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In ancient
Ireland there were three learned orders: the Druids, the Bards and the
Brehons. The Druids were priests and seers; they offered sacrifice and
they foretold the future: they were skilled in medicine; the duties of
the Bards were confined to poetry and rhyming alone; they eulogised those
who paid them and gave them hospitality, while they satirised those who
were not generous to them, hence they were called filé.
The
office of Brehon was thrown open to every Irishman who qualified himself
for the position in the reign of Connor MacNessa in the third century.
Previous to the time of King Cormac MacArt the laws of Ireland were unwritten,
and were transmitted by the poets orally. King Cormac had them written
in a book, which is called the Senchus Mór. This book was afterwards purified
from paganism by St. Patrick. The highest grade of Brehon Law was that
of Ollamh (Ollav) or Doctor. The training for this office was extended
over a period of from twelve to twenty years; it included a knowledge
of family history, geography, chronology, versification and a secret language,
known only to the initiated. The name, Brehon, is taken from the Irish
word Breitheamh, a judge.
The
Brehons presided at the inauguration of kings and chiefs. Each Milesian
lord had his own brehon.
When
a brehon acted as pleader he received the eleventh part of the property
in dispute. The MacEgans were amongst the first rank of brehons in ancient
Ireland.
JOHN
EGAN - THE HARP MAKER
At the
start of the 19th century John Egan of Dublin was perhaps the most famous
harp maker in Ireland. The Dublin and Belfast Harp Societies who were
at the forefront of the revival of the harp had their instruments made
by Egan. So important was John Egan as a harp maker that Thomas Moore
sang to an Egan harp.
He is
best remembered for his innovations in the art of harp construction. His
small portable harp opened up the instrument to a wider playing audience.
He is
accredited with the invention of what is commonly called the "Gital
Harp". This was the same size as an Irish harp but it had finger
instead of foot levers to make tuning easier.
There
are Egan harps in many museums around the world notably the New York Metropolitan
Museum of Musical Instruments, the Victoria and Albert Museum, London,
and, of course, in the National Museum of Ireland, Dublin.
John
Egan's premises were initially at 25 Dawson Street, Dublin but he later
moved to 30 Dawson Street. Finally in 1835 he was working at 21 Aungier
Street, Dublin.
JOHN
KEEGAN
( 1809 - 1849 )
When
John Keegan wrote this ballad, I am sure he did not think that it would
become the most popular recitation of the last 160 years. John Keegan
was born in Laois in 1809 and grew to become a ballad singer and ballad
writer. He lived through the worst of the Famine in Black 1847 and 1848
only to succumb in 1849 in the last failure of the potato and the last
wave of famine related deaths. Although in the late 19th century this
recitation was known as "Caoch the Piper", it is now generally
referred to as "Caoch O'Leary."
The
twenty years in the recitation are those spanning the Great Famine when
the population of Ireland dropped by three to four million from a high
in 1841 of nearly 8 million, "How True." Enough to say there's
none but me to welcome Caoch O'Leary.
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Caoch
O'Leary
By John Keegan 1809-1849
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One
winter's day, long, long ago,
When I was a little fellow,
A piper wandered to our door,
Grey-headed, blind and yellow;
And,
how glad was my young heart
Though earth and sky looked dreary,
To see the stranger and his dog -
Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary.
And
when he stowed away his bag,
Cross-barred with green and yellow,
I thought and said, "In Ireland's ground
There's not so fine a fellow."
And
Fineen Burke, and Shaun Magee,
And Eily, Kate and Mary,
Rushed in with panting haste to see
And welcome Caoch O'Leary.
O
God be with those happy times
O God be with my childhood.
When I bareheaded roamed all day
Bird nesting in the wildwood
I'll
not forget those sunny hours
However years may vary.
I'll not forget my early friends
Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.
Poor
Caoch and Pinch slept well that night,
And in the morning early
He called me up to hear him play
"The wind that shakes the barley:"
And
then he stroked my flaxen hair
And cried, "God mark my deary"
And how I wept when he said "Farewell,
And think of Caoch O'Leary."
And
seasons came and went, and still
Old Caoch was not forgotten,
Although we thought him dead and gone
And in the cold grave rotten:
And
often when I walked and talked
With Eily, Kate or Mary,
We thought of childhood's rosy hours
And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.
Well
twenty summers had gone past,
And June's red sun was sinking,
When I, a man, sat by my door,
Of twenty sad things thinking.
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A
little dog came up the way,
His gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail a lame man limped -
'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary.
Old
Caoch, but O how woebegone!
His form is bowed and bending,
His fleshless hands are stiff and wan,
Ay, time is even blending
The
colours on his threadbare bag;
And Pinch is twice as hairy
And thinspare as when first I saw
Himself and Caoch O'Leary.
"God's
blessing here!" the wanderer cried,
"Far, far be hell's black viper:
Does anybody hereabouts
Remember Caoch the Piper?"
With
swelling heart I grasped his hand,
The old man murmured. "Dreary,
Are you the silky-headed child
That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?"
"Yes,
yes," I said—the wanderer wept
As if his heart was breaking—
"And where, avic-machree," he sobbed,
"Is all the merry-making
I
found here twenty years ago
"My tale," I sighed, "mighty weary:
Enough to say there's none but me
To welcome Caoch O'Leary."
"Vo,
vo, vo!" the old man cried
And wrung his hands in sorrow:
"Pray let me in, astore machree,
And I'll go home tomorrow.
My
peace is made, I'll go home tomorrow.
My peace is made, I'll calmly leave
This world so cold and dreary;
And you shall keep my pipes and dog, And pray for Caoch O'Leary."
With
Pinch I watched his bed that night,
Next day his wish was granted,
He died and Father James was brought,
And the Requiem Mass was chanted.
The
neighbours came, to dig his grave
Near Eily, Kate and Mary.
And there he sleeps his last final sleep—
God rest you Caoch O'Leary.
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TOMÁS
BÁN MAC AODHAGAIN
Unknown
This
song was collected at the end of the last century by Mrs Costello and
included in her book Amrain Mhuighe Seola. It has been sung for
many years in Connacht. In tradition the story goes that "Fair Thomas
Egan" ran away with the daughter of a rich landowner Stanley, a crime
for which he was hanged. There is more than one version of the song and
this is the only one that has verse seven in it.
The
song is still part of the repertoire of traditional and "Sean Nós"
singers in West Connacht. Indeed in 1981 I heard it sung in Carrowroe,
Co. Galway, by a young woman who heard her mother sing it.
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'S
ag dul O theach an tórraimh dhom
chuir
mé éo-las ar mo mhian.
Mo
chreach agus mo bhrón nach 'sa mbail'
a
chaith mé'n oiche.
Tá
arrainn a' gathail treasna thríom s'ag
comhnuidhe
i lar mo chroidhe
Ach'
a stór mar' mbídh tú a bhaile liom,
ni
mhairfidh mé beo mí.
A's
thaínic Tomas bán ar cuairt chugam, 's mé
i
n-uaigneas liom féin
'seurd
dubhairt se ''ná bíodh buaidhreadh ort
ná
rud ar bith mar é,
'sé
do chúilin dualach a mharbhuigh mé
's
i ngeallair crochfaidhear mé
's
gur measa liom go mór thú ná mhaithin
'tá
'mo dheídh.
A'r
a chomharranna 'r a chomhairleacha, ná toigidh orm é,
Ma
chuaigh me ag múnadh an eoluis le stóirin gheal mo chléibh,
Ní
bhfuair mé riamh droch-eolas air go fóill ó rugadh mé,
As
mar bhfeicinn acht ag gabháil an bhóithrín
é,
go dtóighfeadh sé mo chroidhe.
A's
tá cuireach go Cill Choinne orainn a's caithfeam a dhul
ann,
Beidh
ann seisiún ceathramhnach idir gael a's Clainne Gal,
ní
dhlighfidhear ann acht beirt eicínt
's
crochfaidhear iad, mo léan:
mar
ta Tomas Ban Mac Aodhagain's Mac Uí Mháoláin le n-a thaobh.
A
Thómas Bháin go cinnte, 's tt searc 's stor mo chroidhe.
A
thomáis a dtug mé gean duit seachas fearaibh og an tsaoghail,
crochfaidhear tu go cinnte mur' bhfuil ag grástaibh Dé
's
a Dhia, nach mor an feall é, an
plannda
breág mar é.
's
a Thomáis Bháin Mhic Aodhágain, 'sé mo léan thu a dul
i gcein
As
cé hiongnadh liom do mhaithrin bheith bronach in do dhiadh.
Dá
mbeitheá ar leabhaidh an gháis aicí cia 'R chás dí thu
bheith tinn,
Ach
do chrochadh as no saltachaibh,'s an bháirtach le do dhruim.
A's
ní glad mainistreach ná teampaill a rinne stór mo chrodhe,
ní
feoil na geir a shanntuigh se, na rud ar bith mar é,
Ach
mar gheall ar bholacht Stanley do crochadh é, me leán!
's
an té a bhfuil grádh do Chlann na nGall aige,
an
ceann go gcaillidh sé.
Beidh
gárda breágh, láidir ag teacht le stór mo chroidhe,
Beidh
Gearaltaigh Chluain Dálaigh 's orm dearg an ríogh,
Béidh
Major óg Ó Conaill 's Ó Ceallaigh as Chuain Aoidh
's
dá mbéadh triúr mar Ó Conaill óg agam,
ní
crochfaidhe stor me chroidhe.
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Translation
Coming
from the wake-house I first knew my love, My torment and my sorrow, that
I did not spend the night at home. The pang goes right through me, and
for ever rests in my heart. Ah! my treasure, if you will not come with
me, I won't be alive in a month.
Thómas
Bán came to visit me, when I was lonely by myself, and he said, "Don't
be troubled, or in any way upset. It's your flowing hair has distracted
me, and on that account I shall be hanged: And you are dearer to me than
my mother whom I leave behind me.
Oh!
neighbours and advisers, do not blame me if I went to give the information
to the bright treasure of my heart. I never got a bad account of him since
the day I was born, and if I only saw him going the boreen it would raise
up my heart.
We are
summoned to Kilkenny, and we must go; There will be quarter sessions there
of Irishmen and foreigners. There will be only one pair adjudged, and
they, alas! will be hanged, Namely Fair Thomas Egan, and Whelan by his
side.
Oh!
Fair Thomás, assuredly you are the love and treasure of my heart. Oh!
Thomás, whom I loved beyond the young men of the world. You will surely
be hanged unless God's grace assists you, And, oh God! what a crime it
would be such a fair plant as he.
Oh!
Fair Thomás Egan, tis my grief that you're going away, And I am not surprised
that your mother is sad after you. If you were on your deathbed before
her, she would never mind your being sick But to be hanged by the heels
and the rain beating down on your back.
It was
not the robbing of a monastery or of a church that my love had done. It
wasn't meat or fat that he coveted or anything of the kind. But on account
of the cattle of Stanley, he was hanged, My grief! and may he who loves
the foreigners, may he lose his head.
There
will be a fine strong guard coming with the love of my heart; There will
be Fitzgerald of Clundaly, and the red army of the King. Young Major O'Connell
will be there, and Kelly of Cluan-ee: And if only I had three men like
young O'Connell, the treasure of my heart would not be hanged.
JOHN
KEEGAN CASEY
John
Keegan Casey was the son of a peasant farmer near Mullingar. He was jailed
as a Fenian in 1807 and was only twenty three years when he died in prison.
He was one of the few poets produced by the Fenian Movement and by far
the most popular. His most famous song "The Rising of the Moon"
has become one of the best known in Ireland.
'Oh
then, tell me, Séan O'Farrall, Tell me why you hurry so?,
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The
Rising of the Moon
By: John Keegan Casey, A.D. 1798
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'Oh
then, tell me, Séan O'Farrell,
Tell me why you hurry so?,
'Hush, ma bouchal, hush, and listen:'
And his cheeks were all a-glow:
'I
bear orders from the captain
get you ready quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together
At the rising of the moon.'
'Oh,
then, tell me, Séan O'Farrall,
Where the gath'rin' is to be?,
'In the ould spot by the river
Right well known to you and me;
One
word more - for signal token
Whistle up the marchin' tune.
With your pike upon your shoulder,
By the rising of the moon.
Out
from many a mud-wall cabin
Eyes were watching thro' that night:
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
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Murmurs
passed along the valleys,
Like the banshee's lonely croon
And a thousand blades were flashing
At the rising of the moon.
There,
beside the singing river,
That dark mass of men were seen -
Far above the shining weapons
Hang their own beloved 'Green'
Death
to ev'ry foe and traitor!
Forward! strike the marchin' tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom!
'Tis the rising of the moon.
Well
they fought for poor old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate;
(Oh! what a glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of 'Ninety-Eight!)
Yet,
thank God, e'en still are beating
hearts in manhood's burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the rising of the moon!
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JOHN
EGAN
( 1890s )
Uncle of Tom Egan—Lieutenant of Police, New York
The
Buck Hare
By John Egan c. 1890s
I'll
sing you a song if you just hold your tongue
Concerning a hare and the course he did run
Since first he was alive, I can tell you
Of all his good running and what he went through.
One
evening from Macken he first took his flight
And he landed in Gurteen three hours before night
He faced back again, through the bogs he did run
And he lay all that night in the bushes of Bun.
Early
next morning he started for Rim
And down by the brook, the poor buck took his fling
Twas there he met "Ponto" Mick, Marten and all
And they run the poor buck into Sweek Kilnagal.
Johnnie
Dooley and Connors, the buck they did spy
They whistled and shouted and hulled they did cry
Their dogs then did see him, and his chase then took in
And they ran the poor hare back to Heffernans again.
Early
next morning, Mick stood on the floor
The buck was sitting outside of the door
O'h "Ponto" says Mick will you look at the hare
And its for Derrycarney the buck did prepare.
"Ponto"
as near him at the fairy bush
To get under the rock he made a hard push
Mick drew the trigger to give him a cramp
But thanks be to God, that his powder was damp.
Anne
Hosey run out, by the hole in my coat
You once killed my turkey and injured my goat
Just hand me my mantle, till I cross o'er the bog
And I'll give information of your guns and your dog.
The
buck cocked his legs and likewise cocked his scent
And from that to lumpeloon he beat "Ponto" full butt
When "Ponto" came back, says Mick, "Where is the
hare?"
And with pure vexation, his locks he did tear.
He
then did bid them goodbye and he started away
And he faced from Broughal and made no delay
When he came to the turn, the Clearys just let him pass
And they ran the poor hare into old Countyglass.
There
on the banks of the river the buck he sat down
The Rogers did spy him and did him surround
The Buck took to the river his life to defend
And he started for Eglish where he had a friend.
On
Saturday morning before the sun rose
Some boys they were hunting, and the buck they did rise
He then took to the heels and he ran through the bog
And he never cried crack till he landed in Log.
Marten
Daly got up after hearing a shout
He opened the door and he let his dog out
He did his endeavours the buck for to kill
But he beat Dalys dog at the top of the hill.
The
next day was Sunday I'll have you to know
Both Melady and Egan to hunt they did go
Roller and Toller they gave him a hard chase
And they run the poor buck into Marshalls place.
The
buck being fatigued he lay down for a while
Paddy Mashall's he spied him and at him did smile
Saying stay where you are boy, and you I'll defend
You'll have plenty to eat, and sure I'll be your friend.
The
buck he make answer, saying its all a darn lie
From this very moment from you I will fly
There's a lad down below at the butt of the hill
And if he got the chance sure my blood he would spill.
The
lad that I mean I'm told is your friend
To give information l'm told he does lend
If another man hunts me, sure I will go bail
You'll find him severely or send him to jail.
At
eleven o'clock he set out for the cush
When he spied Paddy Condron lying under a bush
The hare then did shiver, saying at me he'll fire
And its back to the hills, sure I'll have to retire.
The
buck he got up and he sauntered away
Saying "God Morning" dear Paddy it is a fine day:
Pat drew the Cithogue and at him did peg
And he put the stick hurling right over his head.
Bad
luck to you Paddy the buck he did say
You sauced me annoyance, so I'll gallop away
When I reach Ballylin the true story I'll tell
Mr. King will come up and he'll run you to hell.
Then
he started for home through hedges and crops
He left one of his hind legs in Hughie Guinens old trap
Instead of a friend you have proven more foe
So bad cess to you Hughie where ever you go.
So
now I'll conclude and I'll finish my song
Down by the Sally Larking he sauntered along
He fell into a hare-hold the truth I will tell
And the buck left his death upon Nicholas Burelle.
DARIUS
JOSEPH MACEGAN
The
MacEgan
Darius
Joseph MacEgan (1856-1939) was perhaps the most famous of the Egan graphic
artists and established himself as an artist of world repute. Darius claimed
that he could trace his ancestry directly back to Darby Egan of Ballymacegan
who in 1715 was the acknowledged head of the Clan - with the title of
MacEgan. Marie O'Beirne MacEgan was the wife of Darius and as they had
no children it was believed that the nearest surviving male relative should
assume the title on the chief's death. Maurice Francis Egan had been in
contact with Darius and Marie believed him to be the heir to the title.
Dr.
Maurice Francis Egan was born in Philadelphia, May 24th, 1852. He received
a degree of B.A. from La Salle College in 1873 and later was awarded his
Masters Degree. He entered Georgetown College in 1875 receiving his degree
in 1879. He was then the recipient of an M.A. degree from Notre Dame University
in 1878, J.U.D. from Ottawa University in 1881, C.H.D. Villanova in 1907,
Litt. D from Columbia University in 1919, LLD from N. Johns Brooklyn in
1920. He married Katherine Chilben of Philadelphia in 1880, Mrs. Egan
died January 27th, 1921.
Dr.
Egan began his active career in 1877 when he became subeditor of McGees
Illustrated Weekly. For a time he also edited the Foremans Journal. In
1888 he became editor of English literature at Notre Dame. In 1907 he
was appointed Ambassador to the Kingdom of Denmark until 1918. Dr. Egan
resigned as Minister to the court of Denmark in 1918 after having held
the post for twelve years. At the time of his retirement he was dean of
the American Diplomatic Corps. He twice refused the Ambassadorship of
Vienna.
Dr.
Egan was a voluminous writer. among his works being "The Life Around
us", "Modern Novelists", studies in literature and volumes
of poems. His "Ten Years on the German Frontier" was published
in 1918. He was awarded the Laetare Medal for poetry in 1911.
He was
Commander of the Order of Donneborg, and a member of the Institute of
Arts and Letters. He was decorated by His Majesty the King of the Belgians
in 1906, and by the King of Denmark in 1923.
Following
the first World War he returned to the U.S.A. and devoted himself to his
first love - literature, and wrote many book reviews for literary magazines.
He had
two daughters Mrs. G. A. O'Reilly (at whose home in Brooklyn he died)
and Mrs. Elmer T. Murphy who lived at 19th Street, Brooklyn. Dr. Egan
had one son Gerald Egan who was a captain in the First World War, and
later was with the New York Herald. Up to 1924 he lived in Brooklyn. Dr.
Maurice Egan died on the 15th January, 1924.
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