Tune:chordstrangler: Lament for Art O'Laoghaire

Subject: Tune Req: chordstrangler sans cookie
From: GUEST
Date: 16 May 08 - 09:38 PM

It's late at night and I'm sitting here with a demented North of England piccolo player called Jim who has just remembered that he is alleged kin to the O'Laoighaire clan. I happened to mention that I have a vague memory of a tune - perhaps on pipes - called the lament for art O'Laoghaire. Can any Catters out there help...Thanks...CS.

Subject: RE: Tune Req: chordstrangler sans cookie
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 16 May 08 - 09:51 PM

I believe that may make him a second cousin (twice removed) to a (disturbed childhood) H. Gackman of movie fame. Several local folk also seem to be seeking his solace, sucor, subsistance.

Sincerely,
Gargoyle

He might not want to reply. He may have deep-pockets and since he has deep-pockets an expose' of "problems" relatively-speaking may make him vulneralbe because there maybe childhood stories from best friends that created the sort of buzz some local hip-cats are laughing about.

Subject: RE: Tune Req: chordstrangler sans cookie
From: Joe Offer
Date: 16 May 08 - 10:15 PM

Well, Chordstrangler, I found lyrics galore with this Google search (click), including this one (click):

Lament for Art O' Leary

I
Dark Eileen
(i)

My steadfast love!
The day I first saw you
by the market-house wall,
my eyes heeded you,
my heart fell in love with you,
I fled from my friends
far from home with you.

(ii)

I had no regrets:
you brightened a parlour for me,
painted rooms for me
reddened an oven for me,
shaped loaves for me,
there was roast on the spit for me,
beef you felled for me;
I slept on duck-down
until the middle of day
or later if it pleased me.

(iii)
My steadfast love!
I call to mind
that clear day of spring,
how fine your hat was,
laced with a gold band
-your silver-hilted sword -
your dextrous brave hand -
your menacing deportment -
true trembling fear
for underhand foes -
ready for a canter,
a white-faced steed under you.
The English bowed
down to the ground for you,
not out of goodwill toward you
but out of sheer fear,
though through them you were lost,
my soul's darling.

(iv)
Horseman of the white hands!
It's well a brooch suited you
set firm in cambric,
and a hat corded round.
When you returned from overseas
the street was cleared for you,
and not out of love for you
but out of great hatred.

(v)
My steadfast friend!
When they come home to me,
little loving Conor
and the child, Fear O' Leary,
they will ask me at once
where I left their father.
I will tell them sadly
that I left him in Cill na Martar.
They'll call on their father
and they'll have no answer.

(vi)
My friend and my calf!
Kindred of Antrim's Earl
and of the Barrys of Allchoill,
how fine a lance suited you,
a banded hat,
a slender foreign shoe,
a suit of cloth
spun abroad for you.

(vii)
My steadfast friend!
I never believed you were dead
until your horse came to me,
its reins on the ground,
your heart's blood on its cheek
right back to your tooled saddle
where you sat and stood up.
I leapt to the threshold,
a second leap to the gate,
a third on your horse.

(viii)
I clapped my palms quickly
and hurried on forward
as well as I could
till I found you dead before me
by a little low gorse bush,
no Pope nor no bishop,
no cleric, no priest
to read a psalm over you:
but a worn old woman
who spread her cloak over you -
your blood ran in streams.
I did not wait to clean it
but drank it up with my palms. 1

(ix)
My steadfast love!
Stand up
and come home with me,
that I may have beef felled,
that I may call a big feast,
where we'll have sweet music,
that I may prepare a bed for you
under bright sheets,
under fine patterned quilts
that will make you sweat
and drive out of the cold you caught.



II
Art's sister intervenes
(x)

My friend and my treasure!
Many the handsome woman
from Cork of the sails
to the Bridge of Tóime,
who would give you a big field of cattle
and a fistful of yellow gold,
wouldn't go to sleep in her room
on the night of your wake.



Dark Eileen continues
(xi)

My friend and my lamb!
Do not believe them
nor the whisper you heard
nor the hateful story,
that I went to sleep.
My slumber was not heavy,
your children were too troubled
and needed my presence
to put them to sleep.

(xii)
People of flesh and blood,
is there a woman in Ireland,
since the setting of the sun,
who would lay her side by him,
who would bear him three sucklings,
who would not go mad
after Art O'Leary
who is here laid low
since yesterday morning?



Art's father intervenes
(xiii)

Sorrow on you Morris-een! -
May your heart and liver's blood be spilled!
Let your eyes be blinded!
Your knees burst asunder! -
You killed my darling,
and not one man in Ireland
would shoot bullets at you.

(xiv)
My friend and my love!
Rise up, Art,
leap up on your steed,
rise up into Macroom
and back into Inse Geimhleach,
a bottle of wine in your hand
as it used to be in your father's room.



Dark Eileen
(xv)

Long is my bitter sad loss
I was not beside you
when the bullet was fired at you;
I would have taken it in my right side
or in the corner of my shift,
to leave you go free in the hills,
horseman of the gentle grip.



Art's Sister
(xvi)

It was my bitter deprivation
I was not behind you on the horse
when the powder was fired;
I would have taken it in my right side
or in the corner of my dress
to have let you go free,
horseman of the grey-green eyes,
matchless against them·.




III
Dark Eileen
(xvii)

My friend and my love-treasure!
What poor kit for a hero:
a coffin and a cap
on the great-hearted horseman
who fished in the streams
and drank in the halls
with white-breasted women.
A thousand agonies
that I have lost your intimacy.

(xviii)
Damnation and ruin on you,
foul sneaking Morris,
who took from me the man of my house,
the father of my unborn child;
two of them walking the house,
and the third one in my body,
whom I think I'll not bear.

(xix)
My friend and my joy!
When you went out the gate
you returned to us quickly,
you kissed your two children,
you kissed my palm,
you said 'Eileen, get up,
put your work to one side
be nimble and quick.
I'm leaving home,
and may never return.'
I thought you were mocking,
as you did often before.

(xx)
My friend, my own!
Horseman of the bright sword,
rise up now,
put on your suit,
and clean noble clothes,
put on your black beaver,
put on your gloves.
There's your whip up there,
outside is your mare.
Strike the narrow road east
where the bushes will drop before you,
where the streams will narrow before you,
where men and women will bow before you
if they still have good manners -
but I fear they no longer have.

(xxi)
My love, my soul-friend!
It is not my own dead kin
nor the death of my three children;
nor Great Daniel O'Connell 2,
nor Conall whom the tide drowned, 3
nor the woman of twenty six years 4
who went over the sea
making friends with kings -
it is not all these I call
but Art laid low last night
on the river margin at Carraig on Ime -
rider of the brown mare
which is here on its own,
with not a living person near me
but the black little women of the mill,
and to cap my awful trouble
not a tear did they shed.

(xxii)
My friend and my lamb!
O Art O'Leary,
son of Conor, son of Céadach,
son of Laoiseach O'Leary,
from the west of Gaortha,
from the east in Caolchnoc,
where the berries grow
and yellow nuts on branches
and apples in plenty
all in their season.
What wonder to anyone
if Uíbh Laoghaire was set ablaze
on Béal Átha an Ghaorthaigh
and holy Guagán
for the horseman of the gentle grip
who exhausted his quarry
when the slender hounds stopped?
O horseman of the glancing look,
what happened to you last night?
For I thought myself
that the world could not kill you
when I bought you a uniform.



IV
Art's sister speaks
(xxiii)

My friend and my love!
kin of the country's best blood,
who kept eighteen wet-nurses at one time,
all would be paid -
with milch cow and mare,
a sow and her litter,
a mill on a ford,
yellow gold and white silver,
silk and fine velvet,
a parcel of land -
so that their breasts would give milk
to the calf of the white maiden.

(xxiv)
My love, my sweetheart!
My love, my bright dove!
Although I did not come to you
nor bring my troop with me,
that is no shame to me
for they were
in closed rooms
and in narrow closets
asleep unawakened.

(xxv)
Were it not for the smallpox
and the black death
and the spotted fever,
that fierce cavalcade
would be shaking their reins
making an uproar
as they came to your funeral,
bright-breasted Art.

(xxvi)
My love and my pleasure!
Kin of the hardy riders 5
who ranged through the valley
until they were turned by your invitation,
brought back into halls
where knives were sharpened,
pork cut on tables,
countless sides of beef,
plump red oats
that would make steeds neigh,
shaggy slim horses
and boys in attendance.
There was no charge for their beds
nor expense for their horses
if they stayed for a week,
brother and best of friends.

(xxvii)
My friend and my calf!
In a vision in my sleep
that came to me last night
late in Cork
as I lay in my bed alone
that our white court fell,
that the Gaortha withered, 6
voiceless your slender hounds,
no sweetness in birds,
when you were found lifeless
outside on the mid-mountain 7
without priest or cleric
but an aged old woman
who spread her tweed cloak on you
when you were stitched to the earth,
Art O'Leary,
your blood in floods
on the breast of your shirt.

(xxviii)
My love, my sweetheart!
How well you were suited
to fine stranded stockings,
boots to your knees,
a Caroline with corners,
an active whip
for a giddy young horse -
many the gentle mild maiden
behind your back gazed at you.

(xxix)
My steadfast love!
When you went into the cities
worldly and fortified,
the wives of the merchants
bowed to the ground before you,
for they knew in their minds
that you were a bed's better half
or a fine rider of horses
or a fine father of children.



Dark Eileen
(xxx)

Jesus Christ knows
there'll be no hood on my head,
nor shift to my side,
nor shoe to my foot,
nor furniture in my house,
nor a rein on my brown mare,
that I will not spend on law;
but I will go over the seas
to talk with the king
and if there's no interest in me
I will come back again
to the black-blooded churl
who stole my treasure from me.



V
Dark Eileen
(xxxi)

My love, my sweetheart!
If my shout went ahead
to great Doire Fhíonáin in the west 8
and to Ceaplaing of the yellow apples,
it is many the light strong horseman
and woman with white unblemished kerchief
would be there promptly
weeping above your head,
merry Art O'Leary. 9

(xxxii)
Love in my heart I have
for the bright women of the mill
because of how well they shed tears
for the rider of the brown mare.

(xxxiii)
May a hard heart lash you
John Green! 10
If it's a bribe you wanted
why did you not come to me
to receive a great deal:
a shaggy horse
to carry you off
away through the crowds
on the day of your need;
or a fine field of cows for you
or sheep having lambs for you
or a gentleman's suit,
boots and spurs,
although I would regret
to see you geared out in them,
for I hear it mentioned
you are a little piss-prick.

(xxxiv)
Horseman of the white hands,
since your hand is laid low,
rise up to Baldwin, 11
the ugly good-for-nothing,
the narrow-shanked man,
and get satisfaction from him
in place of your mare,
and the abuse of your love.
May his six children not thrive!
But let no harm come to Máire
though it's not that I love her
but that my mother
wombed her
for nine months.

(xxxv)
My love, my sweetheart!
Your grain-stooks are standing,
your yellow cows are being milked;
your sorrow is on my heart,
the province of Munster will not cure it,
nor the blacksmiths of Oileán na bhFionn.
Until Art O'Leary comes to me
my sorrow will not clear,
it weighs on my heart's core
shut up tight
like a locked trunk
when the key has been lost.

(xxxvi)
Women who cry outside
stop at your feet
until Art, son of Conor, calls a drink,
and still more for the poor
before he goes into the school 12
not to study learning or music
but to carry earth and stone.

---

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1    Deirdre drank Naoise's blood.
2    Her father, grandfather of 'The Liberator'.
3    Eileen's brother.
4    Eileen's sister Gobnet; she married a Major O'Sullivan of the Austrian army and was befriended by the Empress Maria Theresa.
5    Art's sister claims an aristocratic, wealthy 'horsey' background for their family; the opposition of the O'Connells to the marriage still stung.
6    The Gaortha was an evergreen marsh through which the river Lee flowed towards Macroom from its source further west.
7    An inaccurate cliché. Art's sister's contribution is more stylized and less original.
8    Eileen's ancestral home.
9    Ó Tuama thinks this is mere wishful thinking as her family were greatly oppsed to her marriage. The O'Connell's, wealthy smugglers on the coast, liked to present a bland English-speaking face to their powerful Protestant neighbours. Art's confrontational style would not have suited them in the least.
10 John Green was supposed to have alerted Morris that Art was waiting for him near Curry an Ime.
11 James Baldwin, husband of Eileen's sister Mary; he was believed to have surrendered Art's mare, which was the cause of the conflict, and also to have refused to assist Eileen in prosecuting Art's murderers.
12 Ó Tuama thinks that Cill Cré Abbey is meant.


Oh, so THAT's how they spell O'Leary!
Got it memorized yet, CS?

respectfully submitted,
-Joe Offer-

(but I didn't find a tune for the demented piccolo yet)

---

This page (click) also has good background information and lyrics.

Subject: RE: Tune:chordstrangler: Lament for Art O'Laoghaire
From: GUEST
Date: 17 May 08 - 04:02 PM

Thanks Joe. I'm very impressed.....CS

Subject: RE: Tune:chordstrangler: Lament for Art O'Laoghaire
From: Fred McCormick
Date: 17 May 08 - 04:50 PM

There was never any tune to Caoine Art O' Laoghaire that I ever heard of. Could it be you're thinking of the Lament for Staker Wallace, which Leo Rowsome used to play on the pipes?

Subject: RE: Tune:chordstrangler: Lament for Art O'Laoghaire
From: GUEST,Gweltas1
Date: 17 May 08 - 09:14 PM

I agree with Fred McCormick in not ever having heard of any music for "Caoineadh Art Uí Laoighre", except for Peadar Ó Ríada's composition which was first performed in 1998 and subsequently released on CD in December 2005.
Fred's suggestion that the tune might have been the superb "Lament for Staker Wallace"(a great favourite of mine) caused me to recollect that Art Ó Laoighre had returned to Ireland with the rank of captain from the army of Marie Theresa of Austria and that perhaps the tune that our mad Piccolo player might be thinking of is another favourite of mine "The Wounded Hussar"? I know that a wonderful rendition of this slow air was recorded on audio cassette, in the 1970's by accordionist, Tony Mac Mahon.
I hope this helps.