Die Geschichte Irlands ist eine Geschichte der Invasionen und Überfälle, eine traurige Geschichte, die von Unterdrückung und Vertreibung erzählt. Aber es ist auch eine Geschichte der Helden und Rebellen, die es bevorzugten im Kampf gegen die fremde Besatzung zu sterben als in Knechtschaft zu leben. Einer der ältesten Heldenfiguren ist sicherlich der König Brian Boru, der am Karfreitag des Jahres 1001 erfolgreich gegen die Dänen kämpfte, dabei aber sein Leben verlor. Irische Barden sollen sieben Tage lang ohne Unterbrechung an seinem Grab das ihm gewidmete Stück Brian Boru´s March gespielt haben.
Die Harfe als Vorbild der Euromünzen
Die im Trinity College in Dublin ausgestellte Harfe trägt seinen Namen, stammt allerdings aus dem späten Mittelalter. Sie diente als Vorlage für die irischen Euromünzen. Eines der wichtigsten daten des Aufbegehrens gegen die Briten war sicherlich der Ostermontag 1916 als irische Intellektuelle, Schriftsteller und Lehrer das General Post Office (GPO) in Dublin besetzte und die Freie Republik Irland ausriefen. Der Aufstand wurde zerschlagen und die Anführer standrechtlich erschossen. Einer der Überlebenden war Michael Collins der die Irish Republican Brotherhood grpndete, ein Vorläufer der IRA. In dem darauffolgenden Bürgerkrieg von 1916 bis 1921 verloren viele Iren ihr Leben.
Die Helden
Die „Heldentaten“ der Rebellen wurden in den Rebellsongs verewigt und auch heroisiert. Es lohnt sich nicht nur entsprechende historische Bücher über den Osteraufstand und den irischen Bürgerkrieg, der oft genug ein Bruderkrieg war, zu lesen, es sind die Lieder über die Rebellen, die Licht in das Dunkel der Geschichte bringen. Diese Lieder sind eine Art Zeitdokument. Es lohnt sich ihre Texte genau zu studieren und so ein Stück irische Geschichte besser zu verstehen.
Es folgen die Liedtexte der überaus bekannten Rebellsongs: The Foggy Dew, Roddy McCorley, Johnny I hardly knew yeh, Valley of Knockanure und The Men behind the Wire:
The Foggy Dew
‚Twas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When Ireland’s line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its dread tattoo
But the Angelus bell o’er the Liffey’s swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a flag of war.
‚Twas better to die ’neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittania’s sons with their long-range guns
Sailed in from the foggy dew.
‚Twas England bade our wild geese go
That small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves
On the fringe of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse’s side
Or fought with Valera true,
Their graves we’d keep where the Fenians sleep
‚Neath the hills of the foggy dew.
The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide
In the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze in deep amaze
At those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight that freedom’s light
Might shine through the foggy dew.
Roddy McCorley
O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn,
From farmstead and from fishers‘ cot, along the banks of Ban;
They come with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are
they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome
today.
Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland, you love them still the best
The fearless brave who fighting fall upon your hapless breast,
But never a one of all your dead more bravely fell in fray,
Than he who marches to his fate on the bridge of Toome today.
Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud and young.
About the hemp-rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung;
There’s ne’er a tear in his blue eyes, fearless and brave are
they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome
today.
When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched, in grim array, a earnest stalwart band.
To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray,
But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
The grey coat and its sash of green were brave and stainless then,
A banner flashed beneath the sun over the marching men;
The coat hath many a rent this noon, the sash is torn away,
And Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
Oh, how his pike flashed in the sun! Then found a foeman’s heart,
Through furious fight, and heavy odds he bore a true man’s part
And many a red-coat bit the dust before his keen pike-play,
But Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
There’s never a one of all your dead more bravely died in fray
Than he who marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today;
True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
Johnny I hardly knew yeh
While goin‘ the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin‘ the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin‘ the road to sweet Athy
A stick in me hand and a drop in me eye
A doleful damsel I heard cry,
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and drums and guns
The enemy nearly slew ye
Oh my darling dear, Ye look so queer
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild
When my heart you so beguiled
Why did ye run from me and the child
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run
When you went for to carry a gun
Indeed your dancing days are done
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
I’m happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I’m happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I’m happy for to see ye home
All from the island of Sulloon
So low in flesh, so high in bone
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg
Ye’re an armless, boneless, chickenless egg
Ye’ll have to put with a bowl out to beg
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.
They’re rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They’re rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They’re rolling out the guns again
But they never will take our sons again
No they never will take our sons again
Johnny I’m swearing to ye.
The Valley of Knockanure
You may sing and speak of old Easter week
And the heroes of ninety-eight
Of the Fenian men who roamed the glen
In victory or defeat
Their names on history’s page are told
Their memory will endure
But this song was sung of our darling sons
In the Valley of Knockanure
There was Lyons and Walsh and the Dalton boy
They were young and in their prime
They rambled to a lonely spot
Where the Black and Tans did hide
The Republic bold they did uphold
Tho‘ outlawed on the moor
And side by side they fought and died
In the Valley of Knockanure
It was on a neighbouring hillside
We listened in hushed dismay
In every house, in every town
A young girl knelt to pray
They’re closing in around them now
With rifle fire so sure
And Lyons is dead and young Dalton’s down
In the Valley of Knockanure
But e’er the guns could seal his fate
Young Walsh had broken thro‘
With a prayer to God he spurned the sod
As against the hill he flew
The bullets tore his flesh in two
Yet he cried with voice so sure
„Revenge I’ll get for my comrade’s death
In the Valley of Knockanure“
The summer sun is sinking low
Behind the field and lea
The pale moonlight is shining bright
Far off beyond Tralee
The dismal stars and the clouds afar
Are darkening o’er the moor
And the banshee cried when young Dalton died
In the Valley of Knockanure
The Men behind the Wire
Armoured cars and tanks and guns
Came to take away our sons
But every man must stand behind
The men behind the wire
In the little streets of Belfast
In the dark of early morn
British soldiers came marouding
Breaking little homes with scorn
Hear the sobs of crying children
Dragging fathers from their beds
Watch the scene as helpless mothers
Watch the blood fall from their heads
chorus
Not for them a judge or jury
Or indeed a crime at all
Being Irish means they’re guilty
So they’re guilty one and all
‚Round the world the truth will echo
Cromwell’s men are here again
England’s name again is sullied
In the eyes of honest men
chorus
Proudly march behind our banner
Proudly march behind our men
We will have them free to help us
Build a nation once again
On the people, step together
Proudly marching on our way
Never fear or never falter
Till the boys come home to stay
chorus
