As I Rode by Granard Moat Read Free Page A

shoulder.
    Able to lift aloft
    The Green Flag o’er them
    (Red-coats and black police
    Flying before them);
    And, as she dropped asleep,
    Was wondering whether
    God, if they prayed to Him,
    Would give fine weather.
    There was a time when, without offence and in mixed (sectarian, not sexual) company, it was possible to sing ‘The Sash My Father Wore’. This may no longer be advisable. But the magic flute may, because of its very intractability, retain a heavenly neutrality. Scholars and flautists will know that there are variant renderings.
    THE OULD ORANGE FLUTE
    In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon,
    Where many’s the ruction myself had a han’ in,
    Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade,
    And we all of us thought him a stout Orange blade.
    On the Twelfth of July, as it yearly did come,
    Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum:
    You may talk of your harp, the piano or lute,
    But there’s none could compare with the ould Orange flute.
    But this sinful deceiver he took us all in
    And married a Papish called Brigid McGinn,
    Turned Papish himself and forsook the ould cause
    That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
    Now the boys of the place made some comment upon it,
    And Bob had to fly to the province of Connacht:
    He flew with his wife and his fixtures to boot,
    And along with the rest went the ould Orange flute.
    At the chapel on Sundays to atone for his past deeds
    He said Paters and Aves on his knees and his brown beads,
    And after a while at the priest’s own desire
    He took the ould flute for to play in the choir.
    He took the ould flute for to play at the Mass,
    But the instrument shivered and sighed ‘Oh Alas!’
    And blow as he would, though he made a great noise,
    The flute would play only the Protestant Boys.
    Bob flustered and fingered and got in a splutter
    And dipped the ould flute in the blessed holy water.
    He thought that the dipping would bring a new sound,
    When he blew it again it played Croppies Lie Down.
    He could whistle his utmost and finger and blow
    To play Papish tunes, but the flute wouldn’t go.
    Kick the Pope, the Boyne Water and Croppies Lie Down,
    And no Papish squeak in it all could be found.
    At the Council of priests that was held the next day
    ‘Twas decided to banish the ould flute away.
    Since they couldn’t knock heresy out of its head,
    They bought Bob a new one to play in its stead.
    So the ould flute was doomed and its fate was pathetic,
    ‘Twas sentenced and burned at the stake as heretic.
    As the flames roared around it they heard a strange noise,
    The ould flute was still playing the Protestant Boys.
    My mother came from the village of Drumquin and numbered among her friends Felix Kearney, who wrote poems, some of them meant to be sung. I had the honour of meeting him in his old age, and in the presence of the man himself I heard Paddy Tunney sing Kearney’s song about ‘The Hills above Drumquin’.
    God bless the Hills of Donegal,
    I’ve heard their praises sung,
    In days long gone beyond recall
    When I was very young.
    Then I would pray to see a day
    Before Life’s course be run
    When I could sing the praises
    Of the Hills above Drumquin.
    I love the Hills of Dooish,
    Be they heather clad or lea,
    The wooded glens of Cooel
    And the Fort on Dun-na-ree.
    The green clad slopes of Kirlish
    When they meet the setting sun
    Descending in its glory on the
    Hills above Drumquin.
    Drumquin, you’re not a city
    But you’re all the world to me.
    Your lot I will not pity
    Should you never greater be.
    For I love you as I knew you
    When from school I used to run
    On my homeward journey through you
    To the Hills above Drumquin.
    I have seen the Scottish Highlands,
    They have beauties wild and grand,
    I have journeyed in the Lowlands
    ’Tis a cold and cheerless land.
    But I always toiled content
    For when each hard day’s work was done
    My heart went back at sunset
    To the Hills above Drumquin.
    When the whins across Drumbarley
    Make the fields a yellow