small nations might be free
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the shore of the Great North Sea
But had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Valera so true
Their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep 'neath the hills of the foggy
dew
But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide in the springtime of the year
And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew
The Minstrel Boy (By Thomas Moore)
The minstrel boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you will find him
His father's sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard
"Though all the world betrays thee
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain
Could not bring that proud soul under
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again
For he tore its chords asunder
And said "No chains shall sully thee
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!"
"O Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground!
No more Saint Patrick's Day we'll keep, his color can't be seen
For there's a cruel law ag'in the Wearin' o' the Green."
I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?"
"She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they're hanging men and women there for the Wearin' o' the Green."
"So if the color we must wear be England's cruel red
Let it remind us of the blood that Irishmen have shed;
And pull the shamrock from your hat, and throw it on the sod
But never fear, 'twill take root there, though underfoot 'tis trod.
When laws can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow
And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show,
Then I will change the color too I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I'll stick to the Wearin' o' the Green."
Oh come tell me Sean O'Farrell tell me why you hurry so
Husha buachaill hush and listen, and his cheeks were all a-glow
I bear orders from the captain get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon
And come tell me Sean O'Farrell where the gathering is to be
At that old spot by the river quite well known to you and me
One more word for signal token, whistle out the marching tune
With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon
At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon
With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon
Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed warning light
Murmurs rang along the valley to the banshees' lonely croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
A thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen
High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green
Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon
'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon
The history of Irish courage is long. At a point where legend and history meet, back in the mists of Ireland's youth, the groundwork of future struggles was laid with the cultivation of a noble warrior spirit through the construction of the Fian, or Fenians - a body of fighters raised by Fionn MacCumail in the 3rd century AD to defend Ireland from the threat of Roman invaders, as well as to maintain peace internally amidst the clamor and strife of local lords and kings. These Fenians were "to uphold justice and put down injustice, on the part of the kings and lords of Ireland - and to guard the harbors from foreign invaders." Recruited at the great fairs, they were carefully chosen and trained.
Seumas MacManus writes, in "The Story Of The Irish Race" (p. 66):
"Many and hard were the tests for him who sought to be of the noble body.
"One of the first tests was literary: for no candidate was possible who had not mastered the twelve books of poetry. With this condition in mind one will no longer wonder that the Fian bequeathed to posterity ten thousand fragrant tales.
"In a trench, the depth of the knee, the candidate, with a shield and hazel staff only, must protect himself from nine warriors, casting javelins at him from nine ridges away.
"Given the start of a single tree, in a thick wood, he has to escape unwounded from fleet pursuers.
"So skilful must he be in wood-running, and so agile, that in the flight no single braid of his hair is loosed by a hanging branch.
"His step must be so light that underfoot he breaks no withered branch.
"In his course he must bound over branches the height of his forehead, and stoop under others the height of his knee, without delaying, or leaving a trembling branch behind.
"Without pausing in his flight he must pick from his foot the thorn that it has taken up.
"In facing the greatest odds the weapon must not shake in his hand.
"When a candidate had passed the tests, and was approved as fit for this heroic band, there were four geasa (vows of chivalry) laid upon him, as the final condition of his admission:
"1. He shall marry his wife without portion - choosing her for her manners and her virtues.
"2. He shall be gentle with all women.
"3. He shall never reserve to himself anything which another person stands in need of.
"4. He shall stand fight to all odds, as far as nine to one."
Of course, the truth became embellished with legend: myth and fact mixed together, in wondrous tales that some likened to the tales of Arthur and his circle of knights. And yet, in spite of the exaggeration and fantasy, it must be noted that people's dreams and literary inventions often shelter and give birth to the aspirations which they live by, fully or at least in part. Something real was left behind by these half-truth Fenians: the impression of a spirit of high-mindedness and bravery that persisted, and gave strength to the battles of future Irishmen and women on their long and painful path to freedom. The modern nation of Ireland owes some measure of its very existence to the legacy of these heroic shadows.
Mo Chraoibhin Cno (By Ethna Carbery)
A Sword of Light hath pierced the dark! Our eyes have seen the Star!
Oh, Eire, leave the ways of sleep now days of promise are!
The rusty spears upon your walls are stirring to and fro,
In dreams they front uplifted shields - Then wake,
Mo Chraoibhin Cno!
The little waves creep whispering where sedges fold you in,
And round you are the barrows of your buried kith and kin;
Oh! famine-wasted, fever-burnt, they faded like the snow
Or set their hearts to meet the steel - for you,
Mo Chraoibhin Cno!
Their names are blest, their caoine sung, our bitter tears are dried;
We bury Sorrow in their graves, Patience we cast aside;
Within the gloom we hear a voice that once was ours to know -
'Tis Freedom - Freedom calling loud, Arise,
Mo Chraoibhin Cno!
Afar beyond that empty sea, on many a battle-place,
Your sons have stretched brave hands to Death before the foeman's face -
Down the sad silence of your rest their war-notes faintly blow,
And bear an echo of your name - of yours,
Mo Chraoibhin Cno!
Then wake, a gradh! We yet shall win a gold crown for your head
Strong wine to make a royal feast - the white wine and the red-
And in your oaken mether the yellow mead shall flow
What day you rise in all men's eyes - a Queen,
Mo Chraoibhin Cno!
The silver speech our fathers knew shall once again be heard;
The fire-lit story, crooning song, sweeter than lilt of bird;
Your quicken-tree shall break in flower, its ruddy fruit shall glow,
And the Gentle People dance beneath its shade -
Mo Chraoibhin Cno!
There shall be peace and plenty - the kindly open door;
Blessings on all who come and go - the prosperous or the poor -
The misty glens and purple hills a fairer tint shall show,
When your splendid sun shall ride the skies again -
Mo Chraoibhin Cno!
The Legacy Of The Celtic Troscad
As the Fenians and many ancient Celtic tales point to a deeply-imbedded Irish heritage of heroic combat in defense of homeland and principles, so this same Celtic lore also sheds light upon traditions of nonviolent resistance, based upon spiritual and moral power in the face of unjust oppression.
Ireland - long brutalized by English invasions and occupations (especially acute during the reign of Queen Elizabeth and during the days of Oliver Cromwell, but also catastrophically evident during the Great Famine, when Britain did not lift a finger to save the starving Irish who it had reduced to a state of abject poverty and vulnerability) - finally achieved independence in the 1920s. Independence was won through the use of force, spearheaded by the Irish Republican Army, a large and determined guerrilla army pitted against the British and their notorious auxiliaries, the "Black-and-Tans." The fierce nature of the war, and the high political cost to Britain of continuing to repress and mistreat a proud nation which had many friends, especially in America, an increasingly powerful country which had been built partly upon the heart and muscle of Irish immigrants, finally led to peace. However, as Britain "let go" of Ireland in the 1920s, it held onto the North, or a part of the North, which was later to become known as "Northern Ireland." This part of Ireland - which is a heavily Catholic country - was dominated by Protestants, descendants of colonists sent over from England and Scotland in years past, who were loyal to Britain and/or their own vision of who the North should serve. Ireland was thus partitioned, and the key dynamic in the North became the tension between Protestants and Catholics (whose identities were as much cultural as religious). While the Protestants feared ingestion by the Catholic South, and/or the dilution of their political power as the Catholics "bred like rabbits" and threatened to become the majority in the North - the Catholics longed to be reunited with their brothers in a single Ireland completely broken free of old colonial bonds; or, at the very least, to live without discrimination or disadvantage in the North. This tension led to conflict between Protestant and Catholic paramilitary groups.
In the 1960s, influenced by the successes of the civil rights movement in America, a major civil rights movement was begun in the North of Ireland, as marginalized Catholics fought to improve their situation and to shed their status as second-class citizens. However, the efforts of civil rights leaders to build an effective nonviolent movement in the North received severe setbacks due to the intensity of the Protestant reaction. On January 4, 1969, for example, a band of peaceful marchers was brutally ambushed near Burntollet Bridge on their way to Derry. Police assigned to protect them stood aside while Protestant attackers, including many out-of-uniform "B-Specials" (Protestant militiamen trained as a support force for the police), charged the demonstrators with iron bars, bottles, and clubs studded with nails, beating many close to death. That night, many policemen joined in with Protestant mobs to terrorize the Catholics in the Bogside part of Derry, breaking in windows, beating up Catholics wherever they found them, and threatening many others. On January 30, 1972, another peaceful march in Derry was interrupted, this time by British army troops who opened fire on the crowd, killing 14 (this massacre came to be known as "Bloody Sunday").
As events like this disillusioned those who sought peaceful solutions to the civil rights issues of Northern Ireland, there was a resurgence of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), long a defender and protector of Catholic neighborhoods from Protestant marauders who sought to use intimidation to keep the Catholic population of the region under control - and no doubt, also, to encourage Catholic emigration to the South, which would help to maintain the Protestants’ majority in the North. The IRA, swelled by new supporters who saw no chance for obtaining justice by means of peace, began to adopt more aggressive tactics, until a full-fledged guerrilla war was underway against the Protestant paramilitaries, the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary, or Northern Irish police force), and the British army, whose support was required by the government of Northern Ireland. The war was cruelly fought, on both sides, but the Protestant/British side, with its monopoly of official police, military, and legal power, was certainly capable of manifesting greater levels of harm. Curtailed rights, and numerous false arrests and questionable imprisonments, as well as the abuse of Irish prisoners, added fuel to the flames of the struggle.
As of today - February 2005 - the intensity of the conflict has subsided, and there is hope for peace, as hate has temporarily exhausted itself; have enough tears finally fallen to give the dove wings? It is, doubtless, too early to tell. Old wounds do not heal in a moment, and the quiet that sometimes seems to be peace is often only fallow time in the fields of war, growing strong enough, in silence, to bear new crops of pain. We will have to wait and see. But as one Irish song of hope says: "If you sow the seeds of justice, you'll reap the fruits of peace."
It is important to note, at this time, that though events of the late 60’s and early 70’s turned the Northern Irish struggle for justice down the road of violence, there is a long-standing Celtic legacy of peaceful fighting, as well as armed fighting - one we may hope will be drawn upon, if needed, to take care of any unfinished business in the North. For violence, ultimately, is not romantic, and the beauty of bravery is tarnished by the magnitude of the tragedy that is represented by the loss of even a single life.
In ancient days, transgressors of what were considered to be basic human and spiritual laws would be subjected to a fearsome reproach, cast upon them by the Druids, and known as the glam dicIn. It was a mixture of satire and magic spell meant to isolate, condemn, and ultimately destroy those who transgressed, while thinking themselves too powerful for any law to touch. Fear of it was one means of curbing the mighty, and preserving in the social fabric some elements above brute force.
As Peter Berresford Ellis writes in his excellent book, The Druids, which is simultaneously scholarly and intriguing: "Another method of exerting authority, available to all members of Celtic society, was the ritual fast - the troscad. As a legal form of redressing a grievance, this act emerged in the Brehon law system. That it was an ancient ritual can be demonstrated by the fact that it bears almost complete resemblance to the ancient Hindu custom of dharna. This custom is not only found in the Laws of Manu but as prayopavesana (‘waiting for death’), it occurs in ancient Vedic sources. Dr. Joyce saw the troscad as ‘identical with the eastern custom, and no doubt it was believed in pagan times to be attended by similar supernatural effects’; that is, that if the one fasted against ignores the person fasting then they would suffer fearful supernatural penalties. The troscad was the means of compelling justice and establishing one’s rights. Under law, the person wishing to compel justice had to notify the person they were complaining against and then would sit before their door and remain without food until the wrongdoer accepted the administration or arbitration of justice. ‘He who disregards the faster shall not be dealt with by God nor man… he forfeits his legal rights to anything according to the decision of the Brehon.’
"The troscad is referred to in the Irish sagas as well as laws and when Christianity displaced the pagan religion, the troscad continued. We find St. Caimin fasting against Guaire the Hospitable, St. Ronan fasting against Diarmuid, even Patrick himself fasting against several persons to compel them to justice. Some people even fasted against the saints themselves to get them to give justice and wives also fasted against their erring husbands.
"It is fascinating, as well as sad, that in the long centuries of England’s sorry relationship with Ireland, the Irish have continued a tradition of the troscad which has become the political hunger strike. One of the most notable Irish political hunger strikes was that of the Lord Mayor of Cork, Terence MacSwiney, also an elected Member of Parliament, who was arrested by the English administration in Cork City Hall and forcibly removed from Ireland to London’s Brixton Prison. He died in Brixton on 24 October 1920, on the seventy-fourth day of his hunger strike. He was, of course, not the first Irish political prisoner to die on hunger strike during this period. Thomas Ashe died as a result of forcible feeding on 25 September 1917. MacSwiney’s sacrifice was said to have inspired Mahatma Gandhi to revive the custom of dharna in India as a moral political weapon. In recent times, and perhaps better known, came the hunger strikes in Long Kesh prison camp in Northern Ireland, when in 1981, ten Irish political prisoners died on hunger strike in an attempt to force the administration to restore their rights as political prisoners, taken away from them in 1974. Among them was Bobby Sands, elected Member of the British Parliament, and Kieran Doherty, elected Member of the Irish Parliament. But these ten Irish prisoners were not the first to resort to the continuing tradition of the troscad in an attempt to assert their rights during the current struggle in the north of Ireland, nor the first to die on hunger strike. Frank Stagg, for example, died after a sixty day hunger strike in Wakefield Prison on 12 February 1976, trying to compel the reinstatement of recognition of special status withdrawn in 1974. The troscad was never entered into lightly and always with full knowledge of the seriousness of the final intent.
"The troscad in ancient times was the effective means of someone of lesser social position compelling justice from someone of higher social position. Thus Druids could fast against a king, or even a man or woman in the lower order of society could fast against their chieftain." (p 141-142)
The troscad, as Ellis states, has been no guarantee of justice in modern times. A moving song about one of the hunger strikers of 1981, Joe McDonnell, has been written by Brian Warfield ("Joe McDonnell"), but, as most songs dealing with the modern era of struggle in the North, it is not yet (and will not for sometime be) in the public domain. The song concludes (fair quote) with the following lines:
"May God shine on you, Bobby Sands
For the courage you have shown
May your glory and your fame be widely known
And Francis Hughes and Ray McCreesh
Who died unselfishly
And Patsy O’Hara, and the next in line is me
And those who lie behind me
May your courage be the same
And I pray to God my life is not in vain
"Ah, sad and bitter was the year of 1981
For everything I’ve lost and nothing’s won."
The strikers died, with no concessions. Another sad chapter in the book of courage, falling through the air.
Obviously, the troscad, extracted from its proper context - which is a society endowed with a comprehension of the fast’s moral weight, as well as with an underlying sense of justice, capable of being awakened by the bravery of real righteousness - is more a mechanism of self-destruction than one of liberation. Its limits are defined by the moral character of those who it is used to move. And as such, its power to take the place of violence in environments of intense repression is limited.
My point in mentioning the troscad, here, is not to foresee it as a solution to all future instances of injustice in Ireland, especially given its limitations, but to use this piece of history as a means of pointing out the character of the Celtic heart, which knows both the passions and anger of war, as well as the high courage of nonviolence, rooted deeply in values of justice and spiritual strength.
May the sun shine bloodlessly on the future of Ireland - may the path of courage not marred by the sword lead to days of freedom and kindness, where the true beauty of Ireland - the beauty of its singing soul and its love-seeking heart - will finally silence the need of its ancient war cries.
[Another beautiful song, once popular among Irish bands, which shows the Irish sensitivity towards war, and the power of the dream for peace, is "The Green Fields of France" (words by Eric Bogle). In telling the story of an Irish soldier who fell, fighting for Britain, in the "green fields of France" during World War One, it condemns the cruelty and horrific waste of war. It is not in the public domain, or I would lovingly place it here. Then there is also a song "The Sniper", about an Irish freedom-fighter who spares his enemy, when he confronts the humanity of the man he has just wounded. And should we count Bono, and his classic "Peace on Earth"? May these sentiments of compassion grow - on both sides of the gun - and peace come to the North, along with justice, no matter whether there is a border or not. No matter whether there is one peaceful Ireland, or two.]
Poetry In The Public Domain Contents