Irish Music Selections

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 something endlessly enjoyable about listening to different takes on The Ragmans Ball — the same cheeky verses can sound like a rowdy house session or a careful storytelling when you change the singer, the tempo, or one key instrument. Most fans will recognise that familiar line, "the night of the ragman's ball," but how it lands depends entirely on who’s singing. The Dubliners’ interpretation (the one many people first hear) leans into rollicking pub energy: loose rhythm, bright banjo or guitar, and a lead vocal that grins as it pushes the chorus. It’s the kind of performance that invites you to clap along and not worry about missing a verse. Contrast that with the quieter, more narrative readings from some folk revivalists, where the emphasis falls on the comic characters — Kieran Grace, Billy Bowlin' — and the little asides that turn brawls and spilled porter into darkly comic vignettes. Arrangements make a big difference. A tin whistle or fiddle will ...

Why It Still Matters There’s a simple power to a song that can be a love song and a map of loss at the same time. Róisín Dubh, with its image of 'my Róisín Dubh' and lines like 'Oh! my sweet little rose', sits in that curious place between private longing and public voice. People still sing it because it carries both personal ache and a sharper, political edge — so the tune never feels trapped behind glass. In modern Ireland and among the diaspora the piece functions like a mirror. A young player in Galway will bring a different ornamentation to a sean-nós line than a band in New York, but both pick up the same mood: yearning, defiance and tenderness. Those moods travel well. Emigration and return, memory and reimagining — listeners find in the song a vocabulary for homesickness or pride, sometimes in the same breath. Adaptability is a big part of its staying power. The melody’s clarity leaves room: a harpist can make it sparse and intimate; a fiddler can thicken...