Faerie Moon

Faerie Moon

Lament For The Son Of Usnech

When sun sets down the Mountains of Kerry and follows the River Shanon to the mighty Atlantic, the Emerald Isle shines to the sparkle of the myriad of stars and the rays of the moon. Along the plains filled with peat bogs and heaths magic makes its appearance in the cool of the evening; sweet smelling grasses sway to and fro with the spirit of the faeries. Little people raise themselves from the mosses and lichens and go along their busy ways in gathering the gold for their crock near the sparkling coloured rainbow; the spirits whisper their count in the Gaelic tongue of old.

The peaceful evenings with brilliant lit heavens, at one time in the recent past, shone on a lantern lit cottage in the county of Limerick. Blind Eamus McNaught had his little cottage which he shared with his devoted wife Mary Ellen; a woman faithful to him even when sight was deprived. A bonny bairn of a lass was her gift to him and she cared for the both of her charges equally.

Eamus McNaught's sight was in the soft touch of the pretty features and red hair of his Mary Ellen; his lips accepted the full warmth of his wife's affection, and her hug with her slim and gracious body added its charms. He took pleasure in the sound of the cooing and gurgling of chubby little Daphne. The two wonderful creatures were a blessing in his life, and he never forgot in the Sunday mass to offer his prayers for them.

Eamus McNaught's gift to his Mary Ellen and little Daphne was the tunes played on his fiddle and sung by his tenor voice in the cool of the evenings. The playing on the strings was an inheritance from his father to his younger son, and Eamus's rendered songs had the blessed semblance of his sweet-voiced mother. Both the father and mother of Eamus McNaught lived the remainder of their golden years in the loving care of the Sisters of Charity in their convent nearby.

The wee people in their dress of bright green with silver buckles and pretty ribbons stopped in their busy ways and listened to the sweet music. Magic touched their tiny feet and bells tinkled on the green of their shining brogues as they jigged to the songs of the mountains of Kerry with loughs of sweet water, the flowing waters of the river Barrow in the southeast, and the mighty river Corrib in the west.

On the festive nights the blind fiddler Eamus McNaught played the fiddle for young people to dance in the town of Limerick's main square. The jig 'Irish Rose' was the favourite as the dancers ramrod straight, jigged with gaiety to their steps keeping tune to the scrape of his violin. His pleasant tenor voice joined the strings as he played and sang the songs of the blind poet Turlouch Carolan.

And so, at every pause, he was offered a good drink and also slices of cake. It was the least one could do for the wreck of a young man who gave his sight in service to the crown. Eamus McNaught, tall and well built in youthful years did not show his loss on his rough-hewn features; only a smile was etched on his thin lips. And he was liked as a musician; nobody could make the young and even the elder ones dance as he could.

He played so well on the strings of his fiddle, and trilled the songs, which bewitched people to dance to the rhythm of the tunes; even those with clumsy feet or beginners needed no persuasion. The leaders of parties arranged for him from the beginning of the year that he would not fail them. And indeed at weddings, christening and feast days his fiddle and voice would spin the tunes of the 'Oft in a Stilly Night', 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and even the tale of 'Lalla Rookh', an Indian princess. His appreciative audience laughed with him as he sung of the humorous exploits of 'The Irish Washerwoman'.

How he was spoiled! How well he was treated! Good old Eamus McNaught must be looked after; everywhere he played he was treated better than an itinerant paid musician. He was regarded almost as a friend to those who invited him to play. From Galaway and Cork, from the rivers Shannon and Boyne and from the mountains of Kerry to the southeast to Corrib in the west he was invited to play.

In the fair city of Dublin they good folk raised a glass as he sung of the heroics of Edwin Macneil and Roger Casement. Along the coast fishermen off their boats filled with herring, whiting and mackerel, the largesse of the mighty Atlantic, heard the rhythm of Hughs, 'The West with Pale Fishes,' and the tale of 'Barbara Allen' written by a Irish writer unknown.

Eamus McNaught gave his music freely to those devoted in their vows; black-robed nuns showed their pleasure through their cowled austere features when the words sounded of the fair Virgin; the priests in their black clerical dress let the their lace boots tap with the rhythm of Michael Moore, 'Time Present and Time Past', and 'Blow Your Trumpets Blow'; and the brown cowled friars shuffled their sandaled feet to the tunes ‘Heigh-ho the Holly' and ‘Christ of his Gentleness'.

Eamus McNaught never refused any invitation, always accompanied by a good soul as his Mary Ellen was busy with her Daphne and again blessed with a coming birth.  The good man knew that his wife and his little girl were properly attended to; both he and his wife were from large trusting families who members gave their time willingly and in good grace to one another. And there was always a spinster aunt or cousin who looked forward in their lonely years to spend time with a relative. Off course the wee ones were there and their magic was everywhere in the little cottage.

He never refused any request for a jig to be spun on his fiddle or any lifting tune to be sung from his vibrant tenor voice. He accepted the hospitality with gratefulness from his hosts, accepted the coin needed for his family's bread, and partook of the refreshments offered; he ate and drank sparingly, everything slowly, without hurrying himself.

But time was running out for Eamus Mcnaught after a few pleasure years as he started to cough. At first it was slight; and in the final days he coughed his soul out.  It was one of those hard wet coughs coupled with phlegms of black, which seemed to shake and tear the chest. To see him thus one did not know he had not long to live; for he would not play much longer, and who would make them dance. "Poor Eamus McNaught is worn out. He won't last long!" they gossiped amoungst themselves.

It was the mark of his wound in the volunteer service to the royal king in the other island across the sea. He had donned the khaki, and shouldered the rifle and marched to the tune of "Tipperary". The mustard gas that fumed from the machines of the men in gray and spiked helmets flooded the trenches. There was no prior warning and the protective mask was not arranged quickly enough and he suffered blindness, and the inside of his body was corrupted by the curse of the cancerous plague.

He marched blindly with his hands on the shoulders of either a man from the bogs or a cockney from the sound of Bow Bells; in turn he felt the hands on his shoulders from another sufferer. Little did he know that the line was seemingly endless, which direct the wounded to treatment. From the first-aid station in the field to the military hospital, the doctors shook their heads and told him of a few years of life.

Pension and a white cane were given and Eamus Mcnaught returned to the land of the Gaels. He took up the fiddle again and the wee folks jigged to the rhythm together with the rest of the folk from the mountains of Kerry to the River Shannon.

"Lament for the Sons of Usnech" was sung as the remains of Eamus Mcnaught were laid to rest. Yet, Eamus McNaught lives on in spirit and he played the fiddle for young people to dance. The wee ones knew as in the cool of a summer's night when the heavens were lit by countless shining lights the sweet sounds of 'Danny Boy', 'My Irish Rose' could be heard in the whisper of the gentle winds.

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