Songs of home - and The Bogs of Shanaheever

‘My youth is long past and I am mighty dreary.
An exile I am cast on the wilds of the prairie.
I'm hunting the wild deer, the panther and the beaver.
But I look back with pride on the bogs of Shanaheever…’

So begins a version of the well-known song ‘The Bogs of Shanaheever’, a lyric tale of the loneliness and longing of exile. The protagonist, an Irish emigrant in America, casts their mind back to the events leading up to their leaving the land of their birth. The song’s most renowned exponent is the great singer from Connemara in West Galway, Joe Heaney.
In a recorded interview with singer and folklorist Ewan MacColl1, Heaney explained that this song, known to Heaney as ‘The Two Greyhounds’ was written in America and brought back to Ireland where it has stayed in the singing tradition ever since. I find his explanation somewhat unconvincing though. My doubts are not allayed any by the fact that the version of 'The Bogs of Shanaheever' that he sings in that same session with MacColl is undoubtedly a fragment, as one of the verses has an extra line to the usual four. This alludes to the fact that there is more to the song, perhaps that two verses have been conflated. The song is pertinent amongst Heaney’s extensive repertoire (MacColl alone recorded forty-two of his songs in that interview alone2) as he was an archetypal Irish exile. Born in the remote Irish speaking Gaeltacht of Connemara, the village of Shanaheever being local to him, Heaney emigrated to England and America like many of his countrymen did then and do now.

Emmigration is nothing unique to the Irish condition, of course. The desire to travel is quite a universal human trait – the absence of the desire being noted with suspicion in individuals who are content to stay put. And so it is no surprise that many cultures have songs about travel and immigration. However, the centrality of the immigrant’s lament for Erin in the canon of Irish song, and indeed the Irish psyche, is indomitable.
James Joyce spent practically all of his adult life on the Continent, constantly moving, but constantly pining for Dublin; her streets, her characters, her language and her stories. It is evidenced in his works, all of which are set in his ‘Hibernian Metropolis’, but also in accounts of his exchanges with visitors he met from Dublin, of whom he would enquire about changing street names and buildings. A sense of home anchors the immigrant as much as it defines a song as being Irish.

‘What part of Wexford is it yer from?’
…

‘Do ya go home much?’
…

So goes the introductory banter on many occasions when meeting with other Irish people in London for the first time.

… ‘shur ya must know the Bass’s and the Berry brothers, so…’

Anchored. Knowing people in common, or at least places is the strongest immediate bond two ‘ex-Pats’ can form.
Meeting Tom King in the Irish Embassy in London was no different. The occasion was a celebration of the young musicians from London who had won medals in the 2008 Fleadh Cheoil, a traditional Irish music competition and festival. As a representative of the West London branch of Comhaltas, I attended and was honoured when asked to sing a song as part of the proceedings. I had one prepared, just in case, and it was ‘The Bogs of Shanaheever’, which I had learned in a singing workshop with Kathleen O’Sullivan at the 2008 Return to Camden Town Festival. Kathleen is a quintessential London Irish woman, meaning not that she is Irish but that she is London born, but Irish - FBI (Foreign Born Irish) some would say. She speaks in a broad cockney accent, initially not filling one with great faith in her authenticity as a highly regarded traditional Irish singer. But when she sings, her voice transforms chameleon-like into that of a woman who never left her rural parish. It carries with it her sense of belonging, her heritage, her mother’s songs. Her version of the ‘Bogs of Shanaheever’ was that sung by Joe Heaney. And so, then, was passed onto me.
The embassy had once been owned by the Guinness family, probably our greatest unofficial ambassadors, and we congregated appropriately in what had been the family’s music room. After the young champion musicians had played and cursory photographs had been taken, I was asked by fellow Wexford-man and well-respected singer Seamus Brogan to sing a song - a deeply appreciated gesture, coming from somebody who I respect so much as a singer. I sang well and the performance was received well, and received best of all by Kerryman Tom King who then invited me to visit his pub in Slough to sing a few songs in their regular session. The following week I went to his pub and was greeted with a firm handshake and a down-to-business offer of a pint.

As the pint was settling at the bar, I was given the tour of the premises. Tom’s pub, The Hershcel Arms, is not small but is off the beaten track on a side street – a side street in Slough, which is also a bit out of the way. A subtle decoration of Irish memorabilia and a less subtle Kerry mural give the Hershel its signature Irish charm. But this is far from a token ‘Oirish’ pub. Its name for a start is far from Irish – no themed pub from California to Kyoto would get christened ‘The Herschel Arms’. (In fact, there’s an Irish pub in Berkeley called The Plough and one in Kyoto called The Field.) Tom King is no ‘plastic Paddy’ either. His strong accent betrays his Guaranteed Irish upbringing and his dedication to traditional music is well respected in the London Irish community.
My next pint was pulled by Tom’s grand-daughter who was over visiting from County Kildare for her school holidays. Not even able to reach the taps unaided, she’s definitely the youngest person I’ve ever been served by – but the pint was delicious and when I told her the same, her glowing sense of achievement made it an unforgettable one.
An hour or so later I was sitting in the front bar around a table with all the other musicians. A solid band of fiddlers to my left and a few singers and guitarists to my right, stories of men of previous generations flowed around the room as lukewarm phrases from fiddles and flutes flexed airs in the background

‘He had enough skin on him for three men, Joe did’
‘He had all the answers, Joe did’
‘He was a frightfully wrinkly man was Joe’
‘He was a legend. The stories he used to tell’

A set of tunes kicked off with the steady reel, ‘Christmas Eve’. A delightful and familiar tune followed by another reel and then a song by the man seated to my right Martin Conroy. Martin was introduced to me earlier as a Galway man and though he’d been in England since the ‘60s he hadn’t lost his accent one bit – not that night anyway. Keeping his guitar tacitly tacet on his lap as he sang ‘The Hills of South Armagh’, a song of longing to be home there, ‘where the air is fresh and clean, where the grass is fresh and green…’, not in ‘the crowded streets of Brooklyn…’ where ‘… my children speak in accents not like mine…’. Martin’s singing in a mid-Atlantic style added another layer of interpretation to the lyrics, though I’m not sure if he ever lived in the U.S.
This song was an overture for what was to come. A few songs and tunes and much banter later, the landlord Tom King asked me to sing the song he had heard me sing in the embassy. I sang ‘The Bogs of Shanaheever’, knowingly in the immediate company of two men from that region, so making sure to pronounce the placenames correctly as I had been guided on a previous occasion by London residing Connemara singer and pure gentleman, Pat Connolly.
An appreciative swell of applause swallowed up that seemingly everlasting moment of silence that follows a slow unaccompanied song. I have yet to fully savour that silence, and instead always succumb to some utterance to signal that the song is over so as not to prolong the silence. Ushering instead that needed applause, like that eye-widening life giving breath after swimming blindly under the surface for six verses. Martin complemented me on the song.
And then, he uttered those intriguing words.

‘But we sing it a bit differently at home’.

This might be a big disappointment to some singers, embarrassed perhaps that they haven’t got a genuine version. On the contrary, I was fascinated and asked what was different about the version he knew. As Martin delved into his memory and uttered the words he had known years before I realised that his were something quite different, bringing new elements to the story. I asked him to wait while I scrambled at the bar for a pen and paper.
No paper.
Anything at all?
Tom offered an envelope from beside the till, and a pen.
I quickly set to jotting down Martin’s version as he recalled it. The song opened the same – in America, where the emigrant now finds their self – though, whereas I sang that the emigrant had hunted the wild deer, they now have ‘fought the red man, the panther and the beaver / But my mind calls me back to the bogs of Shanaheever’
A verse entirely new to me then followed:

‘In England at that time, their boast it was Susannah,
And young Willie Ayers his boast it was Diana,
My two-year-old dog was knacky, quick and clever
I’d give Victor his sway on the bogs of Shanaheever’

Martin recalled six verses, each in solid four line strophic form, unlike Joe Heaney’s version hinting at fragmentation and contraction. There was more story in this new version. More characters and a mention of England. And unlike Heaney’s two greyhounds, this one had three greyhounds! Certainly an upgrade!

Being given Martin’s version of the song gave it a unique value. I have since sung his version, or at least a hybrid of the two, and each time been reminded of that night in Tom King’s pub in Slough. I’ve also been reminded of that part of West Galway where I’ve never been. It’s a landscape familiar in my mind, frequently revisited, and totally imagined.
Bjork once said in an interview3 that it occurred to her that all of the national anthems of the world were essentially the same song. It’s a keen observation. Perhaps though, we can go further in identifying most songs as national anthems. When considering the wider interpretation of nationality in a postmodern and cosmopolitan society, our music is not only part of our identity, it is our home.


The Bogs of Shanaheever anchors me in Ireland, but also endorses my expatriation. It connects me those who gave me the song - Martin Conroy for his version, Tom King for inviting me to his pub, Seamus Brogan for asking me to sing in the embassy, Pat Connolly who corrected my mispronunciation of its place-names, Kathleen O’Sullivan who brought it to life, Joe Heaney who recorded it – emigrants one and all. Exiles longing for their Shanaheever.


1 - A full transcript of the interview is available here.

2 - Fred McCormick has ‘partially’ listed Heaney’s repertoire with 223 songs and 103 stories here

3 - This interview was in the feature documentary 'Screaming Masterpiece', a film about music in Iceland.

Passing it on - the collection of my first song

I had heard Bruce Scott sing at Fleadheanna (Irish music competitions) and small folk festivals before. His voice was unmistakable. A room-filling baritone, each syllable crisply pronounced and projected magisterially through his Liverpudlian accent. An accent which belies too his Irish roots; Bruce's grandparents were Irish and his interest in the country, and particularly its songs, has been passed down since to his daughter Tracey and her daughter, Melissa, who is also proving herself as a prolific traditional song-maker1.

Melissa and Bruce's wife Dot were both with him at the All-Britain Fleadh in Leicester in 2008. Bruce had won many All-Britain Fleadh titles in the singing competition - his name was engraved more than any on the large silver perpetual trophy. He had also got to the final of the song-writing competition on numerous occasions and it was one of his own songs that I was hunting that day.
Earlier that year in May, Bruce and I had both been at the Keith Summers Festival in London. I recall walking up the stairs of the King and Queen pub in London's Fitzrovia (a place-name always worth mentioning - it rolls of the tongue mellifluously - as does the word mellifluously actually... anyway...) as I walked up the stairs, I could hear Bruce singing and immediately recognised his strong Scouse voice. He sang many songs over that weekend, as did many other fine singers from these islands, but Bruce sang a song he had made about my native Wexford that stood out for me. Like many others set in Wexford, the song concerns the 1798 rebellion of the United Irishmen. Bruce had researched his topic well and put the song to a complimentary traditional air. It's a funny thing when you hear a song and you can't help but imagine it coming out of your own mouth. You feel as you hear it that it would suit your own voice, your own style. It has a story you want to tell, sometimes even just phrases or words that you want to utter. And with that a melody that you know you will not tire of through all the repetitions required to hone it well enough to sing it for others.

A few months later in Leicester I got the opportunity to ask him for the song. Not a request I would make lightly; it's an endorsement of a requesting singer to give them a song, particularly if it's one you made yourself. Realising this, I treaded lightly. I sat with him and his family as we listened to the junior singing competitions that morning. At a natural point I mentioned that I really enjoyed the song he had sung about Wexford and would love to sing it. Bruce was more than happy to pass it on and I asked if I could record him singing it. He obliged and after the competitions had finished, Bruce, Dot and I stayed on in the competition room and I set up my mini-disk recorder. Bruce produced a small black notebook from his pocket and leafing through the surprisingly ordered songs laid-out inside, he found 'The Heroes of '98'.

'Remember those who for Ireland rose in the year of '98,
Those Wexford men, from hill and glen, their deeds commemorate...'

The song’s sympathies are biased certainly, I wouldn’t have wanted it otherwise, but it is compassionate and respectful. Bruce had written it in 1998, for the bicentenary of the events depicted - not dissimilarly to how 'Boolavogue', now a central song in the Wexford canon, was composed by P.J. McCall to commemorate the 100-year anniversary of the insurgency.

Somewhat unknowingly, I collected my first song that day, at least in the formal sense of going out with that particular goal in mind with a recording device to a source singer. The song was followed immediately by other songs and stories – songs Bruce had made about Wexford, Dublin and indeed his most acclaimed song ‘The People’s Own MP’ about Bobby Sands, the hunger striker. The People’s Own MP has been covered by a number of commercial recording artists including Christy Moore.
After lunch was the senior singing competition. Bruce and I had both entered – me for the first time. He asked what I would sing. I said I hoped to sing 'Come All You Warriors', an epic song written soon after the events of 1798 and believed to be a significant template for the aforementioned ‘Boolavogue’2. 'Hoh, you'll definitely win if you sing that one!' he said. And he was right.

I felt a rite of passage had occurred in that kind comment from Bruce and the decision of the adjudicator that day. My peers had expressed that I was of the singing standard of somebody I very much looked up to. Later that day, Bruce's grand-daughter pipped him in the song writing competition, coming first as he came second and with me coming third.
The tradition was firmly being upheld by the youth - a very healthy sign, and Bruce appreciated that. I felt that I was a traditional singer that day. Melissa was merited as a song-maker. Bruce had already made his mark as a singer and song-maker, now he was a tradition bearer.

1 - The term ‘song-maker’ is preferred by many people in the traditional Irish music community to the more widely used ‘song-writer’ in popular music or ‘composer’ in classical and jazz. 'Song-maker' as a term implying a craft and the art of traditional song-making is explored and expounded respectively in the RTÉ Radio programme Songmakers and in the seventh chapter of Hugh Shields’ ‘Narrative Singing in Ireland’.

2 - See George Denis Zimmerman’s ‘Songs of Irish Rebellion’.

Capoeira and cosmopolitan discourse

London, my home, is the epitome of cosmopolitanism. A busy hive of people from different places, cultures and politics where they are meeting, conversing, trading and combining ideas, traditions and technologies. This integration is often productive and harmonious but sometimes, just sometimes, utterly devastating.


Capoeira is a fusion of musical styles and art forms. The quintessential Afro-Brazilian tradition is a street opera of music, song, dance and martial arts. Feigning the kicks and punches of combat, two participants move within a circle of musicians and onlookers. With slow, acrobatic movements, they flow gracefully, giving time for their fake blows to be avoided and countered by their dancing opponent. Leg sweeps trigger hand-stands. Graceful high kicks cause the other to duck and pass under their opponent’s hovering leg. All the while the musicians play a pulsing rhythm and sing repeated call-and-response verses while playing drums, rasps, maracas and the berimbau (a bow-like instrument in loose tuning).
The high performance of capoeira, encompassing many complimentary art forms, has a solid foundation in the simplicity of its music. Allowing ease of participation, in any given performance, dancers can become musicians and vice versa, moving informally from the ring of fighters to the row of musicians and picking up an instrument. The music is simple and repetitive. The Portuguese song lyrics, with occasional slang of West African origin, belie the origins of the game. The simple music does not allow much scope for virtuosity – that is left to the dancers.


And there was no shortage of flamboyance in a display of capoeira I witnessed recently on my cycle home from work through Stockwell in South London. Outside the underground station a group of capoeira performers had gathered for a roda (capoeira performance) to commemorate the fatal shooting of Brazilian Jean Charles De Menezes five years ago on the 21st of July, 2005.
The day after his death Jean Charles was declared innocent. He had not been linked to the militant Islamist network that the London Metropolitan Police were monitoring that fateful day (only two weeks after a series of suicide bombings on London busses and tube trains and the day after subsequent attempted bombings). The impressions of warfare by the dancers on the footpath echoed the violent incident their ritual acknowledged. Each dance is a physical dialogue, a mock battle, sometimes placid, sometimes more heated, but with no harmful contact. The greater ‘conversation’ in modern society is not always so pacifistic.

The philosopher Kwame Anthony Appiah has identified cosmopolitanism as a conversation, though not one in which people have to attain consensus. I agree. It would be a shame if we all agreed on everything, and an equal shame if we all looked the same, made the same music and danced the same dance.

Capoeira is a mix of many native traditions and its exponents come from many ethnicities; the performance I witnessed at Stockwell station was certainly no exception. The dancers abilities too, were as varied as their nationalities, some being more experienced and adventurous with their movements than others. But occasionally, the capoeira dancers let their concentration slip and an unintended collision of foot and face occurs. In such an instance, the music continues, with the odd wince from the onlookers, the dancers acknowledge the error with smiles and gestures and continue the dance.
The incident of social friction marked by that particular evening’s performance was not quite so forgivable. The physical and intellectual discourse between greater western society and militant Islam includes intentionally violent acts from both parties, and even the reactionary clumsiness that causes unintended deaths, like that of Menezes, and the countless others around the world, are not followed with the same acceptance of apology as that of the amicable capoeiristas.

Capoeira is a poignant art form for the remembrance of the wars of the past, but more significantly it is a beautiful way for people to come together. In this blog, I intend to explore the meetings of many cultures, traditions, musics and individuals as I encounter them. And in each instance I hope to explore the coming together of ideas and the many ways we express them. I also would like to see this blog triggering some dialogue and healthy debate on the topics that arise from my posts. Capoeira is a good place to start.


Cosmopolitanism and capoeira as discourse are explored respectively in the following texts:
Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of Strangers, Kwame Anthony Appiah, 2006
Ring of liberation: deceptive discourse in Brazilian capoeira, John Lowell Lewis, University of Chicago Press, 1992
Both books will hopefully make you feel very good about the world and being human. The latter is available for free through Google Books.