Irish Music Selections

If you listen to The Vow of Tipperary across a handful of recordings you'll hear the same words land differently. Some singers make the oath a private reckoning; others turn it into a communal shout. Each arrangement nudges the song toward sorrow, defiance, nostalgia or liturgy. Solo balladeers, often with just a guitar or an unadorned voice, tend to make lines like 'We swear by God and Virgin Mary' feel like a confessional. The stripped-back setting puts the emphasis on the vow itself — the listener is invited to stand close and witness. Tempo is usually moderate; ornamentation is spare. You can almost hear the edges of exhaustion in the vowels, and that colours the politics with personal cost. Put the same melody into a male-voice choir or community chorus and the effect flips. Harmonies widen the scope: a line that was intimate becomes collective. Choruses relish the religious cadence and the place-name roll-call — 'From Carrick streets to Shannon shore' — ...

A riotous Dublin ballad that tells the story of a rowdy 'ragman's ball' in the Liberties, populated by memorable local characters and comic mishaps. Likely born from working‑class street culture, it survives in sessions because of its humour, vivid imagery and singalong chorus that celebrate Dublin's social life and local idiosyncrasies. Come pay attention for a while, my good friends one and all And I'll sing to you a verse or two about a famous ball Now this ball was given by some friends who lived down in Ash Street In a certain house in the Liberties where the ragmen used to meet Well the names were called at seven o'clock and every man was on the spot And to show respect for the management every ragman brought his mot Now I must admit that I brought mine at twenty-five minutes to eight And the first to stand up was Kieran Grace for to tell me that I was late Then up jumps Humpty Soodlum and he says I think somehow By the way yous are going on tonigh...

There’s a particular gut-punch when The Ragmans Ball kicks in. It isn’t just a party tune. It’s a room full of people trying to forget hard lives for a while, laughing and fighting in the same breath. You can feel the heat of the hall, the scrape of chairs, the tin whistle trying to lift everyone out of whatever brought them there. The song reads like a neighbourhood portrait drawn in charcoal and lamp oil. Names pop up — Kieran Grace, Billy Bowlin', Eliza — and you know these faces. They’re alive in the shouting, in the “come on now” as much as in the bruises. There’s a stubborn pride in the telling: they’ll bring their mot, they’ll take the chair, they’ll sell it again, and still they'll gather. That mixture of defiance and weariness is the note that stays with you. Musically it’s puckish and relentless. The whistle and the rhythms keep pushing forward even when the verse turns ugly or tender. It’s the kind of tune that makes you grin and flinch at the same time. When t...