My name is Patrick Sheehan, and my years are thirty-four;
Tipperary is my native place, not far from Galtymore;
I came of honest parents, but now they're lying low;
Though' many's the pleasant days we spent in the Glen of Aherlow.
My father died; I closed his eyes, outside the cabin door;
For the landlord and the sheriff too, were there the day before,
And then my lovin' mother, and my sisters three, also,
Were forced to go with broken hearts, from the Glen of Aherlow
For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near;
I then went to the poorhouse to see my mother dear;
The news I heard near broke my heart, but still in all my woe,
I blessed the friends who made their graves in the Glen of Aherlow.
Bereft of home and kith and kin, with plenty all around,
I starved within my cabin, and slept upon the ground;
But cruel as my lot was, I never did hardship know,
Till I joined the English army, far away from Aherlow.
"Rouse up there," cried the corporal, "Ya lazy Irish hound!
Why don't you hear the bugle, its call to arms to sound? "
I found I had been dreaming of the days long, long ago,
And I woke upon Sebastopol, and not in Aherlow
I tried to find my musket, how dark I thought the night!
O blessed God! It wasn't dark, it was the broad daylight!
And when I found that I was blind, my tears began to flow,
And I longed for even a pauper's grave in the Glen of Aherlow.
A poor neglected mendicant, I wander Dublin's streets
My nine months' pension it being out, I beg from all I meet;
As I joined my country's tyrants, my face I can never show,
Amongst my dear old neighbors in the Glen of Aherlow.
So Irish youths, dear countrymen, take heed in what I say;
For if you join the English ranks, you'll surely rue the day
And whenever you're tempted, a-soldiering to go.
Remember poor blind Sheehan from the Glen of Aherlow.
Tipperary is my native place, not far from Galtymore;
I came of honest parents, but now they're lying low;
Though' many's the pleasant days we spent in the Glen of Aherlow.
My father died; I closed his eyes, outside the cabin door;
For the landlord and the sheriff too, were there the day before,
And then my lovin' mother, and my sisters three, also,
Were forced to go with broken hearts, from the Glen of Aherlow
For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near;
I then went to the poorhouse to see my mother dear;
The news I heard near broke my heart, but still in all my woe,
I blessed the friends who made their graves in the Glen of Aherlow.
Bereft of home and kith and kin, with plenty all around,
I starved within my cabin, and slept upon the ground;
But cruel as my lot was, I never did hardship know,
Till I joined the English army, far away from Aherlow.
"Rouse up there," cried the corporal, "Ya lazy Irish hound!
Why don't you hear the bugle, its call to arms to sound? "
I found I had been dreaming of the days long, long ago,
And I woke upon Sebastopol, and not in Aherlow
I tried to find my musket, how dark I thought the night!
O blessed God! It wasn't dark, it was the broad daylight!
And when I found that I was blind, my tears began to flow,
And I longed for even a pauper's grave in the Glen of Aherlow.
A poor neglected mendicant, I wander Dublin's streets
My nine months' pension it being out, I beg from all I meet;
As I joined my country's tyrants, my face I can never show,
Amongst my dear old neighbors in the Glen of Aherlow.
So Irish youths, dear countrymen, take heed in what I say;
For if you join the English ranks, you'll surely rue the day
And whenever you're tempted, a-soldiering to go.
Remember poor blind Sheehan from the Glen of Aherlow.
envoyé par Bartleby - 16/6/2011 - 13:58
Il film vincitore della quarta edizione del Seeyousound International Music Film Festival è "Song of Granite" del regista irlandese Pat Collins.
Song of Granite
"Song of Granite" è un film biografico sul cantante tradizionale irlandese Joe Heaney (Seosamh Ó hÉanaí)
Song of Granite
"Song of Granite" è un film biografico sul cantante tradizionale irlandese Joe Heaney (Seosamh Ó hÉanaí)
B.B. - 3/2/2018 - 22:51
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Scritta da Charles Joseph Kickham (1828–1882), romanziere, poeta, giornalista e rivoluzionario irlandese (è stato uno dei membri più prominenti dell’Irish Republican Brotherhood), sulla melodia della tradizionale “The Sash”, o “Irish Molly, O”.
Testo trovato su Cantaria Folk Song Archive
Seosamh Ó hÉanaí interpretò il brano nei primi anni 60 per Ewan MacColl e Peggy Seeger ma quella ed altre registrazioni sono state pubblicate soltanto una decina di anni fa nella raccolta dal titolo “Joe Heaney. Road from Connemara: Songs and Stories Told and Sung to Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger”
Sfigatissimo ma anche un po’ ciuccio, questo Patrick Sheehan da Glen of Aherlow!
Ma come?!? Il landlord inglese ed i suoi sgherri ti tolgono la terra che coltivi, ti cacciano dalla tua casa, ti buttano per la strada insieme a tua madre vedova e alle tue sorelle e tu, Patrick Sheehan, ridotto alla miseria ed alla fame dagli inglesi, non trovi di meglio che arruolarti nel loro esercito per andare a combattere nella loro guerra in Crimea?!? E lì sarai pure gravemente ferito, reso cieco, reso un mendicante per il resto della tua vita, senza mai più poter rivedere la tua bella Glen of Aherlow, anche perché i tuoi amici di un tempo non ne vorranno sapere di te, stupido Patrick Sheehan, che ti sei fatto zerbino dei “bastards” inglesi!!!
Giovani irlandesi, non siate fessi come Patrick Sheehan da Glen of Aherlow! Non fatevi tentare dalle divise di sua maestà, sono i nostri peggiori nemici! Dear countrymen, entrate invece nell’IRB!!!
Pare che Patrick Sheehan da Glen of Aherlow – e chissà quanti altri poveracci come lui – sia realmente esistito: ferito nel corso del lungo assedio di Sebastopoli (un anno intero, a partire dal settembre del 1854) durante al guerra di Crimea (di poveracci c’erano pure i nostri in quella guerra, piemontesi e sardi mandati al macello da Vittorio Emanuele Maria Alberto Eugenio Ferdinando Tommaso II), l’irlandese fu rispedito a casa cieco e senza un soldo. Arrestato per accattonaggio sulle strade di Dublino, la sua misera storia fece “vergognare” la Corona che rimediò a suo vantaggio ostentando pure magnanimità: al contadino irlandese cui avevano strappato la terra, la vista e la vita, gli inglesi accordarono una pensione di uno scellino al giorno.