Scarúint
Do Junior Crehan, ealaíontóir agus cara
Lyrics: Tim Dennehy
Flute: Tommy Keane
Junior Crehan was a wonderful fiddle and concertina player, a composer of tunes and songs, a storyteller and singer and a man of the land. He enriched our lives on many a Sunday night in Gleeson's of Coore a famous West Clare pub for music, set dancing and singing. His funeral in August '98 was a memorable day of sadness and celebration as befitted a father- figure of traditional music. Tommy Keane's tune, "The Man from Bun a' Bhaile", was inspired by Junior's compositions and warm personality.
Tá deor im' shúil is cloch im' chroí
Ó d'imís uainn I gcodladh ciúin
Luan, Lúnasa '98
Ag siúl dom ó Chros Mharcaim go Sliabh Callán
Titeann notaí mar dheora sa bháisteach bhog-
"An Sliabh faoi Chaipín Ceo",
"Caisleán an Óir",
"Slán le Sráid na Cathrach",
Im' shuí cois leapan an Déardaoin sin
Ags tú ar tí imeachta
Sheinn Matt, "Scarúint na gCompánach",
Gach nóta chomh binn-uaigneach
Gur mealladh an spideoigín chun táirsigh
Do mhéara ag rince, do shúile ag crú an cheoil
Níos déanaí d'fháisc tú mo láimh
Is b'ionadh liom do neart nuair a dúirt,
"Keep singing the songs-
Music, song and dance were my life,
The house dances my university".
Siúlaim inniu trí Bhaile Mhic Aodha
Go dtí'n geata ag Bun a' Bhaile
Cloisim ceol an fhidil trín leoithne
Ag pógadh géaga an sheiceamair
Géaga na fuinseoige
"An tInneall Bainte",
"Poll an Mhadra Uisce",
"Sléibhte Chuair".
Is cím ansin thú I do chóta is do chaipín,
Cromtha I do gháirdín cúil
Ag gabháil fhoinn ós íseal
I gcomh-pháirt I gcónaí led' fhód dúchais
An fód sin a d'fháisc ina bhachlainn thú
Luan, Lúnasa '98
Parting (For Junior Crehan, artist and friend)
My heart is heavy, my eyes teared
Since you slipped into a quiet sleep
Monday, August '98
Walking from Markham's Cross to Mount Callan
Notes fall gently like tears in the soft rain
"The Mist Covered Mountain",
"Caisleán an Óir",
"Farewell to Miltown….
Seated by your bedside that Thursday
As you prepared to leave
Matt played, The Parting of Friends,
Each note so lonesome- sweet
That the very bird- throats were silent
Your fingers moving in time, your eyes, soaking the emotion.
Later you grasped my hand, your voice surprising me
With its strength when you said,
"Keep singing the songs,
Music, song and dance were my life,
The house dances my university".
I walk today through Ballymackea
To your gate at Bonavilla;
The music of the fiddle harmonises with the breeze
As it kisses the branches of ash and sycamore,
The Mowing Machine, The Otter's Holt, The Hills of Coore.
I see you then in your cap and coat,
Slightly stooped in your back garden,
Singing lowly,
In harmony with your beloved earth,
The warm earth that cradled you in its embrace
Monday, August '98.