By the Blackthorn on Doolieve                

BY THE BLACKTHORN ON DOOLIEVE
Words and air; Jerry A. O’Neill

In the woods up on Doolieve, there’s many have sworn,
That the banshee cries lonely in the bleak winter morn.
But ‘tis only the vixen, as she lies in wait,
For in the heart of the winter is when foxes mate.

By the blackthorn on Doolieve there’s a vixen in heat,
A dog-fox approaches and the two muzzles meet.
The vixen is covered in a scene old as time,
In the brown of the bracken two red bodies join.

There’s a colourful pageant by the bridge on Main Street,
Where the South Union Hunt have their annual meet.
The riders resplendent, sit stately and tall,
A Victorian print come alive from the wall.

As their custom decrees on each St. Stephen’s Day,
They march through Kilmoney in battle array,
They ride up the New Road, by the old Garrydoo,
For to harry and to hunt down the madra rua.

By the bend on the boreen the hounds start to bay,
The scent is picked up and the fox is away.
The horn now rings out in the cold winter sun,
Their sporting has started and the hunt has begun.

With the hounds leading on, the horses keep pace,
They say there’s no thrill like the thrill of the chase,
The adrenalin surge with the hooves as they pound
To the echoing horn and the bay of the hounds.

Though the fox may have cunning, the hunt is well planned,
Every earth and set stopped up all over the land.
The horses go crashing through bracken and briar
For the master well knows that the fox must soon tire.

Their quarry is cornered on the Fairy-fort Hill,
The hounds now move in for the ritual kill,
From the blackthorn on Doolieve, comes a last plaintiff cry,
Where the dog-fox had mated now the fox has to die.

On the street in the village, the horse-boxes are drawn,
While inside in the pub it’s all cosy and warm.
With hot toddies and brandies and full pints of beer
They toast the best hunting for many’s the year.

By the blackthorn on Doolieve, the fox has an earth,
And when the blackthorn is blooming, the vixen gives birth.
She nuzzles and suckles her newly born young,
They’ll be grown up next Christmas when the fox-hunters come.

On the day after Christmas the first martyr was slain,
And on each Stephen’s day they will kill once again,
They will ride up the New Road, by the old Garrydoo,
For to harry and to hunt down the madra rua.

Tally-ho, tally-ho, tally right fol da deh.

Notes:
Garrydoo: “Garraí dubh” / The Black Field. The old name of a very large field on the banks of the Owenabue river.
Madra rua; pronounced “mod ara roo” in this instance. Irish for Fox.
The New Road; now called Lower Kilmoney Road, in Carrigaline.
Doolieve; highest hill in the area.
Fairy-fort Hill; just a made up name, but there are many ringforts in the area.
St. Stephen’s Day: St. Stephen was the first Christian martyr but his feast day does not commemorate the date of his killing. A little poetic licence here.