In these blogs "The trouble with Ireland is . . ." I am using the words Catholic and Protestant for ease of use in identifying the protagonists in the Irish conflict. In doing so, I am neither suggesting nor implying, that Protestants and Catholics per sae, are predisposed towards bigotry or violence in respect of their fellow human beings.
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If you have been watching television in recent weeks, you may have seen the mug shot of Ian Paisley screaming into a microphone. What he was saying, from behind thick spectacles and a tremulous jaw, was: "Never! Never! Never!" In other circumstances, my response might have been different, but as Ian Paisley as leader of the Democratic Unionists, had finally agreed to "sup with the devil", and share power with Gerry Adams of Sin Fein, I enjoyed this particular piece of mischief making by the media. Undoubtedly they have had this footage in the can for years, and were waiting for the moment when it would have maximum impact. That moment of course came when "power sharing" in Northern Ireland was agreed. As for mischief making, and my enjoyment, well I suspected at the time, and still do, that in truth, Paisley was not screaming "Never! Never! Never!" at the idea of power sharing, but at the idea of sharing power with a group of people who were not wholly committed to the democratic process, and who still had their cache of weapons, just in case.
Well, the trouble with Ireland is, that the Irish have a reputation for having "a way with words." And the pages of our history are littered with men who have excelled in this craft: Acclaimed poets, authors, orators and songsters. And not a few others, who today are to be found in the annals of literature, under the gruesome heading: "speech from the dock." A last few words, if you like, from the "rebel," before sentence of death was passed, by his colonial master.
Among such, (and they are not nearly as well known as the literary greats), are the "Manchester Martyrs:" William Phillip Allen, Michael Larkin and Michael O'Brien, all of whom, in 1867, addressed the court in Manchester.Though innocent, they were tired, found guilty, and hanged for the murder of Sergeant Brett, a policeman who was shot when the prison van in which he was travelling was ambushed and the prisoners released. They were Colonel Kelly and Captain Deasy, leaders of the Fenian movement, (a secret society dedicated to the overthrow of British rule in Ireland). All of the condemned men, had been in the crowd that attacked the prison van. But all three denied any involvement in the murder of Sergeant Brett. In his statement to the court, William Philip Allen, expressed regret at Sergeant Brett's death, and challenged the court over the injustices, or sharp practices, that lead to his conviction for murder. In the circumstances, it is an eloquent address:
"No man in this court regrets the death of Sergeant Brett more than I do, and I positively say, in the presence of the Almighty and ever-living God, that I am innocent; aye, as innocent as any man in this court. I don't say this for the sake of mercy: I want no mercy - I'll have no mercy. I'll die, as many thousands have died for the sake of their beloved land, and in defence of it. I will die proudly and triumphantly in defence of republican principles and the liberty of an oppressed and enslaved people. Is it possible we are asked why sentence should not be passed upon us, on the evidence of prostitutes off the streets of Manchester, fellows out of work, convicted felons - aye, an Irishman sentenced to be hanged when an English dog would have got off. I say positively and defiantly, justice has not been done me since I was arrested. If justice had been done me, I would not have been handcuffed at the preliminary investigation in Bridge Street; and in the court justice has not been done me in any shape or form. I was brought up here, and all the prisoners by my side were allowed to wear overcoats, and I was told to take mine off. What is the principle of that? There was something in that principle, and I say positively that justice has not been done me. As for the other prisoners, they can speak for themselves with regard to that matter. And now, with regard to the way I have been identified. I have to say that my clothes were kept for four hours by the policemen in Fairfield station and shown to parties to identify me as being one of the perpetrators of this outrage on Hyde Road. Also in Albert station there was a handkerchief kept on my head the whole night, so that I could be identified the next morning in the corridor by the witnesses. I was ordered to leave on the handkerchief for the purpose that the witnesses could more plainly see I was one of the parties who committed the outrage. As for myself, I feel the righteousness of my every act with regard to what I have done in defence of my country. I fear not. I am fearless - fearless of the punishment that can be inflicted on me; and with that, my lords, I have done." (1)
Now what is especially intriguing for me about this: "way with words", is that it is not exclusive to the native Catholic Irish, but is part of the inheritance of Protestant Ireland also. Here too, the writings of the great and the good, readily come to mind: Jonathan Swift, Yeats and Louis McNiece. But in the context of that part of Ireland, where I grew up, Northern Ireland, a place in which, Protestant's were (planted,) I am reminded of "a way with words," that allowed them to coin a phrase that proved effective for more than a century. Two words that crystallised the resolve of this corner of Ireland to stay British, as opposed to joining an all Ireland Republic. They were "No Surrender". And part of the genius of Paisley, (in changed circumstances), was to encapsulate that spirit of resistance in one word rather than two. In the word "Never!"
Well, what I want to share with you, in the context of Protestant Ireland, are a way with words, that like those of the "Manchester Martyrs" are less well known, and that sadly, belong to our old friend "Anonymous." A fact that prompted the mischievous thought that they might not have been written by a Protestant at all, but by a Catholic. However, I quickly decided to stick with tradition, for as a young man, these words came to me as part of the Protestant tradition. But before I share them with you, a preamble, bearing in mind that this blog may be read in Tashkent or Outer Mongolia.
When I was a boy growing up in a place where Catholics and Protestants essentially lived separate lives, the ultimate expression of the Protestant ascendancy, came in "the marching season." It was, and still is, a period when Orangemen, celebrating their victory over the Catholic King James II, at the Battle of the Boyne, in 1690, marched solemn and forbidding, each in their dark suit, bowler hat and orange sash. Disciplined, and walking in step, they would follow the accompanying flute, accordion or pipe band; while those of us who were not Orangemen, *but of a different persuasion", cringed at the intimidating sound of the Lambeg drum. At times like this, we had no doubt about our status as Catholics and aspiring nationalists. In our own land, we were sojourners who were tolerated. And long after the bands had gone, we were reminded of our powerlessness by the street paraphernalia. By the bunting and flags still flying, by the pavement slogans refreshed for the occasion and still crisp, and by the kerbstones, freshly painted: red white and blue. (The colours of the Union Jack.)
In such a society, it should come as no surprise to be told that mixed marriages, (a marriage between a Catholic and a Protestant), were a vexed question. But the greatest betrayal of all, from a Protestant perspective, was that in such a union, the Protestant would "turn" or convert and become a Catholic. Well this is exactly what happened to Bob Williamson, a weaver, who lived in the town of Dungannon. Not only did he fall in love with Brigid McGinn, a Catholic, but as Anonymous tells us, he "turned Papish [Popish] himself and forsook the old cause..." And though this story is peppered with subtle historic references, readily understood by Protestants, I want you to hear it, because when I first came across it as a young man, my reaction was not what I might have expected. In truth, I had a sneaking admiration for the person who wrote it, as it was the funniest thing that I had read in a long time. And I just couldn't take offence. So here it is, the work of Anonymous:
The Old Orange Flute.
In the Country Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon,
Where many a ruction myself had a han' in.
Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade.
On the Twelfth of July as around it would come
Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum,
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But there's nothing compared with the Ould Orange flute.
But Bob the deceiver, he took us all in,
For he married a Papish called Brigid McGinn.
Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
Now the boys of the place made most common upon it,
And Bob had to fly to the Province of Connacht,
He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot,
And along with the latter the old Orange flute.
In the chapel on Sundays, to atone for past deeds,
He said Paters and Aves and counted his beads,
Till after some time, at the priest's own desire,
He went with his old flute to play in the choir.
He went with his old flute to play for the Mass,
And the instrument shivered, and sighed: Oh alas!"
And blow as he would, though it made a great noise,
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys."
Bob jumped, and he started, and got in a flutter,
And threw his old flute in the blest Holy Water;
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound
When he blew it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down";
And for all he could whistle, and finger, and blow,
To play Papish music he found it no go;
"Kick the Pope," "The Boyne Water," it freely would sound,
But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found.
In a council of priests that was held the next day,
They decided to banish the old flute away.
For they couldn't nock heresy out of its head
And they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead.
So the old flue was doomed and its fate was pathetic,
'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as heretic,
While the flames roared around it they heard a strange noise-
'Twas the old flute still whistling "The Protestant Boys."
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© Cormac McCloskey
(1) Irish Orators and Oratory
Introduction by Professor T.M Kettle
Published by The Gresham Publishing Company Ltd
Published [undated]
Related websites
The Fenian Movement
The Manchester Martyrs
The Plantation of Ulster
Profile: The Orange Order
Note: This blog, "The trouble with Ireland is . . . 2" was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 10th April 2007
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