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Ard Tí Chuain - Co. Antrim

The Quiet Land of Erin

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Haunting old song originally in the Irish language, translated by Joan O’Hara sister of Mary. Árd Tí Cuain = ( O’Cowans Hill )

This is a poem by the peasant poet John McCambridge who was born in 1793 in Mullarts, near Glendun Co. Antrim and died in 1873 

I know this song from the singing of the great Irish Harpist and Soprano Mary O'Hara

The townland of Ard ui chuain ( ardicoan ) is near the beach at Cushendall Ballymena Co.Antrim in Northern Ireland. From the beach here the coastline of Ayrshire in Scotland can be seen.The peasant poet John McCambridge (1793-1873) was born here.. It is said that at the time of the famine he was offered a job in Scotland. From his standpoint on the beach he looked across the sea at the opposite shore and imagined a life there, unable to return home. The sadness of such thoughts he captured in verse and as a result he never left the land he loved. 

Recorded at Bann View Studios Portglenone

Engineered by Sean Óg Graham

Mastered by Richard Ford

Cathy Jordan - Vocals

Sean Óg Graham - guitar

Feargal Murray - Piano and trumpet

Niamh Dunne - Violin

Marian "Friz" Noone - Original crankie illustrations

 

Oh 'tis I would be in Árd Tí Cuain

Where the mountains stands away

And 'tis I would let the Sunday go

In a cuckoo's glen above the bay

 

Agus, och och Éire lig is o

Éire lionndubh agus o

Ah, the quiet land of Érin

 

Oh my heart is weary all alone

And it sends a lonely cry

To the land that sings beyond my dreams

And the lonely Sundays pass me 

by

But the grave is waiting for us all

The world must heed its all

It steals the mother from her brood

And it stole away my childhood

 

I would travel back the twisted years

Through the bitter wasted wind

If the God above would let me lie

In a quiet place above the wind

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The Rocks of Bawn - Cavan 

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(18th Century song referring to the displacement of native Irish farmers from their traditional lands during the reign of Oliver Cromwell)

Although some might think of the song as being from Galway or Donegal, it is deemed to be from Cavan in Sam Henry’s songs of the people and by traditional song collector, John Moulden.

Recorded at the Magic Room Cairns Hill Sligo

Engineered by Brian McDonogh

Mastered by Richie Ford

Cathy Jordan Vocals, Accordion

Lisa O’Neill - Vocals, Shrutti Box

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Peter Crann - Original crankie illustrations

 

Come all you loyal heroes wherever you may be

Don't toil with any master 'till you know what your work will be

For you must rise up early from the clear daylight till the dawn

And you never will be able for to plough the rocks of Bawn

 

My shoes they are well worn, my socks are wearing thin

And my heart is always trembling for fear they might give in

My heart is always trembling from the clear daylight till the dawn

For fear I wont be able to plough the rocks of Bawn

 

My curse upon you Sweeney you have me nearly robbed

You're sitting by the fireside with you doogeen in your gob

You're sitting by the fireside from the clear daylight 'till the dawn

And you never will be able now to plough the rocks of Bawn

 

Rise up gallant Sweeney and get your horses hay

And give them a good feed of oats before they start the day

Don't feed him on soft turnip put him out on yon green lawn

Or he never will be able for to plough the rocks of Bawn

 

I wish the Queen of England would send for me in time

And place me in some regiment all in my youth of prime

I'd fight for Ireland's glory from the clear daylight 'till the dawn

And I would never return again to plough the rocks of Baw
 

LITTLE TOWN IN THE OLD COUNTY DOWN

(Traditional) I learned this song of exile from the singing of Noreen Collins from Drimoleague Co Cork and also Count John McCormack.

Recorded at Bann View Studios Portglenone

Engineered by Sean Óg Graham

Mastered by Richard Ford

Cathy Jordan - Vocals, uke guitar

Sean Óg Graham - Guitar, bass

Feargal Murray - Trumpet

Niamh Dunne - Violin

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Harriet Myfanwy Nia Tahany - Original crankie illustrations

 

If I had the wings of a swallow I would travel far over the sea

And a rocky old road I would follow to a spot that is heaven to me

When the sun goes to rest way down in the west

Then I'll build such a nest in the place I love best

 

In that dear little town in the old County Down

It will linger way down in my heart

Tho it never was grand it is my fairy land 

Just a wonderful world set apart

O my island of dreams you are with me it seems

And I care not for fame or renown

Like the black sheep of old I'll return to the fold

Little town in the old County Down.

 

In the evening when shadows are falling

'Round the old door without any key

There's a voice in my dreams ever calling

And loving eyes watching for me

There is someone I bless with true tenderness

And her lips I'll caress when I bring happiness

 

In that dear little town in the old County Down

It will linger way down in my heart

Tho it never was grand it is my fairy land 

Just a wonderful world set apart

O my island of dreams you are with me it seems

And I care not for fame or renown

Like the black sheep of old I'll return to the fold

Little town in the old County Down.

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Rollicking Boys around Tanderagee - Armagh

 

The original Jig has many names, Old gray Cat, Pat Burkes, Over The Hills etc

The song is from the repertoire of Paddy Tunney who learned it from his uncle Mick Gallagher who died in 1891. Paddy Tunney describes the song in his book “The Stone Fiddle” as “a good humored swipe made at quite a few sacred cows”

Recorded at Bann View Studios Portglenone Co Antrim

Engineered by Sean Óg Graham

Mastered by Richard Ford

Cathy Jordan - Vocals, bodhran

Andrew Hendy - Vocals, banjo

Sean Óg Graham - Guitar, accordion vocals, bass

Gino Lupari - Vocals, bodhran

Niamh Dunne - Vocals, violin, vocals

Wayne O’Connor - Original crankie illustrations

 

Good luck to all here, now, barrin' the cat,

that sits in the corner smellin' a rat.

Boys, wheest your philanderin' now and behave,

and savin' your favors I'll chant you a stave.

I come from a land where the praties grow big,

and the boys nice and handy can whirl in a jig,

and the girls they would charm your heart for to see,

the darlin' colleens around Tanderagee.

 

So here's to the boys that's so happy and gay,

Singin' and dancin' and tearin' away,

Rollicksome, frolicsome, frisky and free,

We're the rollicking boys around Tanderagee.

 

No doubt you have heard of Killarney, I'm sure,

and sweet Inishowen for a drop of the pure.

Dublin's a place for the strawberry beds,

and Donnybrook fair for the breakin' of heads.

Did you ever see an Irishman dancin' paltogue,

as he faced up his partner and turned up his brogue.

He twisted the buckle and bent at the knee,

oh, they're wonderful dancers in Tanderagee.

 

Now, show me the man either Christian or Turk,

who could equal our brave Robbert Emmett or Burke,

and show me the speaker could speak up like Dan,

ach, divil another bad luck to the one,

Oh show me the singer could sing like Tom Moore,

his melodies charmed all care from our door,

But we'll beat them all yet, and that you will see,

for we're rare and fine boys around Tanderagee.

 

His old jauntin' car was the elegant joult,

and Derry's the place that is famed for her hoult,

Among the green bushes that grow in Tyrone,

and the County Fermanagh for muscle and bone.

For courtin' and blarney and fun at the fair,

there's no-one can equal the rakes of Kildare.

Green Erin my country's the gem of the sea,

but the gem of green Erin is Tanderagee.

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The Banks Of the Foyle - Derry

A story of a man longing for home and the girl he loves

Written around the 1920s by J.J. McCready

Recorded and mixed in Studio Strandgatan, Uppsala Sweden

Engineered by Martin Igelstrom

Mastering by Bernie Becker

Produced by Roger Tallroth

Cathy Jordan - Vocals

Roger Tallroth - Guitars

Gustaf Ljunggren - Lap Steel, ewi

Arranged, Jordan, Tallroth, Ljunggren

Original crankie illustrations

 

I know a wee spot it’s a place of great fame

it lies to the north now I’ll tell you its name

It’s my own native birthplace and it’ lies on Irish soil

And they call it lovely Derry on the banks of the Foyle.

 

I courted a wee girl her age was nineteen

She was the fairest young lady that I’d ever seen

Her cheeks were like roses and her hair waved in coil

And she came from lovely Derry on the banks of the Foyle.

 

But then cruel misfortune drove me from my home

‘Twas my fate in deep sorrow to sail o’er the foam

And now from dark strangers in grief I recoil

While I pine for lovely Derry on the banks of the Foyle.

 

I was fearing that another had a place in her heart

And that from my darlin forever I would part

And no more would she brighten with her sweet sunny smile

My home in lovely Derry on the banks of the Foyle.

 

But a wee bird came flying from over the sea

And he brought me a letter from my true love to see

Saying ‘Come home my darling to your native soil

And I’ll wed you in lovely Derry on the banks of the Foyle.’

 

Now when I make a fortune it’s back home I will go

To the dear land of my boyhood to the sweet girl I know

I will build her a mansion and no more need we toil

Far away from lovely Derry on the banks of the Foyle.

 

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