Oh my goodness to gracious yes. You just never know until you start diving into a piece how much background there is to find. 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 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.
A further complication in Plunkett’s motives for leading the revolt was that he was a lifelong sufferer from tuberculosis and had at the time been given only a few weeks to live. He may have felt that if he had to die anyway it was better to go out in a blaze of glory than in a coughing fit and so joined in the fighting even though he was only a couple of weeks out from surgery. The song says,
Now I know it’s hard for you my love to ever understand
The love I bear for these brave men, my love for this dear land
But when Padraic called me to his side, down in the G.P.O.
I had to leave my own sick bed, to him I had to go.
“Padraic” is the Irish form of the name “Patrick” and refers to Patrick Pearce, one of the Uprising’s leaders. The “G.P.O.” was the General Post Office, a huge well-constructed building that was seen as a great place to take a stand. In fact, a key part of the Uprising’s strategy was to take possession of public buildings all over the city. After seven days of fighting, however, the Irish rebels were defeated, with many thrown into Dublin’s infamous Kilmainham Gaol. Fifteen of the leaders, including Plunkett, were executed by firing squad over the next few days; Grace and Joseph were hurriedly married only hours before his death. Joseph had suggested that they get married sometime during Lent, the 40 days before Easter, but Grace was doing some type of Lenten ritual during that time and didn’t want to be interrupted. She suggested Easter; Joseph said, “I think we’ll be running a revolution then.” I guess she didn’t quite believe him, which is why she found herself pleading with the jailers to let the prison chaplain marry them before his execution. It wasn’t a pretty scene: here’s a description from an excellent article I ran across written by Plunkett’s grand-niece and taken in large part from her grandmother’s, Plunkett’s sister’s, journals:
I find that people see the wedding as romantic – as if their last moments were filled with candlelight. In fact, it was sordid and tragic. They couldn’t speak to each other, or touch each other, they didn’t know their witnesses and had the constant company of many armed soldiers in the chapel and, later in the cell. (Joseph Plunkett’s wedding wasn’ romantic, it was sordid)
After Joseph’s execution Grace lived for another 40 years and campaigned for Ireland’s independence through her political cartoons and other art. Her own activities landed her in the same jail as her husband for a brief time. She never remarried, and her grave is famous today as a sort of pilgrimage site for lovers of Irish history.
Well! Quite a story. I was sure that there must also be quite a story connected with the writing of the song by the brothers Sean and Frank O’Meara in 1985, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. I ran across a video in which they’re in the audience of a late-night TV show and are asked about the origins of the song; “I really don’t remember. I do remember it took me about five or six lunch breaks in my office to do it. You see, I was working off of an incredibly good melody, and it was perfect from the first day as I said, and the story told itself,” says Sean, who at the time was a managing director of an advertising company. The next year was going to be the 70th anniversary of the Uprising, but there’s no real indication from the songwriters themselves that they were inspired by that date.
It’s important to recognize that, whatever the inspiration for the song may have been, these are not Joseph Plunkett’s words. O’Meara has Plunkett experiencing some self-doubt in the first verse, but who knows how Plunkett himself really felt?
As we gather in the chapel, here in old Kilmainham Gaol,
I think about these past few weeks, O will they say we failed?
From our school days, they have told us we must yearn for liberty
Yet all I want in this dark place is to have you here with me.
And did Plunkett write something on the wall of the prison before he was led out to his death? Here’s the relevant verse from the song:
Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too
On this May morn as I walk out, my thoughts will be of you
And I’ll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know
I loved so much that I could see His Blood Upon The Rose.
Honestly, I’ve combed through several websites about the jail (or “goal”), and although there were lots of inscriptions left on the walls by prisoners there doesn’t seem to be anything from Plunkett. He did write the poem that O’Meara refers to, but it was published in 1911 and has nothing to do with Grace. Instead, it’s a lovely mystical meditation on Plunkett’s Catholic faith and how he sees Christ in all aspects of the world. The final line is very telling: “His cross is every tree.” O’Meara obviously knew the poem or at least that line, but why he thought it fit in with this story puzzles me greatly. I think he just remembered the words and thought they fit in with the general idea of death in his song, but in the end his thought processes will have to remain a mystery. If I were to contact Mr. O’Meara he’d just have to tell me what he said above: “I really don’t remember.”
Well, I’ve gone on well past my usual word limit and so won’t take the time to explore Ireland’s long climb to independence after the Rising. (Whew!) Today the island itself is in reality two distinct nations: Northern Ireland, which is part of Great Britain, and the Republic of Ireland, which is a separate nation. If you remember the whole brouhaha over Brexit, Great Britain’s departure from the European Union, you’ll recall that one of the big sticking points was the question of how the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic would be handled, since one would be in the EU and the other not. Irish history continues to be messy!
Everyone everywhere agrees that the absolutely definitive performance of “Grace” was by the Irish singer Jim McCann. Here’s a great video with McCann giving an introduction before singing and some great old photographs included:
And here are two short videos that include the aforementioned interview with the songwriters. I just couldn’t get over that this romantic ballad became a favorite of Rod Stewart, he of the wild hair and raspy voice, but there it is:
A-a-a-n-d, finally, here’s the text of Plunket’s poem “His Blood Upon the Rose”:
I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.
I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.
All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.
Fascinating history!