Open Writing

One of an aunt's favourite songs, she would often sing it late in the evening at family weddings, was The Rose Of Tralee. It came with a story, a sad, sad story.

Once upon a time there was a poor cobbler—or, if you prefer it—a brogue maker. He had a beautiful daughter. Her name, of course, was Mary. At the tender age of seventeen she secured a position in service in the home of a rich wine merchant. The family quickly discovered her to be intelligent and hard working as well as lovely.

Before too long she caught the eye and aroused the passions of one of the sons of the house and he caught her eye, and whatever else was available. In the fullness of time he asked her to marry him, she was keen but she was catholic and he was protestant and that presented some difficulties in the Ireland of the early nineteenth century.

After some soul searching they decided to put aside sectarian differences and get married despite all opposition. This courageous if foolhardy decision did not please the local hard noses on either side of the religious divide and several ructions broke out. It is an Irish story after all, and it was bound to end in tears.

Things went, as they say, from bad to worse, testosterone and holy water makes a terrifying cocktail. Things came to a head when this impetuous protestant lad impaled with his sword or bewildered with his Wicklow shillelagh, an equally impetuous catholic lad. The unfortunate impaled or bewildered one died of his wounds, or was martyred—depending on your take on it, and the authorities issued an arrest warrant for murder. Our hero forced to flee, sang his beloved the first two verses of her song, pledged eternal devotion, and then leapt into the saddle of his best friend's horse and galloped off into the sunset.

He travelled to India, a land of opportunity, and became a war correspondent on the North West Frontier where the British were taking a severe kicking from the intransigent tribes who, to a man, refused to be conquered. During his time reporting on war he impressed an army general, a former Limerick man, who used his influence to have the charges against our hero dropped so he could return home.

The pale moon was rising above the green mountain,
the sun was declining beneath the blue sea,
when I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain,
that stands in the beautiful vale of Tralee.
She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me.
Oh, no 'twas the truth in her eye ever dawning,
that made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.

In the far fields of India, 'mid wars dreadful thunder,
her voice was a solace and comfort to me,
but the chill hand of death has now rent us asunder,
I'm lonely tonight for the Rose of Tralee.
She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me.
Oh, no 'twas the truth in her eye ever dawning,
that made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.

So it was that in the spring of 1849 the mail coach delivered a weary traveller to the door of the Kings Arms in Tralee. He had decided to refresh himself after his journey and then go in search of his great love. As he was enjoying a pot of reviving Guinness a funeral cortège passed in front of the public house. When he enquired as to the identity of the deceased he discovered that it was Mary O'Connor, The Rose Of Tralee. 'Too late, too late,' he cried, ordered another pint of stout, sat down at the old piano and, adding a third and final verse, gave out with this wonderfully, deliciously depressing song.

© Dermott Ryder

**

Dermott writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au