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The warbling of the blackbird of Litir Lee The wave of Rughraidhe lashing the shore ; The bellowing of the ox of Magh-Maoin, And the lowing of the calf of Gleann-da-maoil. Was the cry of his hounds afar on the mountains ;. The wolves starting from their dens,. The exultation of his hosts, that was his delight. When the legend of Sweeny, the wandering bard, was transcribed in the twelfth century, the same emphasis on sharp detail, on sights and sounds, can be noticed in the lyrical evocation of Sweeny's exile :.

Faint shadow of a feeble sun,. On the summit of a table land.

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The bellowing of the stags Throughout the wood, The climb to the deer pass, The voice of the white sea To express their own mood the monks lamenting over the loss of Ireland were prone to introduce the same concrete references to the woods, to the singing of the birds, and the same wailing, weeping tone as belonged to the old bardic tradition. Beloved name! Far from the beautiful surroundings reshaped by memory and sharpened by the culture they had been steeped in, the monks often felt homesick.

This feeling was exacerbated when the monks were chased out of Ireland by the violence of the invaders. Although we have observed the reality of joyful anticipation, of better times, in the soul of certain Irish emigrants, many an emigration song echoes this motif of painful exile of the early missionaries. Because of the colonial status of Ireland, because of its economic, social poverty in later years, the Irish who left their homes generally felt they were the victims of enforced exile. The songs which describe emigration positively are most common in the late eighteenth century, when those who left Ireland were relatively advantaged and had no problems settling abroad ; they were a minority compared to the masses mat fled their country with the sense of being evicted.

See, cold island, we stand Here to-night on your shore, To-night but never again ; Lingering a moment more.

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Off then with shouts and mirth, Off with laughter and jests, Mirth and song on our lips, Hearts like lead in our breasts. We can find in this song the dual image of the Irish psyche facing emigration. However the leaden feeling was the one that prevailed in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries when the Irish and Irish American nationalists insisted in their speeches and publications that Irish emigration was an evil imposed by political oppression and British tyranny3.

The ballads sung by Irishmen on both sides of the Atlantic echoed the politicians who kept assimilating the Irish being driven out of Ireland with the children of Israel. The mood of the exile was affected by the anticipation of a long, dangerous crossing.

How cosy the familiar setting of home appeared in their apprehensive minds! Even if the emigrant himself was joyful and apparently unaware of danger, the mood of those who remained was often dissuasive. Emigration was mourned as a sort of death. What is certain is that those last sentimental scenes of friendliness and affection lingered in the consciousness of the emigrants, images of warmth and communal feelings, which they associated with home, and, more largely, Ireland. Thus the image of Ireland in their minds was that of a fond, caring mother or lover ; their hearts echoed with the tender reproach and sorrowful predictions heard in the songs just before departure, making the sense of separation more painful and aggravating the feeling of.

The vast blankness of the ocean and the softness of the last memories encouraged nostalgic dreaming. Still remember me! Then remember me! Attention pay, my countrymen [ No more among the sycamore I'll hear the blackbird sing. No more Til hear the blithe cuckoo that welcomes back the. No more I'll till your fertile fields a chuisle geal mo. In a foreign soil I'm doomed to toil, far, far from Glensuili.

No more at balls, at harvest homes my violin I'll play,. No more I'll dance the Irish jig among the girls so gay,. My loving harp I've left behind, 't will make them think on. And keep my place till I return to lovely Glensuili.

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The umbilical cord between the motherland and the departing Irishman was rarely broken. The emigrants were usually small farmers, who left. The songs and minstrelsy of the plain of Meath,. Plain of the noblest company. The last images these rural people had had of home was that of a pastoral world of glens and meadows. What awaited them abroad was an urban environment, an industrialized society, and, replacing the congenial atmosphere of village life, the suspicion, exploitation, and discrimination of city-dwellers.

The evocations of open-air scenes reflect the frustrations of the Irish emigrant, his difficult adjustment to his new life. Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight. Wid the people here workin' by day and by night. They don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,. But there's gangs of them diggin' for gold in the street.

At least, when I axed them, that's what I was told,. So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold ;. But for all that I found there, I might as well be. Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea. The greyness of the streets, the throngs, contrast unfavourably with the green mellowness of the Irish landscape. The joy of the discovery. Now I've learned there's more to life than to wander For money can't buy happiness and money cannot bind.

Many emigration songs contrast the indifference of the land of plenty with the simplicity of home scenes :. And if maybe you're thinking that I am rich and grand,. That all the roads are golden in this great big land,. Oh the roads they do not matter ; sure it's any road will do. If it only takes me home again The appeal of the new land is counterbalanced by nostalgia for the lost land. Thus the emigrant is submitted to contradictory pressures, that of the new country, into which he wants to become assimilated, and that of Ireland to which he is still bound : he regularly sends letters and money home, and hi the new land he has a tendency to seek the company of other Irish emigrants with whom, having often left with no material reminders of Ireland, he shares the only cultural baggage they took with them, their songs and dances.

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For many immigrants there was a way not to forget the island : by preserving it in songs. The Irish emigrant could become a fiercer nationalist than his cousins at home, and his feelings for the motherland were sharpened by the sense of enforced exile. Gathering in the towns of America, the Irish found in the remnants of culture they had brought with them the cement that bound them together. The day will come when vengeance loud will call,. And we will rise with Erin's boys to rally one and all. I'll be the one to lead the van beneath our flag of green,.

And loud and high will rise the cry. The image of Ireland in their songs became an object of religious worship, like an idealized mistress venerated with platonic devotion. Ireland stayed around them, no longer as a reality, but as a myth, and gave them a sense of communal identity. The stanzas sometimes systematically scan a region, or the whole of Ireland, in a style reminiscent of The Tain and its enumeration of all the places where the armies happen to pass.

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Wicklow, the sweet lakes of Killarney in Kerry County Just as the geographical reality of Ireland could be ignored in Sweeney's leaps from province to province in the old mediaeval tale, a little brook can most unrealistically meander through towns as distant as Killybegs and Kildare. Tony MacMahon, an accordion player from Co. Hence the incantatory impression of certain ballads, as if in response to the old belief that words have magical power.

In the rural areas from which the emigrants originated, many of the old tales had been memorized from precolonization times. In the pagan imagination the praise of wonderful lands was not reserved for mythic territories, and in pagan Celtic poetry Ireland itself was referred to as a place of wonders. Even medieval Christian literature exploited this theme of Ireland's wonders as an allegory of the Church The Irishman away from home was part of the same trend, finding the same images of Ireland as this early Christian poet translated by Liam de Paor :.

There no poison harms, no serpent glides in the grass, No frog harshly sings his loud complaint in the lake. When the country is thus sublimated it acquires a universality in which other communities of emigrants can recognize their own homeland. However, what makes an Irish ballad so distinctly Irish is the precision of the topical details, the reference to particular spots of light, to a whiff of wind, the flutter of a wing in a clearly defined place :.