Songs Of The Old Sod- The Traditional Irish Singer/Storyteller Joe Heaney

Songs Of The Old Sod- The Traditional Irish Singer/Storyteller Joe Heaney

CD Review

The Road From Connemara: As Told To Peggy Seeger and Ewan MacColl, Joe Heaney, Topic Records, 2002


Over the past couple of years I have spilled plenty of ink harking back to the American side of the folk revival movement of the early 1960s in which a whole generation it seemed, the generation of my youth, could not get enough of traditional music from many different sources: the mountains of Virginia and Kentucky; the swamps and bayous of Louisiana; the Mississippi delta and the North Carolina piedmont to name a few. And as part of that revival, of course, a renewed interest in songs from the old country, Ireland, which formed the backbone along with England, Scotland and Wales of the core of many trans-Atlantic versions of old time music, especially from the Scotch- Irish who populated those eastern mountain regions.

Furthermore, I have recognized as part of that spilled ink on the subject of the folk revival the names of the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, and to a lesser extent, The Dubliners, as having been pivotal in the renewed interest in Irish music beyond the patented Saint Patrick’s Day classics of “My Wild Irish Rose and “Danny Boy” that were carted out every year on that date, at least here in the American Irish diaspora.

Of course, that input begs the question of where the lads mentioned above got their source music from, and that is where the likes of all-Irish champion a capella singer/storyteller Joe Heaney comes in, via a connection with some familiar names from the American folk scene, Peggy Seeger (fame folklorist Pete Seeger’s half-sister) and folk historian and songwriter Ewan MacColl. This compilation of songs and stories is an excellent primer for getting a handle on the music that our grandparents, or great-grandparents, heard and listened to back in the old country.

Moreover some of the songs are sung in Irish (a real treat and the source of some of Heaney’s best renditions on this compilation). There are songs of love, young and old, misused and abused love, laments for lost and couldn’t be love. Also the British occupation and what it did to the formation of the Irish psyche and the national liberation struggle as it was brought to fruition. Heaney does a great job as well of telling the stories behind many of the songs. So if you are a little behind in your knowledge of the Irish folk tradition, the real tradition, here is a way to catch up fast.

*Labor’s Untold Story- Reclaiming Our Labor History-The "Molly Mcguires" And The 19th Century Irish -American Struggle For Trade Unions

Click On Title To Link To A Wikipedia Entry For The Molly Maguires. Note, as always, with these entries on this site there can be problems with facts and political perspective.

Every Month Is Labor History Month.

This commentary is part of a series under the following general title: Labor’s Untold Story- Reclaiming Our Labor History In Order To Fight Another Day-And Win!

As a first run through, and in some cases until I can get enough other sources in order to make a decent presentation, I will start with short entries on each topic that I will eventually go into greater detail about. Or, better yet, take my suggested topic and run with it yourself.

The “Shame” Culture Of Poverty- Down In The Base Of Society Life Ain’t Pretty

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the late Irish-American writer and my muse on this post, Frank McCourt.

Peter Paul Markin comment:

A few years ago in reviewing Frank McCourt’s memoir of his childhood in Ireland, Angela’s Ashes, I noted that McCourt’s story was my story. I went on to explain that although time, geography, family composition and other factors were different, in some ways very different, the story that he told of the impoverished circumstances of his growing up “shanty” in Limerick, Ireland, taking all proportions into consideration, was amazingly similar to those I faced growing up “shanty” in a Boston, Massachusetts suburb, North Adamsville, a generation later. A recent re-reading of that work only confirms my previous appraisal. The common thread? Down at the base of modern industrial society, down at that place where the working poor meets what Karl Marx called the lumpenproletariat, the sheer fact of scarcity drives life very close to the bone. Poverty hurts, and hurts in more ways than are apparent to the eye. No Dorothea Lange Arkie/Okie Dust Bowl hollow-boned despair, hardship windowless, hell, door-less, hovel, no end in sight, no good end in sight photograph can find that place.

I also mentioned in that McCourt review that the dreams that came out of his Limerick childhood neighborhood, such as they were, were small dreams, very small steps up the mobility ladder from generation to generation. If that much, of step up that is. I immediately picked up on his references to what constituted “respectability” in that milieu- getting off the the soul-starving “dole” and getting a “soft” low-level governmental civil service job that after thirty some years would turn into a state pension in order to comfort oneself and one’s love ones in old age.

That, my friends, is a small dream by anybody’s standard but I am sure that any reader who grew up in a working poor home in America in the last couple of generations knows from where I speak. I can hear my mother’s voice urging me on to such a course as I have just described. The carping, “Why don’t you take the civil service exam?,” so on and so on. Escaping that white-walled nine-to-five, three-week vacation and a crooked back cubicle fate was a near thing though. The crushing out of big dreams for the working poor may not be the final indictment of what the capitalist system does to the denizens down at the base but it certainly will do for starters.

In the recent past one of the unintended consequences of trying to recount my roots through contacting members of my high school class, North Adamsville High School Class of 1964, has been the release of a flood of memories from those bleak days of childhood that I had placed (or thought I had placed) way, way on the back burner of my brain. A couple of year ago I did a series of stories, Tales From The ‘Hood', on some of those earlier recalled incidents. Frank McCourt’s recounting of some of the incidents of his bedraggled ragamuffin upbringing brought other incidents back to me. In Angela’s Ashes he mentioned how he had to wear the same shirt through thick and thin. As nightwear, school wear, every wear. I remember my own scanty wardrobe and recounted in one of those stories in the series, A Coming Of Age Story, about ripping up the bottoms of a pair of precious pants, denims of course, one of about three pair that I rotated until they turned to shreds in the course of time, for a square dance demonstration for our parents in order to ‘impress’ a girl that I was smitten with at Adamsville South Elementary School. I caught holy hell, serious holy hell for weeks afterwards, for that (and missed, due to my mother’s public rage in front of everybody, my big chance with the youthful stick girl “femme fatale” as well-oh memory).

I have related elsewhere in discussing my high school experiences as also noted in that series mentioned above that one of the hardships of high school was (and is) the need , recognized or not, to be “in.” One of the ways to be “in,” at least for a guy in my post-World War II generation, the “Generation of ’68,” and the first generation to have some disposable income in hand was to have cool clothes, a cool car, and a cool girlfriend. “Cool,” you get it, right? Therefore the way to be the dreaded “out” was to be ….well, you know that answer. One way not to be cool was to wear hand-me-downs from an older brother, an older brother who was build larger than you and you had to kind of tuck in that and roll up that. Or to wear, mother–produced from some recessive poverty gene Bargain Center midnight fire discount sale, oddly colored (like purple or vermillion) or designed (pin-striped then not in style or curly-cues never in style) clothes. This is where not having enough of life’s goods hurts. Being doled out a couple of new sets of duds a year was not enough to break my social isolation from the “cool guys.” I remember the routine even now-new clothes for the start of the school year and then at Easter. Cheap stuff too, from some Wal-Mart-type store, like the Bargain Center mentioned above, of the day.

Top this all off the dead weight of the Roman Catholic Church better doing in the next world piled, pig-piled on one’s “soul,” as if the “sin” of being poor in the world was that mortal sin that would preclude heaven’s gate, heaven’s gate at all. Or the almost as equally dead weight of those pious poor as church mice brethren who looked down from their one niche up perch at we raggedy shanties as they strove, usually unsuccessfully, to “better” themselves. But worst, worst that all that were the unacknowledged sneers when one passed the better sort, especially the girls. Ya, I know, know now, it wasn’t just poor and raggedy boys who took the snub but why didn’t somebody give me the word.

All of this may be silly, in fact is silly in the great scale of things. But those drummed-in small dreams, that non-existent access to those always scarce “cool” items, those missed opportunities by not being ‘right,’ meaning respectable, added up. All of this created a “world” where crime, petty and large, seemed respectable as an alternative (a course that my own brothers followed, followed unsuccessfully for life, and that I did for a minute), where the closeness of neighbors was suffocating and where the vaunted “neighborhood community” was more like something out of “the night of the long knives.” If, as Thomas Hobbes postulated in his political works, especially "Levithan," in the 17th century, life is “nasty, short and brutish” then those factors are magnified many times over down at the base.

Contrary to Hobbes, however, the way forward is through more social solidarity, not more guards at the doors of the rich. All of this by way of saying that in the 21st century we need that social solidarity not less but more than ever. As I stated once in a commentary that I titled, Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?, one of the only virtues of growing up on the wrong side of the tracks among the working poor is that I am personally inured to the vicissitudes of the gyrations of the world capitalist economy. Hard times growing up were the only times. But many of my brothers and sisters are not so inured. For them I fight for the social solidarity of the future. In that future we may not be able to eliminate shame as an emotion but we can put a very big dent in the class-driven aspect of it.

A Bit Of The “Odd Manner”- Irish Style- The Childhood Saga of Frank McCourt-“Angela’s Ashes” -In Honor Of Easter 1916

Click on the headline to link to an NPR entry on the passing of Irish-American author Frank McCourt On July 20, 2009

Book Review

Angela’s Ashes: A Memoir Of Childhood, Frank McCourt, Flamingo, London, 1997

Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes is probably the easiest review that I have had to write since I have been doing such reviews in this space. Why? Frank McCourt’s book of childhood memoirs is my story. No. Not in the details of his life’s story, or mine. But rather how the fact of being Irish, of being poor, and of being uprooted affected your childhood, and later times as well. And those traumas, for good or evil, crossed generational lines. McCourt, we are told as his story unfolds, was born in America of immigrants of the diaspora after Irish independence who, for one reason or another, returned to the old country in defeat in the 1930’s. As McCourt noted right at the beginning, that fact in itself provides a rather ironic twist if one is familiar with Irish history and the endless waves of migration (at least until very recently and now that has again been reversed with the latest “troubles”).

McCourt was, in any case, thus a child of the Great Depression and World War II, the generation of my parents, as it was refracted through Ireland during that period. I, on the other hand, am a child of the 1960’s, the “Generation of ‘68” here in America born of the dreaded Irish Catholic-English Protestant combination- and raised in an Irish Catholic enclave. Nevertheless the pages of this memoir are filled to the brim with the results of the emotional (and sometimes physical scars) of being “shanty” Irish (and decidedly not “lace curtain” or “chandelier,” the other “classes” of the dispensation) in this world that hit home, and hit home hard, to this reader.

That said, we do not share the terrible effect that “the drink” (nice way to put it, right) had on creating his dysfunctional family with his father’s, Malachi McCourt’s, crazed need for the alcohol “cure” in order to drown his sorrows and his bitternesses and the fact that his great moment in life, his "fifteen minutes offame" was his bit for “the cause” (of Irish independence). A familiar story in the Irish community here, and in the old country, but my father, my poor old shambles of a father, seldom drank, although he too was constantly out of work and shared with Frank’s father that same bitterness about his fate. A quiet despair bitterness that touched the whole family, and touched every even small event, good or bad, sometimes the good worst than the bad. My father was uneducated, lacking in skills, and prospects and as a “hillbilly” Protestant Southerner from coal country down in Kentucky was thus, an ‘outsider’ in the Boston milieu like Frank’s father had been in Limerick. That is the commonality that caught my eye (and sometimes my throat) as I read of Frank’s youthful trials, tribulations and adventures. McCourt’s ability to tap into that “mystical” something is what makes this a fine read, whether you are Irish or not.

Throughout the book McCourt’s woe-begotten but fatally prideful father is constantly referred to in the Irish-town working class poor ghetto of Limerick (and elsewhere, as well, but the heart of the story is told from there) as having an "odd manner." This reflects a certain clannishness against those from the North of Ireland (Dare I say it, the area then known as Ulster) and a sneaking suspicion amount that crowd of some alien (meaning English Protestant) heritage. As the book progresses that odd trait is transferred (by heredity?) to Frank in his various wanderings, enterprise, and desires. What joins us together then is that "odd manner" that gets repeatedly invoked throughout the book. Frank survived to tell the tale. As did I. But in both cases it appears to have been a near thing.

There is more that unites us. The shame culture, not an exclusive Irish Catholic property but very strong nevertheless, drilled in by the clannishness, the closeness of neighbors, the Catholic religion and by the bloody outsiders- usually but not always Protestants of some sort (as least for blame purposes- you know, the eight hundred years of British tyranny in the misty past, although very real to be sure). All driven, and driven hard, by not having nearly enough of this world’s goods. Every time I read a passage about the lack of food, the quality of the food, the conditions of the various tenements that the McCourt family lived in, the lack of adequate and clean clothing, I cringed at the thoughts from my own childhood. Or during the various times when his family was seriously down and out and his mother, the beloved Angela of the title, had to humble herself and beg for charity, of one form or another, from some institution that existed mainly to berate the poor. I can remember own my mother’s plaintive cry when my brothers and I misbehaved that the next step was the county poor farm.

And how about the false pride and skewed order of priorities? Frank’s father was a flat-out drunk and was totally irresponsible. From a child's perspective, however, he was still your dad and must be given the respect accordingly, especially against the viciousness of the outside world. But life’s disappointments for the father also get reflected in the expectations of the son. The dreams are smaller. Here, the horizons are pretty small when a governmental job with its security just above the “dole” is the touchstone of respectability. Sean O’Casey was able to make enduring plays from the slums of Dublin out of this material. And Frank McCourt enduring literature. Thanks, brother.

Note: The movie version of “Angela’s Ashes” pretty fairly reflects the intentions of Frank McCourt in his childhood memoirs and follows the book accordingly, without the usual dramatic embellishments of that medium. The story line is so strong it needs no such “touch-ups.” Particularly compelling is the very visual "piss pot" sense of utter poverty down at the base of Irish society in Frank McCourt’s childhood.

The two songs below are constantly being sung by Frank McCourt's father when he is "on the drink" to give a little musical flavor to this entry.

"Roddy McCorly"

O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn,
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Ban;
They come with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud and young.
About the hemp-rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung;
There's ne'er a tear in his blue eyes, fearless and brave are they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched, in grim array, a earnest stalwart band.
To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray,
But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

There's never a one of all your dead more bravely died in fray
Than he who marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today; ray
True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

"Kevin Barry"

In MOUNT JOY jail one Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the 'cause of liberty
Just a lad of eighteen summers
Yet no true man can deny
As he walked to death that morning
He proudly held his head up high

Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
The British laws may crush the Irish
But cannot keep their spirits down

Just before he faced the hangman
In his dreary prison cell
The British soldiers tortured Barry
Just because he would not tell
The name of all his brave companions
And other things they wished to know
Turn informer or we'll kill you
Kevin Barry answered no

Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
Whose cruel laws may crush the Irish
But CANNOT KEEP their spirits down

*From The Blogosphere-From The "Unrepentant Communist" Blog-On Jim Gralton

Click on the title to link to the blog mentioned in the headline.

*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By- The Dropkick Murphys' "World Full Of Hate"

Click on the title to link a YouTube film clip of the Dropkick Murphys performing World Full Of Hate.

In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.

***********

"World Full Of Hate"

A feeling inside
In the back of my head
Like a song I still know
From so long ago
And I wouldn't change a thing
Like a car driving by
Triggers something in my mind
Am I retreiving my direction?
Or just charging forward blind?

Am I everything that you wanted me to be?
Have I lost that conditional connection I couldn't see?
To the end
Like a friend
Stands by you again
And I wouldn't change a thing
Toe-to toe
Friend or foe?
It's all that I know
And I wouldn't change a thing

As the years pass us by
Will I still make the grade?
Can I really offer anything?
And will my soul be saved?
Can you cleanse me up?
Drive out the swine?
Am I only falling farther?
Can you keep me safe from harm?

The memories you build
In the house on the hill
Would you really change a thing?
Correcting mistakes in a world full of hate
Never changes anything

Till the end
Like a friend
Stands by you again
Toe-to-toe
Friend or foe?
It's all that I know

Till the end
Like a friend
Stands by you again
And I wouldn't change a thing
Toe-to-toe
Friend or foe?
It's all that I know
And I wouldn't change a thing

*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-The Dropkick Murphys' "Never Alone"

Click on the title to link a YouTube film clip of the Dropkick Murphys performing Never Alone.

In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.

***********

"Never Alone"

You say its becasue we�re boisterous
You hate us cause we got our dignity
We stand together proud and strong
This is a place where we belong
We got loyal friends we keep our heads held high,
We�ll stick together you and I
Don�t need no guns or drugs on our streets
just a place to go and the boots on our feet

Chorus: Never alone. . .
The city streets are where we roam
Never alone. . .
This is Boston its our home
Never alone. . .
The city streets are where we roam
Never alone. . .
This is Boston its our home

Young skinhead they call you hooligan
Just because you don�t make any sense to them
But the blood that runs right down your wrist
Dont come from a knife, but the cuts on your fist�
Your torn up knuckles and faded blue jeans
Are the colors you wear and the life that you�ve seen
You tell the truth look people in the eye
Don�t live you life in no baggy disguise

chorus:

Dont need no gang to watch my ass
Just loyal friendship and a pint of Bass
We�ll sweat in the ring and bleed in the streets
But our will and spirit can not be beat
You can shoot and you can kick but together we�ll stick
Through thick and thin not stick or stone
Can break the bond that has here grown
Arm and Arm We Fight As One

*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-The Dropkick Murphys' "Boys On The Dock"

Click on the title to link a YouTube film clip of the Dropkick Murphys performing Boys On The Dock.

In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.

*************

"Boys On The Dock"

- Lyrics: Casey, Music: Barton -

"Dedicated to the memory of John Kelly

Chorus: Say hey johnny boy, the battle call United we stand, divided we fall Together we are what we can't be alone We came to this country you made it our home

This man so humble, this man so brave A legend to many, he fought to his grave Saved family and friends from the hardship and horror In a land of depression he gave hope for tomorrow

Say johnny boy this ones for you With the strength of many and the courage of few To what do we owe this man who's fight Was for the masses, he gave his life

(chorus)

A friend to the locals who dabbled in crime He'd give you a job and he'd give you his time He wasn't a crook but he couldn't be conned John knew the difference between right and wrong Say johnny me boy, you live hear no longer Others forgotten, your memories stronger Lets drink to the causes in your life Your family, your friends, the union, your wife

(chorus)

And the boys on the docks needed john for sure When they came to this country he opened the door He said men I'll tell ya they don't like our kind Though it starts with a fist it must end with your mind

(chorus)

*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-The Dropkick Murphys' "Finnegan's Wake"- Via James Joyce

Click on the title to link a "YouTube" film clip of the Dropkick Murphys performing "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya."

In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.

*******

"Finnegan's Wake"

- Trad', arranged by the Dropkick Murphy's -

Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street, A gentle Irishman - Mighty Odd - He'd a beautiful brogue So rich and sweet, to rise in the world He carried a hod, You see He'd sort of a Trippling way: with love for a liquor Poor Tim was born, to help him on with His work each day, He'd a drop of the Craythor every morn'

One morning Tim was rather full, his head felt Heavy, which made him shake, fell from the Ladder and broke his skull, so they carried Him home, his corpse to wake, rolled Him up in a nice clean sheet, and laided Him upon the bed, A bottle of Whiskey At his feet, and a gallon of Porter At his head

chorus: And whack Fol-De-Dah now dance to your Partner, welt the floor, your trotters shake Wasn't it the truth I told Ye Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake

His friends assembled at his wake And Missus Finnegan called for lunch First they brought in tea and cake Then pipes, tobacco and Whiskey Punch Biddy OBrien begged to cry, such a Nice clean corpse did you see Arrah hold your gob see Paddy Magee

chorus:

Then O Connor took up the job "Arrah!" Biddy says she Ye're wrong I'm Sure, Biddy then gave her a belt on The gob and left her sprawling on the Floor, there the war did soon engage Woman to Woman and Man to Man Shillelah-law was all the rage, an A Row and a Ruction soon began Mickey Maloney raised his head when a bottle Of Whiskey flew at him, it missed him falling on The Bed, the liquor scattered over Tim, Tim Revives, see how he rises, Timothy rising from the bed Whirl your Whisky around like blazes Tonamondeal, do ye think I'm dead

*Films to While Away The Class Struggle By-"The Molly Maguires"

Click On Title To Link To A Wikipedia Entry For The Molly Maguires. Note, as always, with these entries on this site there can be problems with facts and political perspective.

Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some films that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. In the future I expect to do the same for books under a similar heading.-Markin


DVD Review

The Molly Maguires, Sean Connery, Richard Harris, directed by Martin Ritt, 1978

In a post in this space In The Time of The "Robber Barons" And The Early American Union Movement- The Molly Maguires, dated February 21, 2007, reviewing a book about these early labor militants, The Molly Maguires, Wayne Broehl, Jr., Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Ma, 1964, I hit the high points that I want to make about the Molly Maguires here and that are reinforced by this commercial film effort starring Sean Connery as a leader of the Irish coalminers in the Pennsylvania coal fields of the 1870’s, the age of the American “robber baron” capitalists, their “Gilded Age”. This film is also directed by 1950s “blacklisted’ director Martin Ritt (director of the Woody Allen film on the blacklist, The Front) so he has a feel for telling labor’s story (and providing some very naturalistic cinematography, as well). I will make additional points about the film below the repost:

“The tale of the famous “Molly Maguires” of the Pennsylvania coal fields in the period immediately after the American Civil War is another in the seemingly endless stories of the Irish diaspora triggered by the ruthless policy of the bloody English imperialists, who come what may, refused to part with their colony until forced to by the Irish national liberation fighters of the early 20th century. One can read the Molly Maguire story as one of the first attempts in the post-Civil War period to organize an industry-wide labor union in the coal industry, including its sectionalism, political immaturity and oath-bound secrecy. One can also read it as a story of atomized labor confronted by the consolidation of capitalism in the extractive industries linked up to the carrying trade of the railroads and financed by stockholders here in America and in Britain. Finally one can read the story as a police procedural, highlighting the role of the infamous Pinkerton Detective Agency and its founder Alan Pinkerton in bringing some of the alleged leaders of the “Mollies” to trial and execution on behalf of the railroad and coal bosses. That is the route the author of the book under review has taken…”

“Another point to make is how the mainly English capitalists of the area aggravated the already existing antagonisms between ethnic groups like the Irish, Welsh and Germans (and later the various Slavic groups) to their benefit in a classic example of capitalist “divide and rule” policy. Finally, the story points out the key role that privately-employed detective agencies, private police and ultimately state and federal troops played in bringing about the early defeats in the American labor movement (and continue to do so today as about one billion dollars a year is spent on keeping unions out or keeping them docile in the United States, one need only think of Wal-Mart)…..”

Sean Connery as a no-nonsense, level-headed, driven, militant labor leader of the benighted Irish Pennsylvania coalminers works here. (Of course, he also “worked” as British super-spy James Bond, but we will let that pass.) Jack (Connery’s role) tasks are not easy ones as he has to keep the younger hotheads in line, deal with the “peelers” (police), deal with planning some kind of strategy that will get labor out from under the thumb of the greedy, very greedy, coal and rail bosses who will stop at noting to break the union efforts. But most of all, and what forms the dramatic tension of the film, Jack has to deal with one James McFarland (played by Richard Harris), a willing, no, a more than willing, labor “fink” who is sent in by the bosses to round up the local labor leaders, and in the end settle scores in the only way that the “robber barons” really liked- execute the leaders. (Remember also “robber baron” Jim Fisk’s old saying-“I will hire one half of the working class to kill the other half.”). Well, in the end they got old Jack, but you know he fought them tooth and nail. We could use a few more Jacks and a few less labor skates these days as we fight the one-sided and uphill class struggle.

*From The Archives Of "Women And Revolution"- The Magdalene Sisters: Women’s Oppression and the Irish Clericalist State

Click on the headline to link to the article described above.

Markin comment:

The above-linked article is from an archival issue of Women and Revolution that may have some historical interest for old "new leftists", perhaps, and well as for younger militants interested in various cultural and social questions that intersect the class struggle. Or for those just interested in a Marxist position on a series of social questions that are thrust upon us by the vagaries of bourgeois society. I will be posting more such articles from the back issues of Women and Revolution during Women's History Month and periodically throughout the year.

*Books To While Away The Class Struggle By-James T. Farrell’s “Studs Lonigan”- When A Man’s Grasp Does Not Exceed His Reach

Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for Irish- American writer, James T. Farrell.

Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By” and "Films To While Away The Class Struggle By"-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs and films that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some books that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. Markin

Book Review

Judgment Day, James T. Farrell, Random House, New York, 1935

Over the past several years, as part of re-evaluating the effect of my half-Irish diaspora heritage (on my mother’s side) on the development of my leftist political consciousness I have read, and in some cases re-read, some of the major works of the Irish American experience. Of course, any such reading list includes tales from the pen of William Kennedy and his Albany sagas, most famously “Ironweed”. And, naturally, as well the tales of that displaced Irishman, the recently departed Frank McCourt and his “Angela’s Ashes”, a story that is so close to the bone of my own “shanty” Irish diaspora upbringing that we are forever kindred spirits. That said, here to my mind is the “max daddy” of all the American disapora storytellers, James T. Farrell, and his now rightly famous trilogy, “Studs Lonigan” (hereafter, “Studs”).

And in his storytelling of his people, the Chicago Irish, Farrell does not let us down. “Studs” is only marginally concerned with political issues, and then only of the bourgeois kind rampant amount the Irish in the early part of the 20th century when they were taking over local politics in a number of cities from their WASP guardians. However, he has hit so many “hot buttons” about “lace curtain” Irish sensibilities and the struggle against “shanty” Irishness that he, Kennedy, and McCourt could have easily compared notes for their respective works.

In the old suburban Boston Irish neighborhood where I grew up there were four basic male figures who dominated the local life: stage Irish in popular culture, if you will, but present nevertheless-the beat cop, the local gangster, the on-the-make politician, and the parish priest. We kids, at least, treated them all the same and with a certain cynicism, maybe a less so for the priest, depending on your age and the gravity of the sins that you carried around. Beyond those figures were the rest of us, trying to get by the day as best we could. Studs Lonigan is one of us, although, perhaps a little more full of himself than we were.

As we come to this third book of the trilogy with the advent of “Studs'” maturity, complete with the pressing adult problems with which we are all familiar; job security, money, women, marriage, and so on. With his demise, after what seems to have been a too short life one can say with certainty that he was a classic underachiever, except perhaps, in his day dreams. This type we too know from the old neighborhood, a little too closely for comfort at times. The old neighborhood was always filled with half-wise, “street smart” guys who spend more time dreaming of the "angles" than doing. However, it took James T. Farrell to fill in the blanks of that kind of life for his generation, and for ours as well. That is what makes these three books, an over one thousand page march, great literature.

*Books To While Away The Class Struggle By-James T. Farrell’s “Studs Lonigan”-Ain’t Got Not Time For The Corner Boys

Click on the headline to link to the "Literary Encyclopedia" entry for Irish-the American writer, James T.Farrell.

Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By” and "Films To While Away The Class Struggle By"-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs and films that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some books that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. Markin

Book Review


The Young Manhood of Studs Lonigan, James T. Farrell, Random House, New York, 1934

Over the past several years, as part of re-evaluating the effect of my half-Irish diaspora heritage (on my mother's side) on the development of my leftist political consciousness I have read, and in some cases re-read, some of the major works of the Irish American experience. Of course, any such reading list includes tales from the pen of William Kennedy and his Albany sagas, most famously "Ironweed". And, naturally, as well the tales of that displaced Irishman, the recently departed Frank McCourt and his "Angela's Ashes", a story that is so close to the bone of my own "shanty" Irish diaspora upbringing that we are forever kindred spirits. That said, here to my mind is the "max daddy" of all the American disapora storytellers, James T. Farrell, and his now rightly famous trilogy, "Studs Lonigan" (hereafter, "Studs").

And in his storytelling of his people, the Chicago Irish, Farrell does not let us down. "Studs" is only marginally concerned with political issues, and then only of the bourgeois kind rampant amount the Irish in the early part of the 20th century when they were taking over local politics in a number of cities from their WASP guardians. However, he has hit so many "hot buttons" about "lace curtain" Irish sensibilities and the struggle against "shanty" Irishness that he, Kennedy, and McCourt could have easily compared notes for their respective works.

The story line for this second book of the trilogy is reflected in the headline to this entry, at least ironically. In the first book we leave our daydreaming, wise guy- affecting, just-hanging out with the guys "Studs" in his late teen years in the 1920s, a time when he is trying to figure out life's short-cut angles but, mainly, has, in fact, plenty of time for the corner boys. He works a little for old man Lonigan as a painter but, for the most part, he hangs around pool halls, speakeasies, and cat houses. Oh Studs dreams alright, or rather day dreams about being a great athlete, a war hero, a ladies' man, and the like but does not take step one to do anything about it. By the end of this second book it is clear that the struggle between his gentile "lace curtain" home life and his "shanty" ways that surfaced in the first book ("Young Lonigan") has tilted decisively toward the latter. "Studs" has, moreover, settled in as primarily a man of the neighborhood, the Irish neighborhood as it shifts in place in Southside Chicago with the migration of blacks, the hated 'n----rs', that appear as the main enemy to the narrow world view of the inhabitants of the Irish diaspora way of life then, and now. We'll pick up the story in the third book and see which ethos, in the end, wins the battle.

Note: Toward the end of the second book "Studs" and his cohorts attend a Catholic Church-sponsored mission. For those who have been through that process I need give no explanation but for those who have not this mission idea is to give one an extra chance to gain grace by attending meetings, ceremonies and the like over several days, usually conducted by an itinerant priest. Here the character is named Father Shannon and Farrell goes into great detail about the subject matter of his sermon at one night's session. That sermon exemplifies everything that the Roman Catholic Church stood for, and mainly still stands for: anti-abortion, anti-premarital sex; anti-marrying outside the religion; anti-raising the children outside of the religion; the necessity of avoiding about seven hundred sins, large and small; also alcohol, pool halls, rough talk, etc. Just about everything that "Studs" stands for in his young life. My point in making this note, however, is this: this sermon could have been delivered, and maybe was delivered, by some itinerant priest when I was young and went to such missions in the 1950s. Hey, they must go to school for that, right? If you can stand it, that sermon section alone is reason enough to read this book.

*Books To While Away The Class Struggle By-James T. Farrell’s “Studs Lonigan”-William Kennedy, Your Father Is Calling You

Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for the Irish-American writer, James T. Farrell.

Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By” and "Films To While Away The Class Struggle By"-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs and films that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some books that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. Markin

Book Review

Young Lonigan, James T. Farrell, Random House, New York, 1932

Over the past several years, as part of re-evaluating the effect of my half-Irish diaspora heritage (on my mother’s side) on the development of my leftist political consciousness I have read, and in some cases re-read, some of the major works of the Irish-American experience. Of course, any such reading list includes tales from the pen of William Kennedy and his Albany cycle, most famously “Ironweed”. And, naturally, as well, the tales of that displaced Irishman, the recently departed Frank McCourt and his “Angela’s Ashes”, a story that is so close to the bone of my own “shanty” Irish diaspora upbringing that we are forever kindred spirits. That said, here to my mind is the “ max daddy” of all the American disapora storytellers, James T. Farrell, and his now rightly famous trilogy, “Studs Lonigan” (hereafter, “Studs”).

Now my first kinship with James T. Farrell is not through literature, but rather through politics. For a period, and an important one at that, Farrell was a stalwart pro-communist, anti-Stalinist militant writer who served with distinction and honor on the John Dewey headed- Leon Trotsky Commission that tried to determine whether Trotsky was, or was not guilty, of serious crimes against his beloved Soviet Union during the height of Stalin’s Moscow Trials in the late 1930s. Farrell rendered further important services to the left-wing when he helped organize the defense of the leaders of the Socialist Workers Party during the beginning of World War II when the Roosevelt government had them jailed for opposition to that war. Thus, Farrell came with some good political credential in the eyes of this reviewer.

And in his storytelling of his people, the Chicago Irish, Farrell does not let us down either. “Studs” is only marginally concerned with political issues, and then only of the bourgeois kind rampant amount the Irish in the early part of the 20th century when they were taking over local politics in a number of cities from their former WASP guardians. However, he has hit so many “hot buttons” about “lace curtain” Irish sensibilities and the struggle against “shanty” Irishness that he, Kennedy, and McCourt could have easily compared notes for their respective works.

“Studs”, even at a young age, and this first book of the trilogy only goes up to his late teens, is already having his existential crisis at that tender age. And that crisis for him is the tension between that surface “lace curtain” Irish sensibility that both his father and mother are, in their own very familiar way (familiar to anyone who has had the least bit of traditional Irish upbringing), trying to instill and his natural inclination to go “shanty” (hang out on corners with the guys, drink, loaf, and chase girls, or at least dream of chasing girls).

For those who know, and even for those who don’t know, Farrell gives us a primer here of common Irish experiences; the central role of the Catholic Church in daily and weekly life, at least on the surface; the “virtues” of parochial school education received from the good battle-hardened sisters, amply loaded with words and weaponry; the need to keep the “dirty linen” of family life in the home, and away from inquisitive neighbors, especially those nearest; and, most importantly, the never-ending quest of what to do about girls (and for girls, boys, of course). That last point drives home, as it does for almost all of us, the real central problem of early teenage existence. Hey, all of this sounds to me like it could have been written today about Irish-American disapora kids, right? And that is what makes Farrell’s work resonant to our ears and our eyes ,and is such a good work of literature. More later, as “Studs” moves into manhood.

*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-"James Connolly"-For Those Who Fought For Ireland's Freedom

Click on the title to link a "YouTube" film clip of a performance of a version of one of the many songs written to honor the great Irish revolutionary socialist,"James Connolly".

In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.

"James Connolly" Lyrics


Marchin' down O'Connell Street with the Starry Plough on high
There goes the Citizen Army with their fists raised in the sky
Leading them is a mighty man with a mad rage in his eye
"My name is James Connolly - I didn't come here to die

But to fight for the rights of the working man
And the small farmer too
Protect the proletariat from the bosses and their screws
So hold on to your rifles, boys, and don't give up your dream
Of a Republic for the workin' class, economic liberty"

Then Jem yelled out "Oh Citizens, this system is a curse
An English boss is a monster, an Irish one even worse
They'll never lock us out again and here's the reason why
My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die....."

And now we're in the GPO with the bullets whizzin' by
With Pearse and Sean McDermott biddin' each other goodbye
Up steps our citizen leader and roars out to the sky
"My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die...

Oh Lily, I don't want to die, we've got so much to live for
And I know we're all goin' out to get slaughtered, but I just can't take any more
Just the sight of one more child screamin' from hunger in a Dublin slum
Or his mother slavin' 14 hours a day for the scum
Who exploit her and take her youth and throw it on a factory floor
Oh Lily, I just can't take any more

They've locked us out, they've banned our unions, they even treat their animals better than us
No! It's far better to die like a man on your feet than to live forever like some slave on your knees, Lilly

But don't let them wrap any green flag around me
And for God's sake, don't let them bury me in some field full of harps and shamrocks
And whatever you do, don't let them make a martyr out of me
No! Rather raise the Starry Plough on high, sing a song of freedom
Here's to you, Lily, the rights of man and international revolution"

We fought them to a standstill while the flames lit up the sky
'Til a bullet pierced our leader and we gave up the fight
They shot him in Kilmainham jail but they'll never stop his cry
My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die...."

Writer’s Corner- William Kennedy’s “Ironweed”- A Film Review

Click on title to link to "Wikipedia"'s entry for William Kennedy, author of "Ironweed".

Film Review

Ironweed, based on the book by William Kennedy, The Viking Press, New York, 1983, starring Jack Nicholson, Meryl Streep, with Tom Waits, 1987

The paragraphs below were used to review the book that this film is based on. Since the film very closely follows the story line of the book the comments there can, for the most part, stand here. I would only add that Jack Nicholson’s role as ex- baseball player, hard guy, and hobo alkie Fran is probably more understated that the book character (and more understated for him, given some of his more in-your-face roles). Meryl Streep, well, is Merlyn Streep, and plays the role of Helen, Fran’s street companion/lover, to a tee (although she might be a tad bit more beautiful that your average "bag lady"). The surprise treat is the secondary role played by raspy-voiced singer-songwriter Tom Waits as Fran’s sidekick, Rudy. On reflection though, for those, like me, who know Waits’ later musical work his role should not be surprised. Who else, lately, could fill that kind of ‘lost soul’ hobo role so naturally?

********

William Kennedy is, at least in his Albany stories, my kind of writer. He writes about the trials and tribulations of the Irish diaspora as it penetrated the rough and tumble of American urban WASP-run society, for good or evil. I know these people, my people, their follies and foibles like the back of my hand. Check. Kennedy writes, as here with the main characters Fran Phelan and Helen Archer two down at the heels sorts, about that pervasive hold that Catholicism has even on its most debased sons and daughters, saint and sinner alike. I know those characteristics all too well. Check. He writes about that place in class society where the working class meets the lumpen-proletariat-the thieves, grifters, drifters and con men- the human dust. I know that place well, much better than I would ever let on. Check. He writes about the sorrows and dangers of the effects alcohol on working class families. I know that place too. Check. And so on. Oh, by the way, did I mention that he also, at some point, was an editor of some sort associated with the late Hunter S. Thompson down in Puerto Rico. I know that mad man’s work well. He remains something of a muse for me. Check

The above, in a tangential way, gets you pretty much all you need to know about the why of reading this book (and other stories by Kennedy), except a little something about the plot line. Well, that is fairly simple. Old time baseball star Fran and his erstwhile companion, a gifted singer, Helen are drunks working their way through the edges between skid row and respectability. And, mainly, losing to the lure of the bottle and to the hard, hard struggle that it takes just to get through the day when your options are limited. Put that task together with trying to survive in the jungles, with its endless twisted characters, of the Great Depression (that other one in the 1930s) Albany, trying to figure out when life went wrong and trying to figure out why it all went wrong- while fighting a losing battle against society’s expectations- and one’s family’s. This will provide enough dramatic tension to keep you interested.

Oh did I mention that Kennedy writes with verve, with an uncanny understanding of his characters (although only Fran and Helen get the full treatment here)and with no holds barred, or punches pulled down there on cheap street. See, that is why Kennedy and Thompson connected in the literary world. They KNOW the under side of life. Read this thing, please.

*Poet's Corner- William Butler Yeats' "Song Of The Wandering Aengus"

Click on title to link to William Butler Yeats' poem "Song Of The Wandering Aengus" that was set to music by Caroline Herring in her latest CD "Golden Apples Of The Sun" reviewed in this space today.

*In Pete Seeger’s House- The “World Music” Folklorist Presents Irish and Cajun Music

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers performing "I Will Never Play The Wild Rover No More" on Pete Seeger's "Rainbow Quest" series.

DVD Review

Rainbow Quest, Pete Seeger, Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers, Mamou Cajun Band, Shanachie, 2005

In a year that has featured various 90th birthday celebrations it is very appropriate to review some of the 1960’s television work of Pete Seeger, one of the premier folk anthologists, singers, transmitters of the tradition and “keeper” of the folk flame. This DVD is a “must see” for anyone who is interested in the history of the folk revival of the 1960’s, the earnest, folksy style of Pete Seeger or the work of the also tradition-oriented Irish folk singers, the recently departed Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers, who did a great deal to bring the songs of the old country to the Irish Diaspora in America at a time when those of Irish descent of my generation were seriously looking at our roots. A stand out here is their version (there are many) of the old classic tale of love gone wrong, “Love is teasin’”.

Also included on this DVD is a performance by the legendary Cajun or, perhaps more properly Acadian band, the Mamou Cajun Band from down in the bayous. I have recently done a number of reviews of Cajun music and this group definitely ranks as one of the great traditional Cajun sounds from the back country. Pete certainly wears his “world music” hat in this segment.
To fill in the segment Pete also does a number of traditional tunes by himself and a nice version of “Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream”, a song, for those not familiar with the lyrics that is cry for world peace. Forty plus years later we are still, impatiently, waiting on that same goal.

This DVD contains some very interesting and, perhaps, rare television film footage from two of Pete Seeger shows, packaged in one DVD, entitled “Rainbow Quest” (the whole series consists of six DVDs). Each show is introduced (and ends, as well) by Pete singing his old classic “If I Had A Golden Threat” and then he proceeds to introduce, play guitar and banjo and sing along with the above-mentioned artists.

One final note: This is a piece of folk history. Pete Seeger is a folk legend. However, the production values here are a bit primitive and low budget. Moreover, for all his stature as a leading member of the folk pantheon Pete was far from the ideal host. His halting speaking style and almost bashful manner did not draw his guests out. Let’s just put it this way the production concept used then would embarrass a high school television production class today. But, Pete, thanks for the history lesson.

*Irish Author Of "Angela's Ashes" Frank McCourt Is Dead At 78

Click On Title To Link To NPR's Story On The Death Of Author Frank McCourt. Frank McCourt's story is my story about a generation later and a continent away. But it is still my story. I have reviewed that elsewhere in this space and have reposted it below.

*A Bit Of The Odd Manner- Irish Style- The Childhood Saga of Frank McCourt

Book Review

Angela’s Ashes: A Memoir Of Childhood, Frank McCourt, Flamingo, London, 1997

Frank McCourt’s “Angela’s Ashes” is probably the easiest review that I have had to write since I have been doing such reviews in this space. Why? Frank McCourt’s book of childhood memoirs is my story. No, not in the details of his life’s story, or mine. But rather in how being Irish, being poor and being uprooted affects your childhood, and later. And those traumas, for good or evil, cross generational lines. McCourt, we are told as his story unfolds, was born in America of immigrants of the Diaspora after Irish independence who, for one reason or another, returned to the old country in defeat in the 1930’s. As McCourt notes right at the beginning, that fact in itself provides a rather ironic twist if one is familiar with Irish history (at least until very recently). He is, in any case, thus a child of the Great Depression and World War II, the generation of my parents, as it was refracted through Ireland during that period. I, on the other hand, am a child of the 1960’s, the “Generation of ‘68” here in America born of the dreaded Irish Catholic-English Protestant combination- and raised in an Irish Catholic enclave. Nevertheless the pages of this memoir are filled to the brim with the results of the emotional (and sometimes physical scars) of being “shanty” Irish in this world that hit home to this reader.

That said, we did not share the terrible effect that “the drink” had on creating his dysfunctional family with his father’s, Malachy McCourt, crazed need for the alcohol cure to drown his sorrows and his bitterness and the fact that his great moment in life was his bit for “the cause” (of Irish independence). A familiar story in the Irish community here and in the old country but my father seldom drank, although he too was constantly out of work and shared with Frank’s father that same bitterness about his fate. He was uneducated, lacking in skills and prospects and as a “hillbilly” Protestant Southerner from coal country down in Kentucky. Thus, an ‘outsider’ like Frank’s father. That is the commonality that caught my eye (and sometimes my throat) as I read of Frank’s youthful trials, tribulations and adventures. McCourt’s ability to tap into that “mystical” something is what makes this a fine read, whether you are Irish or not.

Throughout the book McCourt’s woe begotten but fatally prideful father is constantly referred to in the Irishtown working class poor ghetto of Limerick (and elsewhere, as well, but the heart of the story is told from there) as having an odd manner. This reflects a certain clannishness against those from the North of Ireland (Dare I say it, the area then known as Ulster) and a sneaking suspicion amount that crowd of some alien (meaning English Protestant) heritage. As the book progresses that odd trait is transferred (by heredity?) to Frank in his various wanderings, enterprise and desires. What joins us together then is that odd manner that gets repeatedly invoked throughout the book. Frank survived to tell the tale. As did I. But in both cases it appears to have been a near thing.

There is more that unites us. The shame culture, not an exclusive Irish Catholic property but very strong nevertheless, drilled in by the clannishness, the closeness of neighbors, the Catholic religion and by the bloody outsiders- usually but not always Protestants of some sort (as least for blame purposes- you know, the eight hundred years of British tyranny although very real to be sure). All driven by not having nearly enough of this world’s goods. Every time I read a passage about the lack of food, the quality of the food, the conditions of the various tenements that the McCourt family lived in, the lack of adequate and clean clothing I cringed at the thoughts from my own childhood. Or the various times when the family was seriously down and out and his mother, the beloved Angela of the title, had to beg charity of one form or another from some institution that existed mainly to berate the poor. I can remember own my mother’s plaintive cry when my brothers and I misbehaved that the next step was the county poor farm.

And how about the false pride and skewed order of priorities? Frank’s father was a flat out drunk and was totally irresponsible. From a child's perspective, however, he is still your dad and must be given the respect accordingly, especially against the viciousness of the outside world. But life’s disappointments for the father also get reflected in the expectations for the son. The dreams are smaller. Here, the horizons are pretty small when a governmental job with its security just above the “dole” is the touchstone of respectability. Sean O’Casey was able to make enduring plays from the slums of Dublin out of this material. And Frank McCourt enduring literature. Thanks, brother.

Note: The movie version of “Angela’s Ashes” pretty fairly reflects the intentions of Frank McCourt in his childhood memoirs and follows the book accordingly, without the usual dramatic embellishments of that medium. The story line is so strong it needs no such “touch-ups”. Particularly compelling is the very visual sense of utter poverty down at the base of Irish society in Frank McCourt’s childhood.

These two songs below are constantly being sung by Frank McCourt's father when he is "on the drink"

"Roddy McCorly"

O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn,
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Ban;
They come with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud and young.
About the hemp-rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung;
There's ne'er a tear in his blue eyes, fearless and brave are they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched, in grim array, a earnest stalwart band.
To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray,
But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

There's never a one of all your dead more bravely died in fray
Than he who marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today; ray
True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

"Kevin Barry"

In MOUNT JOY jail one Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the 'cause of liberty
Just a lad of eighteen summers
Yet no true man can deny
As he walked to death that morning
He proudly held his head up high

Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
The British laws may crush the Irish
But cannot keep their spirits down

Just before he faced the hangman
In his dreary prison cell
The British soldiers tortured Barry
Just because he would not tell
The name of all his brave companions
And other things they wished to know
Turn informer or we'll kill you
Kevin Barry answered no

Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
Whose cruel laws may crush the Irish
But CANNOT KEEP their spirits down

* In Honor Of The Irish Cultural Gradient- The Clancy Brothers And Tommy Makem

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of The Clancy Brothers And Tommy Makem Performing "Brennan On The Moor".

CD Review

Celtic Classic Treasures, The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem and Friends, Legacy International

If the CD “Rising Of The Moon” above was filled with fight songs of the Irish national liberation struggle in the classic period up in the 1920’s then this CD reflects the folk traditions of the rest of Irish life under the occupation. Moreover, there is a nice smattering of reels, jigs and ballads that are more familiar to most people when they think about Irish culture. And the boyos have brought in other voices and instruments to round out this work. Outstanding here are “Whiskey You’re The Devil” a perennial favorite concerning a subject near and dear to many Irish. “The Lowland Of Holland’ deals with the hard fact that many Irish, in order to get under from under the farm, enlisted in the British Army. A few children’s songs are thrown in which are always interesting as an example of how universal the concerns of childhood are. These are the songs that our grandmothers sang to us low and sweet. To round things out there are several tracks in Gaelic like the standard “Roisin Dubh”, “Amhran Dochais” and “An Bhruinnlin Bheasach”.


Here are some songs of the Irish Rebellions

By the Rising of the Moon

words by J.K. Casey, music Turlough O'Carolan

And 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 bare 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 gath'rin is to be
At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me
One more word for signal token whistle out the marchin' tune
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
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 beating for the blessed warning light
Murmurs rang along the valleys 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
And 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 Croppy Boy

It was early, early in the spring
The birds did whistle and sweetly sing
Changing their notes from tree to tree
And the song they sang was Old Ireland free.
It was early early in the night,
The yeoman cavalry gave me a fright
The yeoman cavalry was my downfall
And I was taken by Lord Cornwall.

'Twas in the guard-house where I was laid,
And in a parlour where I was tried
My sentence passed and my courage low
When to Dungannon I was forced to go.

As I was passing my father's door
My brother William stood at the door
My aged father stood at the door
And my tender mother her hair she tore.

As I was going up Wexford Street
My own first cousin I chanced to meet;
My own first cousin did me betray
And for one bare guinea swore my life away.

As I was walking up Wexford Hill
Who could blame me to cry my fill?
I looked behind, and I looked before
But my aged mother I shall see no more.

And as I mounted the platform high
My aged father was standing by;
My aged father did me deny
And the name he gave me was the Croppy Boy.

It was in Dungannon this young man died
And in Dungannon his body lies.
And you good people that do pass by
Oh shed a tear for the Croppy Boy.

"The Foggy Dew"

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 tatoo
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 Sulva or Sud El Bar
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
But their lonely graves are by Sulva's waves or the shore of the Great North Sea
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Cathal Brugha
Their names we will keep where the fenians sleep 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew

But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide in the springing 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

Ah, back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more
But to and fro in my dreams I go and I'd kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead, When you fell in the foggy dew.

"Kevin Barry"

In Mountjoy jail one Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree,
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the cause of liberty.

But a lad of eighteen summers,
Still there's no one can deny,
As he walked to death that morning,
He proudly held his head on high.


2. Just before he faced the hangman,
In his dreary prison cell,
The Black and Tans tortured Barry,
Just because he wouldn't tell.

The names of his brave comrades,
And other things they wished to know.
"Turn informer and we'll free you"
Kevin Barry answered, "no".


3. "Shoot me like a soldier.
Do not hang me like a dog,
For I fought to free old Ireland
On that still September morn.

"All around the little bakery
Where we fought them hand to hand,
Shoot me like a brave soldier,
For I fought for Ireland."


4. "Kevin Barry, do not leave us,
On the scaffold you must die!"
Cried his broken-hearted mother
As she bade her son good-bye.

Kevin turned to her in silence
Saying, "Mother, do not weep,
For it's all for dear old Ireland
And it's all for freedom's sake."


5. Calmly standing to attention
While he bade his last farewell
To his broken hearted mother
Whose grief no one can tell.

For the cause he proudly cherished
This sad parting had to be
Then to death walked softly smiling
That old Ireland might be free.


6. Another martyr for old Ireland;
Another murder for the crown,
Whose brutal laws to crush the Irish,
Could not keep their spirit down.

Lads like Barry are no cowards.
From the foe they will not fly.
Lads like Barry will free Ireland,
For her sake they'll live and die.