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Sigerson Clifford paints a most vivid pen-picture of one of its famous sporting occasions which still takes place every year but its date has been changed to the month of August.
Sigerson Clifford paints a most vivid pen-picture of one of its famous sporting occasions which still takes place every year but its date has been changed to the month of August.
Steve ‘Crusher’ Casey came from Sneem, Co. Kerry and became a world champion at wrestling. Clifford’s ‘Ballads of a Bogman’, was first published in 1955 and is now available from Mercier Press Limited.
The Cahersiveen Races
by Sigerson Clifford
‘Twas a day in September that I’ll always remember,
I went with my father to Carhan’s old school
And there on the racecourse were gathered in great force
Rich man and poor man, wild boy and tame fool.
There were tinkers from Galway as brown as a ha’penny,
A beggar with whiskers the longest I’ve seen,
The three-card trick Johnny and the four-shots-a-penny
On the day of the races in Cahersiveen.
‘Twas a rich Tower of Babel beside the school gable
Where the bookies were shouting and laying the odds,
‘Twould take Atlas so hairy or our own Crusher Casey
To push through the crowds packed like peas in their pods.
There were tents like umbrellas where all sorts of fellows
Sold dilisc and shellfish and the juicy crubeen,
And penny Peg’s legs the size of a peeler
On the day of the races in Cahersiveen.
The jockeys they sat on their horses like statues,
Their fame shall remain while the Fertha still flows:
‘Tis my hero, Padgen, I’d pin a bright badge on,
With the two gallant Griffins, Jimmie and John Joe.
Denis Donovan, too, from high Barr na Sráide,
And Courtney, Saint Brendan’s, were sporting and keen,
While Jack Rock’s spurs a-jingle would make your blood tingle
On the day of the races in Cahersiveen.
The horses, God bless them, in my dreams I caress them,
The wild-things of beauty stole the heart from my side,
As I watched them fly over the grass and red clover
And sweep like the wind east by Reenrusheen tide.
They skimmed the hawbushes, they dashed through the rushes,
Their jockeys arrayed in blue, scarlet, and green:
‘Twas the world’s eighth wonder to hear their hooves thunder
On the day of the races in Cahersiveen.
O that night men did gather, hearts light like a feather.
Round a meegum in Bawner’s or a pint at the Plow,
They toasted the horses that won out their courses
And shouted their praises while time did allow.
‘Here’s a health to you, Terry, and O’Neill’s Pride of Kerry,
Likewise Lass from Sussa, the westland’s swift queen:
May they graze in high heaven and have comfort for ever,
They’re the pride of the races in Cahersiveen.’
My father is gone now, God’s peace to his ashes,
The boys are young men and the old men are dead,
There is many a mile between me and the racecourse,
But the hooves of the horses beat loud in my head.
I give you my oath now I’d swop the wide world
To call back the bright days when proud I had been
A lad with his dad on the white road to Carhan,
And the splendid horse-races in Cahersiveen.
This poem captures a time of innocence when any out-of-town visit was seen as an exciting and colourful experience. Sigerson’s own notes on this reads – Bazaar: a travelling, open-air show. The talkies killed most of them unfortunately. Clawhammer: old-fashioned coat with tails to it.
This poem captures a time of innocence when any out-of-town visit was seen as an exciting and colourful experience. Sigerson’s own notes on this reads – Bazaar: a travelling, open-air show. The talkies killed most of them unfortunately. Clawhammer: old-fashioned coat with tails to it.
Lenihan’s Big Bazaar
by Sigerson Clifford
We had simple ways to pass the days in our village on the hill,
The football and the beagles and the dancing by the Mill.
The night-time was the worst of all the hours dragged slow and lame,
The great diversion that we had was when the Missioners came.
We were only middling sinners with venials to our score
So they blessed our beads and left us and the night flowed back once more.
We talked and yawned and went to bed till eastward by Glencar,
We saw the lights that marked the vans of Lenihan’s Big Bazaar.
Then boys o’ war the world wheeled bright around the Market House
With the roulette and the rocky-boats and the game of cat and mouse
And the wheel of fortune shining like a rainbow in the sky
With gold too at the end of it for them that paid to try
‘Twas fun to aim the shooting gun at the dainty dancing ball
Or to gamble for the trophies in the lovely Chaney stall.
Faith yesterday the pension man came in his motor car
And he took a sup out of the cup I won in the Bazaar.
And then the concert on the stage the fiddle and the fife,
The dancing and reciting and the sketches drawn from life.
We walked the hard road with Parnell; we died in jail with Tone
And we cheered the men who sketched them Seán O’Grady and Malone.
I hear praise on the listening-in for this and that boyo
Sure they wouldn’t hold a candle to Tom Storey long ago
With the clawhammer and battered boots, the cane and cigar
He roofed the sky with smiles for slates in Lenihan’s Big Bazaar.
And Kathleen O’Reilly now ’tis she had steps galore
In those shiny dawny shoes of hers the times she took the floor
The Blackbird and the Rayhill reel she danced them like a joy
And tripped her way into the heart of one small watching boy.
O she was young and I was young and life was good and sweet
And all my dreams were spancelled to her little twinkling feet
While I wondered would she stick the land my hopes smashed like a jar
When I saw her smile at Boxty Walsh in Lenihan’s Big Bazaar.
‘Twould do you good to hear the tunes that knocked sparks from the eye
And the fine old all-for-Ireland songs that had no right to die.
The brothers, Matt and Christy, were the best the world had seen
And we loved them as we heard them pay their tribute to the green.
There’s grass growing green around the Mill where we danced the Kerry Set
While they’re trotting down a jazz-hall through a haze of dust and sweat
They’re changed days and altered nights but still shines like a star
The kindly glow of lights long quenched in Lenihan’s Big Bazaar.
The short stories collected here are among the best ever written about Ireland, distinguished by Sigerson Clifford’s concise, masterful treatment of themes such as unrequited love, murderous hatred, betrayal, disappointment and hope.
The short stories collected here are among the best ever written about Ireland, distinguished by Sigerson Clifford’s concise, masterful treatment of themes such as unrequited love, murderous hatred, betrayal, disappointment and hope. The changing fortunes of life are depicted in miniature. Lyrical description blends seamlessly with naturalistic dialogue so that the voices of farmers, fishermen, emigrants and children sing clearly through tales that are poignant, witty, brave and true. Irish Short Stories is a classic of Irish literature, confirming Clifford’s place among the pre-eminent writers about Ireland and the Irish.
The mountain frowned upon the school, The school stared at the street, And rich men’s sons came there in shoes, While I ran in bare feet.
The mountain frowned upon the school,
The school stared at the street,
And rich men’s sons came there in shoes
While I ran in bare feet.
The rich had meat and cakes to eat,
And butter like the Danes,
While I had only spuds and fish,
And fish, they say, makes brains.
But still the rich boys passed exams
While I kept thin, and thick,
And thanked the stars that he had come
Among us… Brother Mick.
We had the world’s slowest clock
That drowsed upon the wall,
While I cursed the Roman scoundrels
That let Caesar loose in Gaul.
There, too, was Euclid with his cuts,
And trigonometry.
That Peachy, Ring and Chas could do
But they were Greek to me.
And there were sums on trains and tubs
Of water running quick:
‘Twas Chinese torture till he came
To save me… Brother Mick.
For Brother Tom no patience had
With duffers such as I
Who never could be taught to solve
The mystery of pi.
And Brother Jim had even less
For those who didn’t prize
The hairy men of hither Gaul
As seen through Caesar’s eyes.
Then Brother Tom whacked like a bomb,
While Jim could wield the stick.
But that was all before we knew
The smile of Brother Mick.
Still the great Power that will not let
The sparrow fall to earth
Took pity on bewildered brains
No Latin could alert.
For Brother Jim was sent to Trim
To march with Caesar there,
While we sprawled in our desks and heard
The new man on the stair.
We saw him smile as he came in,
His footsteps short and quick;
His name was Brother Michael
So, of course, we called him Mick.
And as the weeks meandered on
We watched with puzzled eye
And wondered if some archangel
Had strayed down from the sky.
He did not shout, he did not clout
But went his gentle way
To bring the light to souls that stood
Full ankle-deep in clay.
He locked the leather in the press
And burned the hazel stick;
‘Twas then we all threw doubts upon
The mind of Brother Mick.
How short is time with one you love,
A year is like a while.
The things you will not do for stick
You learn for a smile.
We passed exams and scholarships,
Our mothers thought us fine,
Though greater than the loaves and fish
The miracle of mine.
The gods be praised I even got
Marks in arithmetic;
‘You’ll be a second Einstein yet,’
Said surprised Brother Mick.
The big lads reaped their excise jobs,
We all marched to the train
And shook their lordly hands and praised
The old school once again.
The engine panted up the rails,
We flung our cheers out loud
And watched it sprinting past the bridge,
Its whistle long and proud.
And as we laughed we little knew
The card Fate chose to pick,
How soon he’d be an exile too,
Our splendid Brother Mick…
The world has wheeled a lot since then,
Quiet are the hobs of home
And far from me these things are now
As is the moon from Rome.
But I can see the old school still
Stand tall above the street,
I smell the heather from the hill
And hear the running feet.
And in the door he walks again,
His footsteps short and quick,
And back across the years I wave
Goodbye to Brother Mick.
Brush the floor and clean the hearth, And set the fire to keep, For they might visit us tonight, When all the world’s asleep.
Irish tradition held that the Holy Family of Mary, Joseph and the Child Jesus travelled the roads again each Christmas Eve as they did in Bethlehem on the first Christmas. They were refused entry then, of course, so to show that they were now welcome the door was unlocked, a candle was lit on each window, a warm fire filled the grate and food was left on the table.
The Kerry Christmas Carol
by Sigerson Clifford
Brush the floor and clean the hearth,
And set the fire to keep,
For they might visit us tonight
When all the world’s asleep.
Don’t blow the tall white candle out
But leave it burning bright,
So that they’ll know they’re welcome here
This holy Christmas night.
Leave out the bread and meat for them,
And sweet milk for the Child,
And they will bless the fire, that baked
And, too, the hands that toiled.
For Joseph will be travel-tired,
And Mary pale and wan,
And they can sleep a little while
Before they journey on.
They will be weary of the roads,
And rest will comfort them,
For it must be many a lonely mile
From here to Bethlehem.
O long the road they have to go,
The bad mile with the good,
Till the journey ends on Calvary
Beneath a cross of wood.
Leave the door upon the latch,
And set the fire to keep,
And pray they’ll rest with us tonight
When all the world’s asleep.
The Ballad of the Tinker’s Daughter was written by Sigerson Clifford, born in Cork of Kerry parents in 1913, died in 1985. Tim Dennehy put it to music in 1986 and recorded it on his tape ‘A Thimbleful of Song’. There are 11 verses to this poem and whilst it’s possible to see how this inspired Mickey MacConnell to write ‘The Tinkerman’s Daughter’, it tells a more complex story.
The Ballad of the Tinker’s Daughter was written by Sigerson Clifford, born in Cork of Kerry parents in 1913, died in 1985. Tim Dennehy put it to music in 1986 and recorded it on his tape ‘A Thimbleful of Song’. There are 11 verses to this poem and whilst it’s possible to see how this inspired Mickey MacConnell to write ‘The Tinkerman’s Daughter’, it tells a more complex story: farmer steals tinker’s daughter; she returns to the gypsies where she dies during child-birth; some years later the boy returns to the farm and is shot by father (who no longer lets gypsies on his land); before he dies the boy tells farmer who he is; farmer hangs himself; villagers bury the pair of them and are joined by a red-headed gypsy girl in the funeral procession, who disappears once the ‘mound was patted down’.
More on Sigerson Clifford at http://www.sigersonclifford.com.
The Ballad of the Tinker’s Daughter
by Sigerson Clifford
When rooks ripped home at eventide and trees pegged their shadows to the ground
The tinkers came to Carhan Bridge and camped beside the Famine mound.
With long-eared ass and bony horse and with blue-wheeled cart and caravan
And she the fairest of them all the daughter of the tinker clan.
O the sun flamed in her red, red hair and in her eyes there were stars of mirth
Her body held the willow’s grace and her feet scarced touched the springing earth.
The night spread its star-tasselled shawls; the river gossiped to her stones
She sat beside the camping fire and she sang the songs the tinker owns.
All the songs as old as turning wheels and sweet as the bird-throats after rain
Deep wisdom of the wild wet earth; the pain of joy, the joy of pain
A farmer going by the road to tend his cattle in the byre
He saw her like some fairy queen between the river and the fire.
And her beauty stirred his brooding blood; her magic mounted all in his head.
He stole her from the tinker clan and on the morrow they were wed.
And when the sunlight swamped the hills and bird-song drowned the river’s bells
The tinkers quenched their hazel fires and climbed the pallid road to Kells.
It was from her house she watched them fade and vanish in the yellow furze
A cold wind blew across the sun and it silenced all the singing birds.
She saw the months run on and on, she saw the river fret and foam
At break of day the roosters called; at dim of dusk the cows came home.
The crickets strummed their heated harps in hidden halls all behind the hob
And they told of distant waterways where the black moorhens dive and bob
And shoot the glassy bubbles up to smash their windows on the stones
And brown trout hide their spots of gold among the river’s pebbled bones.
And too the ebbing sea that flung a net of sound all about the stars,
It set strange hills dancing in her dreams and it meshed her to the wandering cars.
She stole out from her sleeping man; she fled the fields that tied her down
Her face moved towards the rising sun; her back was to the tired town.
And she climbed the pallid road to Kells against the hill and all against the wind
In Glenbeigh of the mountain-streams she came upon her tinker-kind.
They bedded her between the wheels and there her son was born
She heard the tinker-woman’s praise before she died that morn.
Now the years flew by like frightened birds that spill a feather and then are gone
The farmer walked his weedful fields and he made the tinkers travel on.
No more they camped by Carhan Bridge or coaxed their fires to fragrant flame
They saw him with his dog and his gun; they spat and cursed his name.
And when May hid the hawthorn trees with stars she stole from out the skies
There came a barefoot tinker lad with red, red hair and laughing eyes.
He left the road, he crossed the fields; the farmer shot him in the side
The smile went from his twisting lips; he told his name and died.
And that evening when the neighbours came they found the son there upon the floor
They saw the farmer swinging low between the window and the door.
They placed the son upon a cart and they cut the swaying farmer down
They swear a tinker woman came with them all the way to town.
And the sun flamed in her red, red hair and in her eyes there danced stars of mirth
Her body held the willow’s grace and her feet scarced touched the springing earth.
They buried them in Keelvarnogue and eyes were moist and lips were wan
And when the mound was patted down the tinker maid was gone.
The song is based on a poem by Sigerson Clifford, who was born in Cahersiveen, and it tells the story of the boys of Barr Na Sraide – Top Street – who hunted for the wren.
The song, according to Irish singer Tim Dennehy’s web site, “captures beautifully the essence of Cahersiveen nestled as it is between the mountain and sea.” Cahersiveen is an Irish town located at the Ring of Kerry.
The song is based on a poem by Sigerson Clifford, who was born in Cahersiveen, and it tells the story of the boys of Barr Na Sraide – Top Street – who hunted for the wren.
The poem recalls the life of his boyhood friends starting from when they were young children through to the Black and Tan period, and up to the civil war.
The poem speaks of the Irish tradition of “hunting for the wran”, (wren), a small bird, on St. Stephen’s Day, December 26. Later set to music, the song has been recorded by numerous traditional and folk singers.
More on Sigerson Clifford at http://www.sigersonclifford.com.
The Boys of Barr Na Sraide
O the town it climbs the mountain and looks upon the sea
And sleeping time or waking time ’tis there I long to be
To walk again that kindly street, the place I grew a man
With the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.
With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt for the dreoilín.
We searched for birds in every furze from Letter to Dooneen.
We sang for joy beneath the sky; life held no print or plan
And we boys in Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wran.
And when the hills were bleeding and the rifles were aflame
To the rebel homes of Kerry those Saxon strangers came
But the men who dared the Auxies and who fought the Black and Tans
Were the boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.
So here’s a toast to them tonight, those lads who laughed with me
By the groves of Carhan River or the slopes of Beenatee
John Dawley and Batt Andy and the Sheehans Con and Dan
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.
But now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way
Deep in the heart of London town or over in Broadway
And I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can
Those boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran
And when the wheel of life runs down and when peace comes over me
O lay me down in that old town between the hills and sea
I’ll take my sleep in those green fields the place my life began
Where the boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wran.
Ar Sheilg an Dreoilín
An Irish translation of ‘The Boys of Barr na Sráide’ by Garry McMahon
Ó táimse i bhfad ó Éirinn is óm’ bhaile i gCiarraí
Ach is ró-bhuan é mo chuimhne ar an áit de ló is d’oích’,
An botháinín ‘nar saolaíodh mé i gCathair chaoin Saidhbhín
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.
An t-aiteann bhuí, gach tor is claí, chuardaíomar iad go cruinn
Faoi scamaill dhubha gan brón ná cumha ar lorg an éinín.
Bhí gliondar inár gcroíthe do scairteamar gan sriain
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.
Cé throid in aghaidh na Sasanaigh is ghnóthaigh clú is cáil
In aimsir na nDubhchrónach nuair a ghlaodh ar Fhianna Fáil?
B’iad na buachaillí a sheas an fód is chuir ruaig ar Sheán Buí
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.
Is ólaimís a sláinte, na laochra a bhí lem’ thaobh,
A raibh spórt is greann ar bhruach na habhann ins na coillte i measc na gcraobh,
Batt Aindí is An Dálach, sinn ar chliathán Bhinn a’ Tí
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.
Is táid anois thar sáile i bhfad, i bhfad i gcéin,
I Londain nó i Meiriceá agus mé anseo liom fhéin
Ach canfhadsa a moltaí go ceolmhar is go binn
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.
Nuair a ghlaofaidh Dia na nGlór orm chun mo chodladh deireadh buan,
Ar imeall gheal na farraige sea gheobhaidh mé mo shuan,
Is luífimíd go sítheach ann ‘sna gorta glasa mín’,
Buachaillí ó Bharr na Sráide ar sheilg an Dreoilín.
These are photos I found on the Internet, all related to Sigerson Clifford, none of them appeared to be copyrighted.
These are photos I found on the Internet, all related to Sigerson Clifford, none of them appeared to be copyrighted.
Cahersiveen CBS, Dunloe cup winners, 1930. Sigerson Clifford is standing on the far left side.
Sigerson Clifford's Graveside at Kilnavarnogue Cemetery in his native Cahersiveen
Barr Na Sraide - Top Street in Cahersiveen, Ireland
More on Sigerson Clifford at http://www.sigersonclifford.com.
Even though this is an excerpt from my novel, this short story is complete in itself. The scene is a pub near the town Cahersiveen in Ireland, and the story leads to the lyrics of The Boys of Barr Na Sraide as written by the Irish poet and playwright Sigerson Clifford.
by Wilfried F. Voss
Andy had finished his shower, shaved, and put on some good cologne. His hair was still damp when he went down the stairs toward the pub. It was already decently filled, and a session was in progress at the table in the far corner.
He noticed two fiddles, a guitar, an accordion, an Uilleann pipe, and a bodhrán. They had just finished “The Bell Harbour,” and, without a noticeable break, continued with “The Ivy Leaf.”
Also sitting with them was his father with a full glass of beer in his hand. When he saw his son, he gestured at him to take a chair beside him. He nodded to the musicians, and both Ryan McCarthy and his son Andrew patiently waited for the song to end.
It was a rare occasion that the publican would join a session, and as soon as they had finished the last song, the players held on to their instruments and looked at Ryan in anticipation. Even beyond Cahersiveen and the county of Kerry, he was famous for his clear and strong voice. Whatever his performance would be that night, the musicians were prepared to follow his lead.
Ryan McCarthy waited a few moments until he was sure he had the undivided attention of the expecting crowd in front of him.
“Tonight,” he finally said, “I will take the opportunity, and sing a song in remembrance of all those who fought for the freedom of this proud nation, and, most certainly, there is no song better suited than ‘The Boys of Barr Na Sráide.’ ”
A murmur of excitement filled the room, and the musicians laid down their instruments. This next song would be performed a capella.
Ryan’s eyes scanned through the room. “I see, we have a good number of tourists from America here tonight, and, so you can enjoy the song to its full extent, I will explain a few things.”
He took a sip from his beer and continued.
“The song I am about to sing is based on a poem by Sigerson Clifford, who was born here in Cahersiveen, and it tells the story of the boys of Barr Na Sráide – Top Street – who hunted for the wren.
“You see, on the 26th day of December, we celebrate the first Christian martyr, Saint Stephen. However, the tradition of St. Stephen’s Day long predates Christian rituals. It is also known as Lá an Dreoilín, the day of the wren.
“Birds like the wren have a long tradition in Irish mythology. Druids used their flight patterns as auguries. Mysteriously, the wren also had a reputation for treachery, and it is blamed for betraying St. Stephen.
“This explains why the wren was hunted on St. Stephen’s Day and nailed to a pole. There it would serve to head what we call the Mummers Parade. People dress in strange clothing. They wear masks or straw suits and march accompanied by musicians. In some areas of Ireland, they call them the Mummers, and in others they call them the Wrenboys.”
He glanced around the room, making certain he still had everybody’s attention.
“Be assured, these days the wren survives. It is only used in rhymes and the name of the day.”
He paused briefly to take another sip.
“Through the lyrics of the song,” he continued, “Sigerson Clifford not only captures the essence of our town, Cahersiveen, as it climbs the mountains and looks upon the sea.
“He also remembers his boyhood friends, when they were children, and when they grew up to fight for the freedom of our country, to fight the Black and Tans, and up to the civil war.
“As all of us know, the Irish problem went on beyond the civil war, and it ended just a few years ago, but that does not mean that this song lost its meaning.”
He pointed into the room. “I know in America you observe Memorial Day to remember your freedom fighters, your soldiers, and it is a good tradition to remember those who died for the freedom of others.”
A confirming murmur filled the room.
“It may not be a popular view,” he said after silence was restored again, “and some of you will not agree with what I have to say, but tonight I take the liberty to salute all of our freedom fighters, including those of the Irish Republican Army, who fought a good fight, who finished their course, and who have kept the faith.
“Despite their negative image in the world, the folks who fought with the Irish Republican Army were mostly ordinary people. They were no different in their ways than those people assembled by George Washington as he went to fight the British Empire.
“They were not fanatics and not terrorists, only honest people with all their shortcomings who continued to fight for the freedom of our countrymen in the Northern provinces of this island, our Ireland.
“Without their efforts, our Catholic brothers and sisters would not be able to enjoy the freedom they have today.”
He lifted his glass toward his audience that listened to him with fascination.
“So, I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can, those boys of Barr na Sráide, who hunted for the wren.”
The room was still, not a word was spoken, and all eyes were on the man sitting in his chair as he put his glass to the floor. They watched as he closed his eyes, as he summoned his thoughts, and straightened his posture. Then, with a strong and clear voice, he began singing, and he sang of the boys of Barr na Sráide, who hunted for the wren.
The boys of Barr na Sráide
by Sigorson Clifford
O the town it climbs the mountain and looks upon the sea
And sleeping time or waking time ’tis there I long to be
To walk again that kindly street, the place I grew a man
With the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren
With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt for the dreoilín.
We searched for birds in every furze from Letter to Dooneen
We sang for joy beneath the sky; life held no print or plan
And we boys in Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren
And when the hills were bleeding and the rifles were aflame
To the rebel homes of Kerry those Saxon strangers came
But the men who dared the Auxies and who fought the Black and Tans
Were the boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren
So here’s a toast to them tonight, those lads who laughed with me
By the groves of Carhan River or the slopes of Beenatee
John Dawley and Batt Andy and the Sheehans Con and Dan
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren
But now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way
Deep in the heart of London town or over in Broadway
And I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can
Those boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren
And when the wheel of life runs down and when peace comes over me
O lay me down in that old town between the hills and sea
I’ll take my sleep in those green fields the place my life began
Where the boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren
———————————–
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