Dear disappointed subscribers–at least, I hope you’re disappointed:
My abject apologies for the big gap in your receipt of these blog posts. I’ve been writing them all along, as usual, but my e-mail service stopped sending them last July because I’d exceeded my subscriber limit for their free plan. We thought we’d addressed the problem but clearly hadn’t. That’s all I’ll bore you with about the issue, except to say that I shoulda listened to a friend who kept saying, “How come I never get your posts any more?”
Included in the recipients for this post are those of you who subscribed at some point after the limit was reached and who therefore have never received anything via these e-mails. I do hope you’ll stick around, along with all of you who subscribed before the Great Cut-Off. There’s a lot of interesting material here, if I do say so myself.
Yes, folks, I do dabble in subjects other than the meanings of musical texts. Since this blog is my main outreach to the public, I figured it was perfectly legitimate to tell you about this other project which I’ve been working on for over two years. Are you a true-crime addict? Then you’re certainly aware of this case. I had somewhat of a epiphany back in September 2022 when Adnan Syed, the man who’d been imprisoned for over 20 years for murdering Hae, was released after his conviction was vacated. While the majority of interested observers believed in his innocence and were thrilled with this outcome, there were still many “guilters” out there. Chief among those partisans, understandably, were the close family of Hae–her brother, mother, and uncle. They started pushing immediately for the reinstatement of Adnan’s murder conviction. And I thought, “They’ll never give up on this, not unless the real murderer is definitively identified.” This “real murderer” has always been assumed by most of those who’ve studied the case carefully to be Don Clinedinst, the young man whom Hae was dating at the time of her death. And what was my epiphany? I suddenly realized that Don’s motive for the confrontation leading to Hae’s death could be explained on the basis of a tiny nugget of information that no one seemed to have picked up on:
“Hae wanted to go live with Don.”
Make sense to you? Well, maybe not. I’d urge you to watch the video below that I made to promote my book in which I explain the significance of that short sentence. Then, if you’re intrigued, I’d urge you to order your own copy.
Good question! Do you mean the place, the actual isle or island? Or do you mean the song? Or perhaps the poem? As you can see, it’s complicated.
Let me start out with the poem that William Butler Yeats wrote in 1888, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree.” Since it’s only 12 lines I’m going to quote it in full here:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
Sources are unanimous in saying that the origins of this Irish folk song are “somewhat unclear.” Since its theme is so universal (a woman left behind as her sweetheart goes to war), you could say that the exact historical reference doesn’t really matter all that much, but it’s always interesting to dig into such things (if you’re a history nerd like me). The most common theory about the song’s background says that it refers to the time of the British Glorious Revolution in 1688, when James II of England, a Roman Catholic, was deposed and replaced by William of Orange,1 a Protestant, and his wife Mary, the daughter of James by a previous marriage and also a Protestant. (If you want a fuller overview of this turbulent time, see my post about the song “Loch Lomond.”)
The Irish were solidly on the side of Catholicism, joining in with James II’s heirs in various attempts to wrest the throne from the wicked William’s hands. (That’s how they saw him, anyway.) But it was all in vain. By 1691, three years after William’s ascension to the English throne, the so-called Williamite War in Ireland was ended with the Treaty of Limerick (a town in Ireland).2 Although there were assurances of safety for Irish soldiers who remained at home, many of these men chose to go to France for military service there. (They were pretty savvy to leave, as the promises to those who stayed weren’t kept.) After all, if your profession is that of a soldier, and you’re forbidden to fight in your homeland, why not go somewhere you can? Louis XIV of France really wanted Irish soldiers to help him in his war against the Dutch, and William III was Dutch. So these exiled Irish soldiers could console themselves with the thought that they were continuing to fight the good fight. This exodus of Irish soldiers to France is called “the flight of the wild geese.” About 20,000 Irish in total fled Ireland, including about 6,000 women.
I could just quote the e-mail sent to me by the composer/arranger of “Thistle and Rose (with ‘Ye Bonnie Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon’),” Phyllis White, in answer to my inquiries about her thought processes as she wrote the piece, and you’d be quite well informed. I will indeed quote her later in this post. Have to say that it’s a total joy when I can communicate with living musicians as I’ve been able to do here. Let me first, though, unpack the symbolism of the thistle and the rose, which stand for Scotland and for England respectively. The story about the thistle comes from an incident in Scotland’s history:
It was 1263 when King Haakon’s fleet of battle-hardened Norsemen was blown off course and landed on the shores of Largs in Ayrshire. To their delight there was a sleeping Scottish army nearby. Not suspecting an attack, the Scottish were doomed to suffer an ambush. The Norsemen removed their boots in preparation for sneaking up on the slumbering soldiers. Fortunately, a field of thorny thistle flowers surrounded the Scottish. One Norse soldier, stepping on a thorn, yelled out in pain. This scream woke the Scottish men, who jumped into action and slaughtered the invading Norsemen.1
Grainne Mhaol Ni Mhaille statue, Westport House, in Westport, County Mayo, accessed via Wikipedia
Oh man! Have I chased down a number of rabbit trails about this seemingly-simple song.
Here’s what seems to have happened: The inestimable Wikipedia says, “Similarly to many folk songs, the origins of this song are obscure.” To put it mildly! However, it seems to be the case that sometime in early Irish/Celtic history (and who knows what time period this actually was) a tradition developed of “hauling the bride home,” which took place a month after the original wedding and consisted of the new bride’s being “hauled” to her now-husband’s house. It isn’t clear to me where she’d stay for that month–at her father’s house, one would guess, but who knows? It’s important to note that the original folk song (if there is indeed such a thing) consisted only of the chorus.
Anyway, here’s how (we think) it went, again from Wikipedia:
The “Hauling home” was bringing home the bride to her husband’s house after marriage. It was usually a month or so after the wedding, and was celebrated as an occasion next only in importance to the wedding itself. The bridegroom brought home his bride at the head of a triumphal procession—all on cars or on horseback. I well remember one where the bride rode on a pillion behind her husband. As they enter the house the bridegroom is supposed to speak or sing: Oro, welcome home, I would rather have you than a hundred milch cows: Oro, welcome home, ’tis you are happy with prosperity [in store for you].” The piper, seated outside the house at the arrival of the party, playing hard [i.e. with great spirit]: nearly all who were at the wedding a month previous being in the procession. Oh, for the good old times!
There are many versions of this song, with varying words and melodies. I’ve tried to distill the various ideas down into something digestible, always keeping in mind that it’s a folk song and its origins are therefore murky. The initial inspiration may have come from a farewell letter written by Scotsman Thomas Armstrong on the eve of his execution in 1605 for border raiding. Here’s what he wrote:
This night is my departing night, For here nae langer must I stay; There’s neither friend nor foe o’ mine, But wishes me away. What I have done thro’ lack of wit, I never, never, can recall; I hope ye’re a’ my friends as yet; Goodnight and joy be with you all!
Several years ago, my own choir, the Cherry Creek Chorale, performed the suite Letters from Ireland, with arrangements of folk songs and also excerpts from letters. all put together by the contemporary composer/arranger Mark Brymer. I was so taken with the music that I wrote a companion book covering historical and literary information for the pieces. It’s available on this website and also from Amazon.
For our upcoming Celtic concert in March 2025 we’re singing just one arrangement from the suite, so I’ve extracted that material and am providing it for free on the blog. I’d encourage you, if your choir is singing the entire work, that you get the book.
For one section, Brymer combines two songs, “The Wild Rover” and “Whiskey in the Jar.” Here’s what I had to say about these two songs:
The answer is a resounding “Yes!” You just never know until you start diving into a piece how much you can find out. Such is the case here–I’ve had quite a time finding out about the tragic love story of the Irishman Joseph Mary Plunkett and his beloved Grace Gifford. It’s hard to know even where to start, but here goes:
You may have looked at Joseph’s full name and questioned why his middle name is “Mary.” Was that his mother’s name, perhaps, and he had no sisters to carry it on? No. It was a symbol of his deep Roman Catholic faith and his devotion to the Virgin Mary. (I’m assuming that he added the name himself.) Plunkett seems at first glance to be a contradictory figure in Irish history, combining religious mysticism and hard-headed military abilities. In reality, though, Ireland’s desire to be an independent country and not under Protestant English rule stemmed at least in part from its loyalty to Catholicism. So Plunkett could help plan a violent bloody uprising against the British government and see it as a profoundly moral cause, which is exactly what he did with his fellow Irish revolutionaries in the spring of 1916 for an event known as the “Easter Uprising” because it started in Dublin on the Monday after Easter. “Wait!” you might say, “1916? World War I is going on at the same time. How did anyone have spare energy for carrying out a revolution?” Good question. In reality, at least part of the reason for this specific rebellion was that it was seen as a way for Irish men to escape conscription into the British army to fight in that war, since they certainly had no great loyalty towards England.
A Canadian bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” during a memorial service, 29 October 2009, at Forward Operating Base Wilson, Afghanistan. Image soure Wikipedia
Probably everyone who’s attended some kind of Christian funeral has heard this hymn, as it’s especially popular for those occasions. And you can see why. The words are beautiful and striking, and the melody is at the same time lovely and singable. What’s not to like?
Then there’s the backstory to the song, which contains drama and irony in about equal parts: John Newton, a slave trader, is converted to Christianity and leaves his dreadful business, becoming a part of the anti-slavery movement. We all love a good redemption story, don’t we?
Real life, however, is seldom if ever so simple and straightforward. The more you delve into a person’s actions the more complicated and messy they become. I used the example in an earlier post about fractals, those designs that reveal new layers as they are magnified. There is never an end to the detail. The same is true in your life, even if you think of it as rather mundane. So it is with John Newton.
