10 Mar

Saint Kevin and the Gander

As Saint Kevin once was travelling through a place called Glendalough,
He met with King O’Toole and he asked him for a shough,
Says the King “You are a stranger and your face I’ve never seen,
But if you want a taste of weed I’ll lend you my duidin.

While the Saint was kindling up his pipe the monarch gave a sigh,
“Is there anything the matter” says the Saint, “that makes you cry?”
Says the King “I had a gander, that was left me by my mother,
And the other day he cocked his toes with some disease or other.”

“Are you cryin’ for the gander? You unfortunate old goose,
Dry up your tears, in frettin’, sure, there’s ne’er a bit o’ use,
As you think so much about the bird, if I make him whole and sound?
Will you give to me the taste o’ land the gander will fly around?”

“In troth I will, and welcome,” said the king, “give what you ask,”
The Saint bid him bring out the bird and he’d begin the task,
The king went into the palace to fetch him out the bird,
Though he’d not the least intention of sticking to his word.

Saint Kevin took the gander from the arms of the King,
He first began to tweak his beak and then to stretch his wing,
The gander he rose in the air, flew sixty miles around,
“I’m thankful to your majesty for that little bit of ground.”

The King to raise a ruction he called the saint a witch,
And he sent for his six big sons to heave him in the ditch,
“Ná bac leis,” says Saint Kevin, “I’ll soon settle these young urchins,”
So he turned the king and his six sons into the seven churches.

Thus King O’Toole was punished for his dishonest doings,
The Saint he left the gander there to guard about the ruins,
If you go there on a summer’s day between twelve and one o’clock,
You’ll see the gander flying round the Glen of Glendalough.

Now I think there is a moral attached unto my song,
To punish men is only right whenever they do wrong,
For poor men they may keep their word much better than folks grander,
For the King begrudged to pay the Saint for curing his old gander.

This is one of two Saint Kevin of Glendalough songs that made their way into tradition. The other, sometimes called “The Glendalough Saint,” (Roud 8001) was sung by the Dubliners and Brendan Behan. The story of Saint Kevin, King O’Toole and the gander (Roud 17152) was sung by legendary Clare musician Micho Russell and others.

The only North American version I am aware of is a very small fragment, a bit of verses five and six above, sung in New Brunswick by the great woods singer Angelo Dornan. Dornan told Helen Creighton his father used to sing the complete song. You can hear Dornan’s fragment under the title “Gander and the Saint” at the wonderful Nova Scotia Archives site. From the fragment, his melody seems to be a version of that used by Limerick singer Con Greaney for “Carlow Town” so I used Greaney’s melody to fill in the blanks here.

Versions of this text were printed in Dublin as early as 1845 (Dublin Comic Songster). A writer with the initials F. P. R. put the text in the “Questions and Answers” section of the New York Times of January 5, 1908 with the following attribution:

The poem of Saint Kevin and King O’Toole was written by Thomas Shalvey, a market-gardener in Dublin, who used to write poems for James Kearney, a vocalist who used to sing at several music-halls and inferior concert rooms in Dublin a good many years ago. Kearney was very popular and some of his best songs were written by Shalvey.

It appears, with the same attribution, in The Humour of Ireland which was published in New York that same year. I incorporated Dornan’s fragment into the New York Times text above.

The song seems certain to have originated among street singers in Dublin in the mid 1800s. Dr Catherine Ann Cullen, a UCD Postdoctoral Fellow with Poetry Ireland, is currently researching and writing about Shalvey, Kearney and other fascinating 19th century Dublin street poets and balladeers and her excellent blog gives more details on the world in which this song emerged.

22 Oct

Lather and Shave

It was down in the city not far from this spot,
Where a barber he set up a snug little shop,
He was silent and sad, but his smile was so sweet,
That he pulled everybody right in from the street.

One horrid bad custom he thought he would stop,
That no one for credit should come to his shop,
So he got him a razor full of notches and rust,
To shave the poor mortals who came there for trust.

Some time after that, Pat was passing that way,
His beard had been growing for many a day,
He looked at the barber and set down his hod,
“Will you trust me a shave for the true love of God?”

“Walk in,” says the barber, “Sit down in that chair,
And I’ll soon mow your beard off right down to a hair.”
The lather he splattered on Paddy’s big chin,
And with his “trust” razor to shave did begin.

“Ach murder!” says Paddy, “Now what are you doin?
Leave off with your tricks or my jaws you will ruin,
By the powers, you will pull every tooth in my jaw,
By jeepers, I’d rather be shaved with a saw.”

“Keep still,” says the barber, “don’t make such a din.
Quit working your jaw or I’ll cut your big chin.”
“It’s not cut, but it’s saw with that razor you’ve got,
For it wouldn’t cut butter unless it was hot.”

“Let up now,” says Paddy, “Don’t shave anymore,”
And the Irishman bolted right straight for the door,
“You can lather and shave all your friends ‘til you’re sick,
But by jeepers, I’d rather be shaved with a brick.”

Not many days later as Pat passed that door,
A jackass he set up a terrible roar,
“Now look at the barber! You may know he’s a knave,
He’s giving some devil a ‘love of God’ shave.”

We have a song this month in honor of everyone whose “pandemic beard” needs a trim! “Lather and Shave” (aka “The Irish Barber” or “The Love of God Shave”) seems to have originated in the early 19th century as a broadside ballad in England. From there it travelled to Ireland and North America where it was sung on the stage and by traditional singers in many regions including the Upper Midwest.

The above text is my own blend of two Midwestern versions: one from Bernadine Christensen of Harlan, Iowa collected by Earl J. Stout and another from Charles C. Talbot of Forbes, North Dakota collected by Franz Rickaby and printed in the collection “Folk Songs Out of Wisconsin.” My melody and chorus come from a third source: Angus “The Ridge” MacDonald of Antigonish County, Nova Scotia as recorded by MacEdward Leach (click to listen online).

22 Oct

The Three Dreams

John Bull he was an Englishman and went to tramp one day,
With three pence in his pocket for to take him a long way,
He travelled on for many a mile, yet no one did he see,
’Til he fell in with an Irishman, whose name was Paddy Magee.

“Good morning Pat,” said John to him, “where are you going to?”
Says Pat, “I hardly know myself, I want a job to do,”
“Have you got any money about you?” said John Bull unto Pat,
Says Pat, “It’s the only thing I’m lacking for I haven’t got a rap.”

Then they overtook a Scotchman who like them was out of work,
To judge by his looks he was hard up, and as hungry as a Turk,
“Can you lend me a shilling Scotty?” at last said Paddy Magee,
“I am sorry I canna,” said the Scotchman, “for I hae nae got ane bawbee.”

Said the Englishman, “I three pence have, what can we do with that?”
“Buy threepenny worth of whiskey!  It will cheer us up,” says Pat,
“Nae dinna do that,” said the Scotchman,  “I’ll tell you the best to do,
We’ll buy threepenny worth of oatmeal, and I’ll make some nice burgoo.”

“I think we had better buy a loaf,” the Englishman did say,
“And then in yonder haystack, our hunger sleep away,
We can get a drink of water from yonder purling stream,
And the loaf will be his in the morning who has had the biggest dream.”

The Englishman dreamt by the morning, a million men had been,
For ten years digging a turnip up, the biggest ever seen,
At last they got that turnip up, by working night and day,
Then it took five million horses, this turnip to cart away.

Said the Scotchman, “I’ve been dreaming fifty million men had been,
For fifty years making a boiler, the largest ever seen,”
“What was if for?” said the Englishman, “Was it mad of copper or tin?”
“It was made of copper,” said the Scotchman, “for to boil your turnip in.”

Said the Irishman, “I’ve been dreaming an awful great big dream,
I dreamt I was in a haystack, by the side of a purling stream,
I dreamt that you and Scottie were there, as true as I’m an oaf,
By the powers, I dreamt I was hungry so I got up and ate the loaf.”

This month we have a great “punchline” song from the repertoire of Angelo Dornan of New Brunswick. I transcribed the above from Helen Creghton’s 1956 recording of Dornan’s singing. Creighton’s collection titles the song “Johnny Bull.” Broadside versions, which date it to the latter half of the 19th century, usually use the title “Paddy Magee’s Dream” or “The Three Dreams.” A version from Donegal singer Jim Doherty titled “John Boiler” is available via the Inishowen Song Project collection on at itma.ie. I heard it sung at with great effect by Pennsylvania singer Steve Stanislaw at a session at a festival out east.

The caricature of the “Scotchman” in the song references his desire to make “burgoo.” According to Anthony Willich’s 1802 Domestic Encyclopaedia, burgoo was the name for the oatmeal porridge “eaten by mariners, and much used in Scotland.”