This is my own arrangement of one of my favourite songs, inspired here by the wonderful guitar mastery and instruction of the English folk guitarist and singer Martin Simpson. Recorded in 2016.

Craigie Hill

for my uncle Ronnie ..who took the picture

SONG Red007 Z.WAV

LONG 0015 Z.WAV

Delia Murphy — Drawn to the Fire

Delia, Oh! Delia, I hear you sing
In your culchie accents — the pleasure you bring.
Like the wind through the lattice, you call and I hear
Your voice that was loved and ever so dear.

Tom Maughan the tinker, he taught you those songs:
The words of the Blackbird for which you had longed;
In Featherbed Lane you were drawn to the fire
That lit in your heart the singing desire.

Chorus
Delia, Oh, Delia — beyond each loved song
You stood up for right, you fought against wrong,
Your bravery in Rome, it set people free,
With that ‘Irish pimpernel’ O’Flaherty.
And you raised your voice so that songs might be heard, The songs of the people, you weren’t afraid,
You sang to ‘the Gods’ where the poorer folk sat,
They sang every chorus, they blessed you for that.

All who came after, they dipped at your well
And raised a full bucket, with its magic spell!
The songs that you’d treasured, songs of the past,
From the Blackbird of Mayo whose songs would now last. 

Chorus
Delia, Oh, Delia — beyond each loved song
You stood up for right, you fought against wrong,
Your bravery in Rome, it set people free,
With that  ‘Irish pimpernel’ O’Flaherty. 
Oh! You lit that taper — the lamp of your heart,
When your voice with its beauty, old songs would impart
We lost that great voice — the loveliest of Bannion.
When, far from green Mayo, you died in ‘The Union’.

Drawn To The Fire

This song describes the tragedy which occured on September 4th 1828 when the boat Caisleán Nua left Annaghdown Pier bound for a fair at Galway City. Sadly 19 of the 30 people on board were drowned when the flimsy boat took on water. 
"I learned this translation from a cassette of The Shaskeen Ceili Band many years ago" - Rita Gallagher.
Photo Credit: © Colm Keating Photography 2023

The Linnet of the Bluestacks

Anac Cuain

Anach Cuain (Rita Gallagher)

Pádraic Ó Conaire (28 February 1882 – 6 October 1928) was an Irish writer and Journalist whose production was primarily in the Irish language. In his lifetime he wrote 26 books, 473 stories, 237 essays and 6 plays. His acclaimed novel Deoraíocht has been described by Angela Bourke as 'the earliest example of modernist fiction in Irish'.
 
This is my Song setting of F.R. Higgins’ poem in memory of Pádraic.

Pádraic Ó Conaire Gaelic Storyteller 

 by F.R. Higgins  
They've paid the last respects in sad tobacco 
And silent is this wakehouse in its haze; 
They've paid the last respects; and now their whiskey 
Flings laughing words on mouths of prayer and praise; 
And so young couples huddle by the gables. 
O let them grope home through the hedgy night —  
Alone I'll mourn my old friend, while the cold dawn 
Thins out the holy candlelight.  

Respects are paid to one loved by the people; 
Ah, was he not - among our mighty poor -  
The sudden wealth cast on those pools of darkness, 
Those bearing, just, a star's faint signature; 
And so he was to me, close friend, near brother, 
Dear Padraic of the wide and sea-cold eyes —  
So, lovable, so courteous and noble, 
The very west was in his soft replies.  

They'll miss his heavy stick and stride in Wicklow -  
His story-talking down Winetavern Street, 
Where old men sitting in the wizen daylight 
Have kept an edge upon his gentle wit; 
While women on the grassy streets of Galway, 
Who hearken for his passing — but in vain, 
Shall hardly tell his step as shadows vanish 
Through archways of forgotten Spain.  

Ah, they'll say, Padraic's gone again exploring; 
But now down glens of brightness, O he'll find 
An alehouse overflowing with wise Gaelic 
That's braced in vigour by the bardic mind, 
And there his thoughts shall find their own forefathers —  
In minds to whom our heights of race belong, 
in crafty men, who ribbed a ship or turned 
The secret joinery of song.  

Alas, death mars the parchment of his forehead; 
And yet for him, I know, the earth is mild —  
The windy fidgets of September grasses 
Can never tease a mind that loved the wild; 
So drink his peace — this grey juice of the barley 
Runs with a light that ever pleased his eye —  
While old flames nod and gossip on the hearthstone 
And only the young winds cry.

— © F.R. Higgins / Song setting: Frank Callery, September, 2017.

Pádraic Ó Conaire Gaelic Storyteller

Whatever Arlene Says!

Well, I’m standin’ here with me dummy dear
And for wanst’ she’s saying nothin’!
The Maybot Doll is goin’ a fall
‘Cause her parliament is rottin’!
I can pull the strings, I can make her sing
Sweeter than any stool pigeon,
As long as its hymns and such like things
An’ songs about religin’!

All things I’ve fixed in the dear Wee Six
From boilers to wood pellets —
The hellfire stove from lies I’ve wove,
The stove that’s loved be zealots.
With my Right Red Hand, I’m in command
With two fingers up her jacksie,
She’ll sing my tune, My ‘Eileen a Ruin’,
In the back of a Belfast Taxi.

No queer may think, be nod or wink
They’ll have freedom in this city;
We’ll drive they out with double vote
And hearts that have no pity;
For we’re the keepers of the flame,
Their needs, their wants we’ll foil;
For our dirty games, we’ll brook no blame,
We’re pure, and right, and Loyal.

O Theresa May will rue the day
She handed me such power!
I’ll rule the day, my words she’ll say
Whether wearing smile or glower.
And in the end, not to offend
I’ll be giving her the finger;
While I’m in control there’s no parole,
The Middle Ages linger!

— © Frank Callery, June 3rd. 2018

Whatever Arlene Says!

A live recording from a charity concert, recorded by Blat Garcia April 12- with Graham Dunne and Niamh Parsons on guitars.

Fair & Tender Ladies - Niamh Parsons and Caoimhe Hogarty

The Tale of Baron Boris 

O the Tale of Baron Boris is now told far and wide,
’Twas said he had a secret, that he long wished to hide!
’Twas said his scrivener, Dominic, was Baron, and not he!
To every quisling in the Court, the truth was plain to see.
’Twas Boris was the jester, and Dominic, he ruled over,
And as the pig who liked to grunt, was happy in his clover;
For Dominic was a Goebbels, a Cromwell, and a liar;
And to the heady heights of power, Sir Dominic did aspire.

Yet he wore no tuxedo — an anorak was he;
And Baron Boris gave him leave to fuch the country.
His head was full of Russian, his heart was full of guile —
’Twas said that he loved Muscovy, he lived there for a while.
But rumour, rife and scurrilous, it circled far and wide 
That though he served the Baron, he served the other side
Such rumour gains a footing, when the whole country sings: 
“We wonder is it Vladimir, who pulls Sir Dominic’s strings?”

Refrain
O sigh some more for England’s Lore,
Once Great and now so smitten,
Its present state we must deplore —
Twice shy, and then twice bitten!

And so, throughout the Greenwood, the people’s whispers ran:
Beware of Baron Boris! He’ll do you if he can!
For he was raised in Eton’s den, full of inequity,
But the orders came from Dominic, you’ll know that it is he.
Your name it will not matter, the order will be signed,
Your crime will be “you’ve lived too long, our programme is designed
To cut the waste and make us lean, the leanest  count-r-y
Where rich folk can take all the land, and Barons’s they will be”.

Blond Boris with his tousled hair, oblivious to the cries,
Had faith in his dear scrivener, and that was no surprise;
’Twas said that he had progeny in every Shire and town
And his surest sign of constancy, was that he’d let you down!
When they heard Michael Heseltine, and other Tory greats,
Condemn him for his heinous crimes — Prorogued the blood state!
They knew they had a problem, as he lied to the Queen —
But all those Grandees, they have gone, there’s not one can be seen.


They’ve  got Sir Supine — Michael Gove, and that thing, J. Rees-Mogg
Enveloped in some dust — Cocaine? — or 18th Century fog;
Yea-sayers of the vainest kind, who do the Baron’s bidding,
Strong pillars of society — fuch me, you must be kidding?
But now with this Corona, And all Sir Dominic’s lies —
Who doesn’t give a tuppenny, who lives or  bloody dies;
“O give us back Prince John again, The sheriff of Nottingham,
And all the people in the realm — reduced to bread and jam!”

Refrain
O sigh some more for England’s Lore,
Once Great and now so smitten,
Its present state we must deplore —
Twice shy, and then twice bitten!

— © Frank Callery. March 22nd 2020.

The Tale Of Baron Boris

The Heather Humphrey’s Irish Academy of Chicken Pluckers 

It was down on the banks  of the Shannon she started,
In a barn that was transferred from Monaghan town, 
The Retraining Wing for the Covid-hit artists:
Musicians, and dancers and auld circus clowns.
Chorus
And all of the years that they gave to their art 
Were rendered redundant with the flick of her quill, 
They’re now plucking chickens and stuffing each part 
With good Irish shamrock she sourced near Coothill.

Ó Maonlaí, McCarthy, there was Heffernan, Horgan, 
And Brady and Black, and Spillane and Moore;
And a monkey most famous for grinding his organ —
And the whole thing was run by a Fine Girl Cute Hoor!
Chorus
Ah! The auld basic training was hard on the hands
Of them that had only plucked strings, heretofore;
But they needed the PUP and could make no demands,
They’d either pluck chickens or walk out that door!

The CSO figures, they found them alarming: 
Half of the country would have to Retrain!
But Heather replied in a manner most charming,
“On Career Guidance teachers we must lay the blame!”
Chorus 
“Filling their heads with them notions of grandeur,
Musicians and singers and artists they made;
But when Covid came by, they got such a land, sure,
They found that their lives on the road were low-paid!” 

“I’m all for Creators, the Arts, the Artistic, 
But now that I’m minister over the Dole, 
If they don’t take retraining, then I’ll go ballistic,
And I’ll take no auld guff like: ‘I will in me hole!’”
Chorus
If them Uyghurs in China can learn a new song,
And sing the sweet praises of party and change!
Then, in Chicken Plucking, I see nothing wrong,
In the Change of Career, I see nothing strange!”

Soon the shed that she brought to the Banks of the Shannon,
Was filled with the Artists, who once filled each hall;
And Dear Heather selected yer wan Sharon Shannon,
As the bright “Cailín Maith” who was best of then all.
Chorus 
Her boxing of chickens was done with finesse 
Each tired Chicken Plucker with Heather agreed,
For they faced a fine if they tried to regress —
From the Shannon-side Shed they would never be freed!

But now up in Drum where there’s not a musician,
She sings the high praises for jobs that she made;
There’s chicken-ball pluckers, two clerks, a beautician;
But the Auld Orange Flute, it will never be played!

— © Frank Callery, August 7th, The First Day of the New Era, 2020.

Heather Humphreys’ Irish Academy Of Chicken Pluckers

A small musical tribute to the late Séamus Walsh, miner and social historian of the Castlecomer Mines in Kilkenny. It features music inspired by Séamus's writings and talks about the miners. Song are sung by Breege Phelan, the first "So Deep Within" was written by Breege and Michael Conway and, as it is part love song, was perfectly suited to th first broadcast on air on Valentines' Day, 2021. The second song is a fine version of the famous mining/union song Joe Hill, a particular favourite of Séamus himself. This piece was first broadcast on KCLR by Martin Bridgeman.