Would you trample, with great boots, On a snowdrop in a field ? Would you crush a little butterfly, With a fist ? Then best be gentle, With a woman’s feelings always, Or she might sting, For your rebuff, With all that you deserve.
END
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
The song sung hereunder, is about the Irish boxer, of the 1930s. Mr Jack Doyle latter who was known as ‘The Gorgeous Gael’. Born into a working-class family on August 31st, 1913 in Cobh, Co. Cork; he would pass away on December 13th, 1978 in Paddington, London, England.
Jack was tall (six feet five inches), good-looking and a multi-talented individual. He was a contender for the British Boxing Championship; a Hollywood actor, and an accomplished Tenor (between baritone and alto), however his often generous nature and love of drink was to be his eventual downfall.
Doyle became involved with the actress Movita Castaneda. Following a celebrity wedding, in Dublin’s Westland Row Church, (Jack’s second wedding; he was previously married, in 1935, to Judith Allen), after which the couple toured both sides of the Irish Sea, selling out Music Halls and Opera houses.
About this time, Jack fought his last professional fight, against a journeyman named Chris Cole. Same took place in front of some 23,000 fans, in Dalymount Park, Dublin. He arrived for the event late, having stopped at The Clarence Hotel for refreshments. The bout saw an inebriated Doyle, go down in the first round. Soon afterwards, having had enough, Movita packed up and moved back to Hollywood, where she would go on to marry film star Marlon Brando.
Doyle, shortly afterwards, found himself in Mountjoy Jail, Dublin, having assaulted and knocked out a Garda Detective, in a Dublin pub. Having moved to England he spiralled downwards into alcoholism and bankruptcy and found his friends had deserted him, as fast as his bank balance, latter spent in his own words on “slow horses and fast women”.
I had the privilege of meeting Jack on several occasions, in the early 1970’s, walking on the sea front in Bray, Co. Wicklow, where he had a flat for a short time. His only source of income during this time was an allowance he continued to receive, by agreement, from former wife Movita.
Sadly, Jack died in 1978, aged just 65 years, at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, in the City of Westminster, Central London; his death caused by cirrhosis of the liver. He is interned in the Old Church Cemetery, on the outskirts of Cobh town, Co. Cork, Ireland, his grave today visited by thousands of people annually.
The Contender.
Singer: Irish (Co. Kildare) Folk Musician, Dan McCabe, [latter who is expected to tour in Co. Tipperary shortly]. Original Lyrics: (Shown Hereunder), From the pen of Cork born Irish singer and songwriter Jimmy MacCarthy.
The Contender. [Original Lyrics]
When I was young and I was in my day, Sure I’d steal what woman’s heart there was, away, And I’d sing into the dawning, Saw a blaze into the morning, Long before I was the man you see today.
I was born beneath the star that promised all. I could have lived my life without Cassandra’s* call, But the wheel of fortune took me, From the highest point she shook me, By the bottle live by the bottle I shall fall.
There in the mirror on the wall, I see the dream is fading, From the contender to the brawl, The ring, the rose, the matador, raving.
And when I die, I’ll die a drunk down on the street. He will count me out to ten in clear defeat. Wrap the Starry Plough* around me, Let the piper’s air resound me, There I’ll rest until the Lord of Love I’ll meet.
There in the mirror on the wall, I see the dream is fading. From the contender to the brawl, The ring, the rose, the matador, raving.
* In Greek Classical Legend, Cassandra was the daughter of Priam and Hecuba, endowed with the gift of prophecy. *Starry Plough, a banner, a socialist symbol, the significance of which it was declared, that a free Ireland would control its own destiny, “from the plough to the stars”.
Dare any of you lovers out there, forget that St. Valentine’s Day, is on Tuesday next, February 14th.
Talking of people in recent history, who fell in love, let’s not forget the sadly unrequited* love story of that great Irish poet, Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967), and Ms Hilda Moriarty in 1944.
* Unrequited love occurs when one person yearns for unconditional love, from another individual who doesn’t always feel the same way.
It was sometime in the Autumn of 1944, while living on Raglan Road, in Ballsbridge, Co. Dublin, that the poet Kavanagh spotted Ms Hilda Moriarty, herself a native of Co. Kerry, as she wended her way to attend Dublin City University, where she was studying to become a medical doctor.
Ms Moriarty was then 22yrs old, while Kavanagh was some 20 years her senior. For Kavanagh, it was love at first sight, and though she would regarded him as a close friend, her true feelings toward him were never of a romantic nature.
In 1947 Hilda would marry the handsome Mr Donogh O’Malley, a rugby union player, who later served as Parliamentary Secretary to the then Minister for Finance (1961 to 1965); Fianna Fáil Minister for Health (1965 to 1966), and Minister for Education (1966 to 1968). It was the same O’Malley who first announced the notion of free education for Irish students, on September 10th, 1966, unknown to his cabinet colleagues; thus updating Ireland’s antiquated educational system, same unchanged since Irish independence.
Sometime later, Kavanagh was inspired to write the poem, that we refer to, today, as, “On Raglan Road”, published in the Irish Press in 1946, under the title, “Dark Haired Miriam Ran Away”. Kavanagh’s poem was later set to the melody of an old Irish song called, “Fainne Gael an Lae”; (Irish loose translated, “The Dawning of the Day”).
ON
OnRaglan Road.
Lyrics: Irish Poet and Novelist, Patrick Kavanagh(1904-1967). Vocals: Singer, Folk Musician, Banjoist and Actor, the great Luke Kelly(1940 – 1984).
On ‘Raglan Road’ of an Autumn day, I saw her first and knew, That her dark hair would weave a snare, That I might one-day rue. I saw the danger and I passed, Along the enchanted way, And I said, “Let grief be a fallen leaf, At the dawning of the day.” On Grafton Street in November, We tripped lightly along the ledge, Of a deep ravine where can be seen, The worth of passion play. The Queen of Hearts still making tarts, And I not making hay. Oh, I loved too much and by such, by such, Is happiness thrown away. I gave her gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret sign, That’s known to the artists, who have known, The true gods of sound and stone. And word and tint, (I did not) without stint. (For) I gave her poems to say, With her own name there and her own dark hair, Like clouds over fields of May. On a quiet street, where old ghosts meet, I see her walking now, Away from me so hurriedly, My reason must allow, That I had loved, not as I should, A creature made of clay, When the angel woos the clay, he’d lose, His wings at the dawn of day.
No more I seek sweet paradise, Or absolute truth and beauty rare; I see my heaven in your eyes, And in the shining of your hair. No more I seek in sonnet, song, Or music’s sweetest, deepest sound, That part of me so lost for long, Which in your being I have found. No more I wander through the hours Fearful, lonely, without cheer. For you, oh fairest of the flowers, Are here my love, sweet love, are here. My every sense now wildly soars, To joy beyond this transient earth, Sweet scented life, oh beauteous bower, Oh, bright and light my happy heart. I wish and you are always there. My light, my courage and my soul, You are enchantment everywhere You bless, embolden and enthral, And so not death nor worldliness, Shall keep us two, now one, apart. Oh, magical our happiness, Eternal our united heart.
END
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
Lyrics: American folk singer and social activist Peter Seeger. Vocals: British-Irish singer-songwriter and instrumentalist Chris de Burgh.
Where Have All The Flowers Gone?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing, Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago, Where have all the flowers gone, picked by young girls every one. When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the young girls gone, long time passing, Where have all the young girls gone, long time ago, Where have all the young girls gone, gone to young men every one, When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the young men gone, long time passing, Where have all the young men gone, long time ago, Where have all the young men gone, gone to soldiers every one, When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing, Where have all the soldiers gone, long time ago, Where have all the soldiers gone, they’ve gone to graveyards every one, When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing, Where have all the graveyards gone, long time ago, Where have all the graveyards gone, gone to flowers every one, When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?
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