Irish War Ballads - College of Charleston · PDF fileIrish War Ballads Romanticizing Rebellion, 1800!1982 ... Thy songs were made for the pure and free, ... though it made a great

Irish War BalladsRomanticizing Rebellion, 1800-1982

Monday, May 25, 2015

Enlightenment Rhetoric

• We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.


What document did that quotation come from?

• A: U. S. Constitution

• B: French Republic’s Rights of Man

• C: U. S. Declaration of Independence

• D: Gettysburgh Address


Robert Emmett and the romance of the lost cause

• I am going to my cold and silent grave: my lamp of life is nearly extinguished: my race is run: the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom! I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world . . . [W]hen my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done.

The execution of Robert Emmett, 1803


Thomas Moore1779-1852

• Romantic Poet

• Friend of Lord Byron

• Irish Melodies, 1808

• lyrics set to traditional airs


The Minstrel

BoyThe 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,"Tho' 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 chainCould 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 brav'ry!Thy songs were made for the pure and free,They shall never sound in slavery!"


In Ireland, the color orange represents

A: Nationalists

B: Catholics

C: United Irishmen

D: Unionists


“The Old Orange Flute”

In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon,Where many the ructions meself had a hand in.Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade,And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade,On the Twelfth of July as it yearly did come,Bob played with his flute to the sound of a drumYou may talk of your harp, your piano or lute,But none can compare with the Old Orange Flute.

Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in;He married a Papist named Bridget McGinn.Turned Papist himself and forsook the old causeThat gave us our freedom, religion and laws.Now, boys of the townland made some noise upon it,And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught.He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot,And along with the latter his Old Orange Flute.

At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds,He'd say Pater and Aves and counted his brown beads.'Til after some time, at the priest's own desireHe went with that old flute to play in the choir.He went with that old flute for to play for the Mass,But the instrument shivered and sighed, oh, alas,And try though he would, though it made a great noise,The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys."

Bob jumped and he stared and got in a flutterAnd threw the old flute in the blessed holy water.He thought that this charm would bring some other sound;When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down."Now, for all he could whistle and finger and blow,To play Papish music he found it no go."Kick the Pope" and "The Boyne Water" it freely would sound,But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found.

At the council of priests that was held the next dayThey decided to banish the old flute away.They couldn't knock heresy out of it's head,So they bought Bob a new one to play in it's stead.'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as a heretic.As the flames soared around it, they heard a strange noise;'Twas the old flute still whistling "The Protestant Boys.""Toora lu, toora lay,Oh, it's six miles from Bangor to Donnahadee."


Age of O’Connell

Catholic Emancipation (1829)

Attempts to Repeal the Union (1840s)

Committed to non-violence


Arthur McBride, 1840

Now the Sergeant did say, "If I hear one more word,I instantly now will out with me own sword,And into your bodies as strength will afford,And so my gay devils take warning."

But Arthur and I we counted the odds,And we barely gave them chance to draw their own blades,With our trusty shillelaghs came over their heads,And we paid them right smart in the morning.

As for the old rapiers that hung by their sides,We flung them as far as we could in the tide,"Now take that ye Devils," cries Arthur McBride,"And temper your steel in the morning."

As for the wee drummer, we rifled his pouch,And made a football of his row-dee-dow-dow,Into the ocean for draken to roll,And we bade it a tedious returnin'.

Twas me and me cousin one Arthur McBride,As we went a walkin' down by the seaside;In search of good fortune and what may betide,The day was Christmas morning.

Twas me and me cousin one Arthur McBride,As we went a walkin' down by the seaside;We met Sergeant Upper and Corporal Pride,The day was Christmas morning.

"Good morning, good morning," the sergeant did cry."And the same to you gentlemen," we did reply.Intending no harm we just meant to pass byThe day being pleasant and charming.

He says "my young fellows if you will enlist,A guinea you quickly will have in your fist.A crown in the bargain, to kick up the dust,And to drink the King's health in the morning

For a soldier he leads a very fine life,And he always is blessed with a charming young wife,

And he pays all his debts without sorrow or strife,

And sup on thin gruel in the morning."

Says Arthur, "I wouldn't be proud of your clothes,

For you've only the lend of them, as I suppose,

And you dare not change them one night or you know

If you do you'll be flogged in the morning.

And we have no desire to take your advance,

All hazards and danger, we'll not take the chance,

That ye'd have no scruples to send us to France,

Where ye know we'd be shot in the mornin'."


My Dark RosaleenAll day long, in unrest, To and fro, do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen; 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen!

Aisling tradition


Young IrelandO, the Erne shall run red, With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal and slogan-cry Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgement Hour must first be nigh, Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen!


The Croppy Boy

"Good men and true! In this house who dwell,To a stranger bouchal, I pray you tellIs the priest at home? Or may he be seen?I would speak a word with Father Green."

"The Priest's at home, boy and may be seen;'Tis easy speaking with Father Green;But you must wait 'till I go and seeIf the holy father alone may be."

"At the siege of Ross did my father fall,And at Gorey my living brothers all;I alone am left of my name and race,I will go to Wexford and take their place.

I cursed three times since Easter day -At mass-time once I went to play;I passed the churchyard one day in haste,And forgot to pray for my mother's rest.

The youth has entered an empty hall What a lonely sound has his light footfall!And the gloomy chamber's still and

bare,With a vested Priest in a lonely chair.

The youth has knelt to tell his sins:"Nomine Dei," the youth begins;At "mea culpa" he beats his breast,And in broken murmurs he speaks

the rest.

I bear no hate against living thing;But I love my country above my King.Now, Father! Bless me and let me goTo die, if God has ordained it so."

The Priest said nought, but a rustling noiseMade the youth look up in wild surprise:The robes were off, and in scarlet thereSat a yeoman captain with a fiery glare.

With fiery glare and with fury hoarse,Instead of blessing he breathed a curse -'Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive,for one short hour is your time to live.

Upon yon river three tenders float,the Priest's in one if he isn't shot -we hold his house for our Lord and King,and amen say I, may all traitors swing!"

At Geneva Barrack that young man died,And at Passae they have his body laidGood people who live in peace and joy,Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy Boy.


“The Rising of the Moon” (1866)John Keegan Casey, A Wreath of

ShamrocksO then, tell me Sean O'Farrell,

tell me why you hurry so?"Hush a bhuachaill, hush and listen",

and his cheeks were all aglow,

"I bear orders from the captain:- get you ready quick and soon

For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon"

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon,

For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon

"O then tell me Sean O'Farrell

where the gath'rin is to be?""In the old spot by the river,

right well known to you and me.

One more word for signal token:- whistle up a marchin' tune,

With your pike upon your shoulder, by the rising of the moon.”

Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night,

Many a manly heart was beatin, for the coming morning light.

Murmurs ran along the valleys to the banshee's lonely croon

And a thousand pikes were flashing at the rising of the moon.

All along that singing river

that black mass of men were seen,High above their shining weapons

flew their own beloved green.

"Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! Strike the marching tune."

And hurrah my boys for freedom; 'tis the rising of the moon".

Well they fought for poor old Ireland,

and full bitter was their fate,Oh what glorious pride and sorrow,

fills the name of ninety-eight!

Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating hearts in manhood burning noon,

Who would follow in their footsteps, at the risin' of the moon



Whack-fol-the-DiddleI'll tell you a tale of peace and love,Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do dayOf the land that reigns all lands above,Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do day

May peace and plenty be her shareWho kept our homes from want and care,Oh, God bless England is our prayer,Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do day

famine village, circa 1840s

Now our fathers oft were naughty boys,Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do dayFor pikes and guns are dangerous toys,Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do day

At Bally... and Bunker's HillWe made poor England cry her fill,But old Brittania loves us still!Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do day Bunker Hill

Now when we were savage, fierce, and wild,Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do dayShe came as a mother to her child,Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do day

Gently raised us from the slime,And kept our hands from hellish crime,And she sent us to heaven in her own good time!Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do day

Now Irish men forget the pastWhack fol the diddle o' the dye do dayAnd think of the day that's coming fastWhack fol the diddle o' the dye do day

When we shall all be civilized,Neat and clean, and well-advised,Oh won't mother England be surprised!Whack fol the diddle o' the dye do day



Circa Irish Land League,

1881

Colonial Discourse

the way colonizers habitually represent “natives” and themselves in their cultural products


Irish War Ballads - College of Charleston · PDF fileIrish War Ballads Romanticizing Rebellion, 1800!1982 ... Thy songs were made for the pure and free, ... though it made a great

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