Perhaps you think that I learned the song, An Ciarraíoch Mallaithe ("The Curséd Kerryman"), from Séamus Begley. Actually, it might have been the other way around. Séamus was only a garsún of 16 years when I sang that song in Kruger Kavanagh's pub in Dún Chaoin (Dunquin). (Click on the song name for my version and on Begley's name for his).
I was visiting the Kerry Gaeltacht with a small group of Dublin gaeilgeóirí, and we headed for Kruger's in the expectation of finding music there. The pub was thronged, but the music had not started, so we decided to get it going ourselves, and I sang An Ciarraíoch Mallaithe. (This was a song I got in a little blue book, "Abair Amhrán," popular among gaeilgeoirí). As you know, I am not a great singer, and I did not expect any praise, but hoped to stir the company to music. To my surprise, the leading sean-nós singer of Kerry, (and, later, of Ireland, when he won the All-Ireland prize in the Oireachtas competition), (i.e., Seán de hÓra), crossed the floor to shake my hand, and complimented my rendering of the song, which, he said, I delivered with suitable emotion.
Seán de hÓra's music was already on film, for he was reputedly the author of Caoineadh an Spailpín ("Lament of the Migrant-Worker"), on whistle in Seán Ó Riada's sound-track of The Playboy of the Western World film (1962). You can hear this tune by clicking on the link. You may notice an influence on my recent tune The Fairy Flute of Lusmagh on Shannon. I gather that Seán de hÓra was not registered as a composer with IMRO, so would not have collected any royalties for this composition, despite the success of the film.
Begley would announce An Ciarraíoch Mallaithe as a love song and sing it as such. But it is not a bit romantic. It is a tale of roguery, seduction, deception and betrayal.
The Kerryman of the song is a spailpín (i.e., a migrant worker) working on the harvest in the rich grain county of Kilkenny, where he seduces a fine woman of considerable wealth,
"Come away with me," he says, "and leave your back-breaking farm. We will have a life of travel, love, music, dancing and fun."
"I would," says she, "If I could trust you at all. But tomorrow, you will be charming another fine woman."
"Not at all," says he. "I swear I love only you. I love you from the bottom of my heart, and I will never be untrue."
"Well," says she, "If I go on the road with my money in my pocket, I will be attacked and robbed."
"There is a simple solution," says he, "give your money to me to mind. I will strap it to my chest, and, I can tell you now, nobody will ever take it off me."
So, the fine lady sold her cattle and her land, - the harvest of wheat and barley had already been sold,- and she entrusted the Kerryman with her money. She was to pack a small bag and then he would collect her at her former home in the morning. She waited for him to come round. She waited and waited and waited. At last she realised what had happened. She had been conned out of her entire fortune. She roused her cousins and her neighbours to follow after the Kerryman and bring him to buck, but she knew it was hopeless.
If I follow you hard as far as Carbury [in Kerry]
I'll go out of my mind if you do not come back with me;
Oro, I'll be shedding salt tears.
You have taken my heart, my soul and my body;
You have taken my worldly goods, all my money;
Oro, the hard work of years.
I'm left here forlorn, without two coins to jingle,
While you drink your fill in some shebeen in Dingle,
Oro, and I am destitute here.
(Translation: Krunchie Killeen)
The song rotates between the words of the Kerryman and the words of the Lady. The emotion varies depending on who is talking. There are seven verses of ten lines each in all, but I reduced it to three where the story was adequately captured. (Begley, not intent on telling the full story, gives two verses in the above link). Down in Kerry, where they are familiar with the song for generations, they can tolerate all seven verses, for they are familiar with the theme, know exactly what is meant by all the turns of phrase, and love the clever use of language in the song (more subtle than my translation).
Perhaps my singing was not great, but the great sean-nós singer appreciated how I changed the emotion between the rogue and the lady. Sean-nós singers don't demand that others copy them, but appreciate when others give their own interpretation, even when not very polished.
I was a party-goer then. At closing time I and my mates would watch who was buying the take-away beer and tag along with them to the party. This day a local lad had been ordained and the large attendance in the pub were his supporters. My pal and I tagged along to the new priest's family home for the party. However, the family were not welcoming all and sundry; so I and my pal, not recognised as invitees, were asked to leave. This was perfectly reasonable. However, I learned next day that when Seán de hÓra heard I had been asked to leave, he walked out himself in protest. I felt embarrassed for having caused an unpleasantness between neighbours.
Seamus Begley's lovely rendering of An Ciarraíoch Mallaithe, linked above, departs from the Sean-Nós by providing a a nice folk-type guitar accompaniment. I go further from the Sean-Nós style with my rendering of the tune in Kerryman in Shanghai.
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