The text below is from a
programme note written by ‘Anon’ and included in the programme of an early
Bournemouth Symphony performance the revised Symphony on 18 April 1925. It describes a
picture of Ulster that largely belongs to history, however the 12 July Celebrations
are still an important (if sometimes controversial) part of the yearly calendar.
Hamilton Harty was an Anglican, but
clearly had a great sympathy towards the Catholic and Reformed Protestant
community, as implied by his moving reminiscence of the dead girl.
"This work, written during the
summer of 1924, is an attempt on the part of the composer to produce a Symphony
in the Irish idiom, and which should have for poetical basis certain
reminiscences of his early youth in the North of Ireland. To this end he has
given his themes a characteristically Irish turn, and sometimes, indeed, bases
them upon the native melodies of that country. Some of the themes have been
used previously by the composer in a youthful Symphony which gained the prize
given by the Feis Ceoil, or Irish Music Festival, about twenty years ago.
Though the composer does not
desire that his music shall be looked on as ‘programme music’ entirely, each
movement has for poetic basis some scene, or mood, which governs the music;
and, in that connection, the following extracts are prefixed to the score, with
a note asking that they shall be printed in the programme when the music is
given.
I. ‘On the Shores of Lough Neagh': Allegro Molto
Near where we lived was Lough
Neagh, grey and sad, stretching for miles and miles to vague misty shores.
Sometimes, when we lay on its mossy banks, old Patsy the Fiddler would hobble
out of his lonely cottage to play his tunes for us and tell us stories of a
time when Ireland was a land of magic and romance.
But of all his stories, the one
we liked best to hear was the story of Lough Neagh itself, and the great city
with its cathedrals and palaces which lies buried forever beneath the
melancholy waters. Many a time we would stay quiet, thinking we could hear the
faint sound of the silvery bells as they swung idly to and fro in the depths,
while the mists gathered over the quiet Lough, and the curlews cried forlorn
and sad, as if they were lamenting for the days that once had been.
II.
‘The Fair Day':
On Fair-Days the streets would be
full of kicking horses, and swearing, bargaining men. All was dust and noise,
but in the market-place, once it was reached, there were joys and delights. A
battered merry-go-round, old women selling gingerbread horses, and ‘yellow boy’
of a surpassing stickiness warranted to ‘draw the teeth out of ye.’ There was
also Fat Charlie with his cart of herrings, dancing nimbly in a jig of
accomplishing his horrid meal of raw herrings and porter.
Then there was the recruiting
sergeant, all martial and glorious and gay cap streamers, offering new
shillings to all who would take them. In the evening, we would see him leading
off his troop, while the village band marched in front playing ‘The Girl I left
behind me,’ very inaccurately, but with fervour.
III.
‘In the Antrim Hills’:
The day before the 12th
of July, I was wandering in the hills which close in one side of our valley. It
was a wild and lonely part, and when I came to a little thatched house on the side
of a slope I climbed up to ask my way home. The door was opened by a woman with
eyes all red with weeping, and I saw that the kitchen was full of men and women
dressed in black and drinking, but quiet. There was a bed by the wall on which
a young girl lay white and still. Her golden hair was spread all over the
pillow and on her breast, was a crucifix. A young man sat near the bed and
never took his eyes away from her. Two women with shawls over their heads flung
themselves backwards and forwards as they cried a Caoine or lament for the dead. It was a Wake, and I went away, but
the young man came after me to show me the way. It had grown dark. Presently he
told me his simple story. He had been a hired boy on the farm and went away to
try and make his fortune, leaving her to wait for him. But when he came back it
was too late.
IV. 'The 12th of July':
The next day was the ‘12th
of July’ – the great day of the year when all the Protestant North celebrates
the Battle of the Boyne, and the streets are left untrodden by the neighbouring
Roman Catholics. The house shook with the din of the drums and flutes and the
streets were crowded. The sun was blazing hot, and everywhere were flags and
banners with the old defiant inscriptions ‘No Surrender,’ ‘Remember the Boyne,’
[and] ‘The Protestant Boys.’ Everywhere, in great bunches, in button-holes, in
hats, on the drums, the orange lilies of the North. Everywhere, as each fresh
group came into the little town from the outlying country, there arose the
strains of the ‘Boyne Water.’
Later on, when there was ‘drink
taken,’ there began quarrelling and fighting. Fights unreasonable and
bloodthirsty, quarrels fierce and sudden…
In the midst of the uproar there
was a sudden silence, and we saw a simple group carrying a coffin down the steep
street on the way to the Catholic burying place. It was the funeral of the
young girl I had seen being ‘waked’ the night before, and the coffin was
carried by the father and his two sons, and the boy who had told me his story.
They brought her through the town even on this dangerous day. Perhaps they had
forgotten it was ‘the 12th.’
But the crowd, though sullen and
threatening, did not interfere, the drums stopped beating, and it was not until
the father and sons had finished their sad business and were returning homeward
the angry storm broke loose…
When the night came and nothing
was left in the streets but trampled orange lilies and scraps of ribbons I
passed by the grave-yard. There was a fresh mound in the corner, and lying
across it the figure of a young man with his face buried in the sods. ANON"
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