Read As I Rode by Granard Moat Online
Authors: Benedict Kiely
There’s a plane up there somewhere coming in over the sea and heading over Waterford and Wexford. And I am back in 1912 when Corbett-Wilson made his famous flight from Wales to Ireland. Nobody nowadays would write a poem about such a commonplace effort. Nobody would look up if he heard the noise of an engine overhead. But eighty odd years ago it was a wonder. And I myself am old enough to remember when Scott’s Flying Circus toured the country, and based for a while on Strathroy Holm near Omagh Town, and most of us thought that the end of the world had come. Most of us. But not We All. For there were the few, or maybe more, who knew that it was not an end but a beginning.
In 1956 Leo McAdams read an authoritative paper on the Corbett-Wilson flight to the Kilkenny Archaeological Society. And a man in Belgrave Road in Birmingham, who was in Enniscorthy on the day of the flight, wrote a letter to Patrick Lagan. That man’s memory of seeing the plane going
past at forty miles an hour and at about eight hundred feet was still vivid:
It caused great excitement even among the crows of a local rookery. It was about sundown and like the crows he came in from the South-West.
He lowered himself in three anti-clockwise ellipses of mean diameter of three-quarters of a mile. His final three-quarters included a skim over the top of Vinegar Hill and the same over the spire of the Cathedral and then to the touchdown in the Showgrounds. A repeat occurred about six o’clock on a Sunday morning. Surely Corbett-Wilson liked Enniscorthy. It tested his skill.
And it was a Kilkenny poet, P. Connor of Prospect Park, who wrote two poems on the achievement of Corbett-Wilson. This is one of them:
’Twas on the twenty-third of May, and in the afternoon,
That Mr Corbett-Wilson went up to see the moon.
Right well he done when he began, with courage bold and true,
He soon was far above us from the field of Ardaloo.
The field was a splendid one, no better could be found.
And I was told by many it was once a polo ground.
But never cold the stick and ball nor man with helmet blue,
Bring half the crowd that cheered so loud that day at Ardaloo.
’Twas half-past three when I arrived, the place it seemed alive.
But I was sorry when I heard He could not fly till five.
I roamed about from field to field, I had nothing else to do
But wait to see that splendid flight that day at Ardaloo.
I went down to the hangar, or rather to the nest
Where this great bird was covered up and peacefully at rest.
The canvas soon was taken off to let us have a view
Of that great machine that ne’er was seen before at Ardaloo.
At last ’twas wheeled out to the field amidst a silent throng.
All eyes were fixed upon it as it quickly raced along.
It gradually just ascended, just like a big cuckoo,
And flew for miles around us that day at Ardaloo.
Some people murmured: ‘If he fell …’ And some said, ‘Ah, No.’
While life and pluck with him remain he’ll always give a show.
For none but Him who rules the Earth, and can the storms subdue,
Could share the nerve of that brave man that day at Ardaloo.
Kilkenny always held its own with all that came the way,
But now with Mr Wilson it proudly takes the sway.
You know he is the first great man that o’er the Channel flew,
And landed down in Wexford not far from Ardaloo.
Long life to Mr Wilson may his courage never fail.
May one hundred years pass over e’er his coffin needs a nail.
May God Above protect him and bring him safely through
To give us all another show some day at Ardaloo.
The kindly wish of the last verse was not, alas, to be granted. For the brave aviator went to World War I to be the first man of the British Flying Corps to die in aerial combat.
Did he ever, I wonder, in all his circling go north a bit more and circle over Sweet Avondale where the ghost of Parnell still walks? That errant thought brings back to my memory, and my ears, the sweet voice of my friend Margaret O’Reilly of Gowna singing about the Blackbird of Sweet Avondale. Margaret was known as the Queen of the Ballads. From the threshold of her home, where I often had the happiness of standing with her, you could look down on the beauty of Loch Gowna and over a fair stretch of North Longford.
Margaret, I would say, sang like the birds from the moment she was able to sing and she could have filled a barrel with the medals she won, here, there and everywhere – ever since the great Dr Ben Galligan of Cavan town (he was a good friend of mine) heard her singing and set her on the road to the appropriate places.
Here I look at a letter she wrote me years ago, sending with it the words of ‘The Blackbird’. Of the song she said: ‘The first verse of this song is the Blackbird Parnell. The
other two verses belong to another song also called The Blackbird.’ And here it is:
Ye bold defenders of dear old Erin
Come pay attention to what I say.
With pen and paper I will endeavour
To praise our leader in a simple way.
Here in Rathdrum, in the County Wicklow,
This bold defender of Grainne Uaile
First turned his notes in tones melodious
Around the lovely woodlands of Avondale.
By the bright Bay of Dublin, while carelessly strolling,
I sat myself down by a clear crystal steam.
Reclined on the beach, where the wild waves were rolling,
In sorrow, condoling, I spied a fair maid
Her robes changed to mourning that once were so glorious.
I stood in amazement to hear her sad tale.
Her heart strings burst forth, in wild accents deploring,
Saying: ‘Where is my Blackbird of Sweet Avondale?’
To the fair counties Meath, Kerry, Cork and Tipperary,
The notes of his country my blackbird will sing,
But woe to the hour we’ll part light and airy,
He flew from my arms in Dublin to Ring.
Now the birds in the forest for me have no charm,
Not even the voice of the sweet nightingale,
Her notes though so charming set my poor heart alarming
Since I lost my poor Blackbird of Sweet Avondale.
There are other versions, God and Parnell know. But that is the one that I heard sung by Margaret O’Reilly of Gowna. To whom once, in the town of Mullingar, which some fine people say is the centre of Ireland, I once read out all the words of this poem. The man who wrote it, whoever he was, was certainly convinced that he belonged to the Centre and every poet is entitled to praise his hometown. So listen:
You may strain your muscles to brag of Brussels,
Of London, Paris or Timbuctoo,
Constantinople or Sebastople,
Vienna, Naples or Tongataboo,
Of Copenhagen, Madrid, Kilbeggan,
Or the Capital of the Russian Czar,
But they’re all inferior to the vast superior
And gorgeous city of Mullingar.
That fair metropolis, so great and populous,
Adorns the regions of sweet Westmeath,
That fertile county which Nature’s bounty
Has richly gifted with bog and heath.
Them scenes so charming where snipes a-swarming
Attract the sportsmen that come from afar,
And whoever wishes may catch fine fishes
In deep Lough Owel near Mullingar.
I could stay forever by Brosna’s River
And watch its waters in their sprarkling fall,
And the ganders swimmin’ and lightly skimmin’
O’er the crystal bosom of the Royal Canal.
Or on Thursdays wander ’mid pigs so tender,
And geese and turkeys on many a car,
Exchanging pleasantry with fine bold peasantry
That throng the market at Mullingar.
Ye Nine inspire me and with rapture fire me
To sing the buildings both old and new:
The majestic Courthouse and the spacious Workhouse,
And the Church and steeple which adorn the view.
Then there’s barracks airy for the military
Where the brave repose from the toils of war,
Five schools, a nunnery, and a thrivin’ tannery
In this gorgeous city of Mullingar.
The railway station with admiration,
I next must mention in terms of praise,
Where trains a-rowlin’ and ingines howlin’
Strike each beholder with wild amaze.
And there is Main Street, that broad and clane street,
With its rows of gas-lamps that shine afar.
I could spake a lecture on the architecture
Of the gorgeous city of Mullingar.
The men of genius, contemporaneous,
Approach spontaneous this favoured spot
Where good society and great variety
Of entertainment is still their lot.
The neighbouring Quality for hospitality
And conviviality unequallled are.
And from December until November
There’s still diversion in Mullingar.
Now, in conclusion, I make allusion
To the beauteous females that here abound:
Celestial creatures with lovely features
And taper ankles that skim the ground.
But this suspends me, the theme transcends me.
My Muse’s powers are too weak by far.
It would need Catullus, likewise Tibullus,
To sing the praise of Mullingar.
And from the wonders of Mullingar we pass on to Granard Moat and the memory of Tyrrell of Tyrrellspass. We do it with the aid of
The Ballads of Ireland: Collected and Edited with
Notes Historical and Biographical
by Edward Hayes.
The Baron bold of Trimbleston hath gone, in proud array,
To drive afar from fair Westmeath the Irish kerns away.
And there is mounting brisk of steeds and donning shirts of mail,
And spurring hard to Mullingar ‘mong Riders of the Pale.
For, flocking round his banner there, from east to west there came,
Full many knights and gentlemen of English blood and name,
All prompt to hate the Irish race, all spoilers of the land,
And mustered soon a thousand spears that Baron in his band.
For trooping in rode Nettervilles and D’Altons not a few,
And thick as reeds pranced Nugent’s spears, a fierce and godless crew;
And Nagle’s pennon flutters fair, and pricking o’er the plain,
Dashed Tuite of Somna’s mail-clad men, and Dillon’s from Glenshane.
A goodly feast the Baron gave in Nagle’s ancient hall,
And to his board he summons there his chiefs and captains all;
And round the red wine circles fast, with noisy boast and brag,
How they would hunt the Irish kerns like any Cratloe stag.
But ’mid their glee a horseman spurr’d all breathless to the gate,
And from the warder there he crav’d to see Lord Barnwell straight;
And when he stept the castle hall, then cried the Baron, ‘Ho!
You are De Petit’s body-squire, why stops your master so?’
‘Sir Piers De Petit ne’er held back’ that wounded man replied,
‘When friend or foeman called him on, or there was need to ride;
But vainly now you lack him here, for, on the bloody sod,
The noble knight lies stark and stiff – his soul is with his God.
‘For yesterday, in passing through Fertullah’s wooded glen,
Fierce Tyrrell met my master’s band, and slew the good knight then;
And, wounded sore with axe and skian, I barely ‘scaped with life,
To bear to you the dismal news, and warn you of the strife.
‘MacGeoghegan’s flag is on the hills! O’Reilly’s up at Fore!
And all the chiefs have flown to arms, from Allen to Donore,
And as I rode by Granard moat, right plainly might I see
O’Ferall’s clans were sweeping down from distant Annalee.’
Then started up young Barnwell there, all hot with Spanish wine –
‘Revenge,’ he cries, ‘for Petit’s death, and be that labour mine;
I’ll hunt to death the rebel bold, and hang him on a tree!’
Then rose a shout throughout the hall that made the rafters ring,
And stirr’d o’erhead the banners there, like aspen leaves in spring;
And vows were made, and wine-cups quaft, with proud and bitter scorn,
To hunt to death Fertullah’s clans upon the coming morn.
These tidings unto Tyrrell came, upon that selfsame day,
Where, camped amid the hazel boughs, he at Lough Ennel lay.
‘And they will hunt us so,’ he cried – ‘why, let them if they will;
But first we’ll teach them greenwood craft, to catch us, ere they kill.’
And hot next morn the horsemen came, Young Barnwell at their head;
But when they reached the calm lake banks, behold! their prey was fled!
And loud they cursed, as wheeling round they left that tranquil shore,
And sought the wood of Garraclune, and searched it o’er and o’er.
And down the slopes, and o’er the fields, and up the steeps they strain,
And through Moylanna’s trackless bog; where many steeds remain,
Till wearied all, at set of sun, they halt in sorry plight,
And on the heath, beside his steed, each horseman passed the night.
Next morn, while yet the white mists lay, all brooding on the hill,
Bold Tyrrell to his comrade spake, a friend in every ill –
‘O’Conor, take ye ten score men, and speed ye to the dell,
Where winds the path to Kinnegad – you know that togher well.
‘And couch ye close amid the heath, and blades of waving fern,
So glint of steel, or glimpse of man, no Saxon may discern,
Until ye hear my bugle blown, and up O’Conor, then,
And bid the drums strike Tyrrell’s march, and charge ye with your men.
‘Now by his soul who sleeps at Cong,’ O’Conor proud replied,
‘It grieves me sore, before those dogs, to have my head to hide;
But lest, perchance, in scorn they might go brag it thro’ the Pale,
I’ll do my best that few shall live to carry round the tale.’
The mist roll’d off, and ‘Gallants up!’ young Barnwell loudly cries,
‘By Bective’s shrine, from off the hill, the rebel traitor flies;
Now mount ye all, fair gentlemen – lay bridle loose on mane,
And spur your steeds with rowels sharp – we’ll catch him on the plain.’
Then bounded to their saddles quick a thousand eager men,
And on they rushed in hot pursuit to Darra’s wooded glen.
But gallants bold, tho’ fair ye ride, here slacken speed ye may –
The chase is o’er! – the hunt is up! – the quarry stands at bay!
For, halted on a gentle slope, bold Tyrrell placed his hand,
And proudly stept he to the front, his banner in his hand,
And plung’d it deep within the earth, all plainly in their view,
And waved aloft his trusty sword, and loud his bugle blew.
Saint Colman! ’twas a fearful sight, while drum and trumpet played,
To see the bound from out the brake that fierce O’Conor made,
As waving high his sword in air he smote the flaunting crest
Of proud Sir Hugh de Geneville, and clove him to the chest!
‘On comrades, on!’ young Barnwell cries, ‘and spur ye to the plain,
Where we may best our lances use!’ That counsel is in vain.
For down swept Tyrrell’s gallant band, with shout and wild halloo,
And a hundred steeds are masterless since first his bugle blew!
From front to flank the Irish charge in battle order all,
While pent like sheep in shepherd’s fold the Saxon riders fall;
Their lances long are little use, their numbers block the way,
And mad with pain their plunging steeds add terror to the fray!
And of the haughty host that rode that morning through the dell,
But one has ‘scaped with life and limb his comrades’ fate to tell;
The rest all in their harness died, amid the thickets there,
Yet fighting to the latest gasp, like foxes in a snare!
The Baron bold of Trimbleston has fled in sore dismay,
Like beaten hound at dead of night from Mullingar away,
While wild from Boyne to Brusna’s banks there spreads a voice of wail,
Mavrone! the sky that night was red with burnings in the Pale!
And late next day to Dublin town the dismal tidings came,
And Kevin’s-Port and Watergate are lit with beacons twain,
And scouts spur out, and on the walls there stands a fearful crowd,
While high o’er all Saint Mary’s bell tolls out alarums loud!
But far away beyond the Pale, from Dunluce to Dunboy,
From every Irish hall and rath there bursts a shout of joy,
As eager Asklas hurry past o’er mountain, moor, and glen,
And tell in each the battle won by Tyrrell and his men.