Art Bennett 1793-1879

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Art Bennett was an important part of the Ulster cultural revival of the late eighteenth-early nineteenth century.  By sheer chance, my friend Tom McKeown found the photocopied note reproduced below, among his papers, with nothing attached to indicate its origin or meaning.  That does not stop us from speculating!

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Kavanagh: The Green Fool

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While deliberating whether Patrick Kavanagh would be acceptable as a ‘local’ poet to our readership, the great irony struck me: that Kavanagh himself, from the black hills and sour fields of Monaghan, struggled to demonstrate the universality of man in his verse and indeed celebrated his people, their time and their landscape to encapsulate the problems of mankind, and of the artist through all regions and ages.


In short, he feared lest he be seen as just a ‘local’ poet!

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Art MacCooey

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The most famous graveyard in all our area is doubtless that of Creggan, just outside of Crossmaglen, not least because it is the last resting place of the celebrated Bards, Padraig Mac a Liondain (1685-1733), Seamus Mor MacMurchadha (1720-1750) and Art MacCumhaigh (1738-1773). 

The grave of Mac a Liondain is marked by a plaque erected by Eigse Oirialla, an organisation harking back to an even earlier period when the clans of Armagh, Monaghan, East Fermanagh, South Tyrone and North Louth were united under the great House of Oriel. (The name too is commemorated in the beautiful Oriel Trail, a glorious walk well-signposted through the magnificent Cooley Peninsula!).

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Hummerly Bummerly Counting

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More curious counting:
 
Yen, twa tippling
March, mapplin
Mapplin how
How harry
Bow barry
Biddery gan
Gan gibby
Gilby nowd
Dis cum towd
Ten you marry.
 
 
One-ery, two-ery, dickery davey
Allibo crackery, ten-ery lavery
Just contendium merricum time
Hummerly, bummerly, twenty-nine.


‘Ye’re not as slow as ye walk aisy!’ says Gwendelene McEvoy to me, as I trumped her ace.

‘Aye’, says Peter Cunningham, ‘the softest part of him is he’s teeeth!’

 
 

From Irish, Placenames

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The many explanations of the Gaelic derivation of local place names is often a cause of exasperation.  That we cannot be prescriptive is a testimony of the name’s antiquity; it also reflects on the possibilities of both languages; and it frequently tells of our diverse history and demonstrates that no matter who we are, we share a common rich heritage.  Here are just two examples that we have recently referred to.
 
The village of Forkhill, recently featured (and about to get another article!) lies beneath Slieve Gullion’s tail.  Older residents say ‘Far – cill’.  Some believe it refers to an ancient clan, Orcaill.  Others suggest it comes from the Gaelic for Cold Wood, and indicate that the famous and ancient Dunreavy Wood ended at the village. 
 
I have been told its derivation is from a Gaelic word referring to a water course or ‘trough’.  Personally I suspect it might derive directly from ‘Church of the Men’ as we have Church of the Priest (Kilnasaggart) and Church of Women (Kilnaman) too. 
 
But merely contemplating these alternatives causes us to remember ancient clans and their names; to recall that until a few short centuries ago, our land was covered in forests, and to remember tales associated with Dunreavy Wood; to consider the river, lakes and unique water features of the area and how they were developed in the past; and to accept the central role of religion and particularly Christianity in the last two millennia.
 
And Slieve Gullion itself.  The term in English refers to a body of still water in a ‘gully’ possibly and may refer to the lake on the mountain top. 
 
It may however derive from the Gaelic for ‘holly’ with which the mountain was once covered. 
 
It may derive from Cullain, the smith to the court of Conor McNessa and the Red Branch Knights; or to Cuchullain whose greatest exploits happened in this vicinity and whose name means Hound of Cullain.
 
I have also heard it suggested that the clouds and mist that frequently cover its top may have brought about a name that could possibly derive from the Gaelic ‘to cry’; and again, that verb along with the name of that other hero, Fionn (MacCool). 
 
So, how many tales, legends and stories of folk history does that conjure up?
 
Let’s just celebrate our diversity and the richness of our common history!

Mummers Rhymes

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The Mummers were frequently accompanied by a few young men dressed in women’s clothes who gave an exhibition dance towards the end of the performance.  This was often the most enjoyable event.  Aware of how ludicrous they looked in corsets and petticoats, and much-befrilled and well-starched giant-sized white knickers, they lepped, kicked, danced and besported themselves to riotous music and song.
 
The Rhymers were popular with all creeds and classes and increased their popularity and topicality with personal and political verses.  There were ballads too concerned with love affairs of the district and peculiarities of individuals of the immediate neighbourhood.  
 
There were versions in different neighbourhoods.  This is just one.
 
Master of Cermonies:
 
Room, room, brave gallant boys
Give us room to rhyme
Till we show a bit of our activity
At this Christmas time.
Active youth and active age
The like was never acted on a stage
If ye don’t believe what I say
Enter in St George, and clear the way.
 
St George:
 
Here come I St George, from England have I sprung
And many a noble deed of valour have I done
For years I was in close quarters kept
And out of that into a prison leapt
And out of that into a block of stone
Where I made many a sad and grievous moan
Many a giant did I subdue
And I ran the fiery dragon through and through
I fought them all courageously
Until I earned the victory
Show me the man that dare me stand
And I’ll cut him down with my courageous hand.
 
Turk:
 
I’m the man that dare ye challenge
Though your courage be so great
With my sword I make all to shake
Even dukes and earls to quake.
 
St George:
 
Who are you but a poor silly lad?
 
Turk:
 
I am a Turkish champion
From Turkey land I came
To fight you, the great St George be name
And I say, by George, you are a liar, Sir!
So draw your sword and try, Sir!
 
St George and the Turkish champion engage in sword play.  The Turk falls and his mother enters weeping and wailing..
 
Turk’s mother:
 
St George! St George! Oh, what have you done?
You have killed me only son.
See him lying bleeding there
Oh, my heart is sinking in despair.
 
A doctor, a doctor, ten pounds for a doctor!
Is there ne’er a doctor to be found?
Who can cure me son of his deep and mortal wound?
 
Enter the Doctor.
 
Turk’s Mother:
 
Well, doctor, what is your medicine?
 
Doctor:
 
Hens’ pens and Turkish treacle
Bum-bee eggs and midges’ bacon
Stirred up with a great cat’s feather
Mixed in a mouse’s blether
And given thrice a day.
 
Doctor attends to the Turk.  He sits and gives thanks.
 
Turk:
 
Once I was dead but now I’m alive
God bless the wee doctor that made me revive.
And if you don’t believe in the words I say
Enter in Sir Oliver Cromwell
And he will clear the way.
 
More….
 

Killeavy Placenames

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Dromintee 
fairy bushes
Drinans or Bushes of the Shee  
 
Garriba   
Tail of Slieve Gullion
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Dhraicklemore  
rocky outcrop Armagh/Louth border
great teeth
Monribba               townland near Forkhill on Bog Road
Clougharevan        Cloch Fhuarain, fountain rock, Bessbrook
Cloughreagh          Aghnecloghreagh, place of grey stones, Bessbrook
Cloughinny             Cloch Eanaigh, marsh rock
Crankey                 Baile Mhic Rangain, Rangan’s town
Cross                    Baile na Crosie, town of the crossing
Cullentragh            Cuileanntracht, holly district
Duburren               Dubh bhoireann, dark rocky place (Sturgan)
Derrymore             Doire Mor, great wood
Derrywilligan         Doire Ui Mhaolagain, Mulligan’s Wood
Duvernagh             Dubh Bhearnach, the Black Gap
Drumbanagher       Druimbeannchair, the peaked ridge
Enagh                    Ma Eanaigh, the swampy plain
Eshwary    Baile an eas’mhoir, the town of the great waterfall