Na Píobairí Uilleann

Chairman, NPU

An Píobaire

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7 1 21 20110224 O’Reilly was laid, with a thousand voices after him in the monastical church of Cavan, though ’tis since destroyed, to build a horse-barrack; and these were the very words that were carved out over him, upon as beautiful a gravestone as could be: “LECTOR NE CREDAS SOLEM PERISSE MILONEM; HOC NAM SUB TUMULO, PATRIA VICTA HACET.” “This lamentation pleases me so much,” said Mr. Jenkins, “that I hope Gandsey can favour us with another.” “Oh, that I can, sir, lamentations in plenty – for sure ’tis little else is left, for green Erin or her children, but sorrow and – “Whiskey,” said Mr. Lynch. “True,” said I, “As Blackwood calls us in his magazine, ‘a persecuted and hard- drinking people,’” “But the lamentation,” said Mr. Jenkins. “’Tis the widow’s lamentation,” said Gand- sey: “You see her husband, one William Crot- tie, was hanged through the means of one Davy Norris, a thief of an informer, who came round him, and betrayed him. And so Mrs. Crottie, whose own name was Burke, a mighty decent woman she was, and come of decent people, made up this lamentation about her husband.” Here Gandsey played the melody, No. 4. to which he sang the following words: Oh, William Crottie, your days are ended, And your poor wife lies unbefriended, In a cold jail, where none can come near her; Her dearest friends this day won’t hear her! Oh, ullagone! But soon I’ll leave this Irish nation, And sail away to the great plantation; For let me go among Turks or Heathens, I’ll meet with more pity than in my own na- tion. Oh, ullagone! Oh, William Crottie, I often told you That Davy Norris would come round you; ’Twas he that took you, as you lay sleeping, And left me here in sorrow weeping! Oh, ullagone! Then came the day of sad repentance When William Crottie received his sentence; The drums they did beat, and most mournfully sounded, And my poor senses were at once confounded. Oh, ullagone! I bear great blame from all these women, Yet I’ll never forsake my dear companion When first I knew him he was no Tory, But now he’s gone, there’s an end to my glory! Oh, ullagone! Adieu, ye hills, and adieu, ye mountains, Adieu to Glanworths’ crystal fountains, Where often I waited for Crottie, my darling, To bring me home both gold and starling! Oh, ullagone! 21 GANDSEY THE KILLARNEY MINSTREL (Henry O’Neill, 1798-1880)

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