Song of the Hurl (Crawford O'Neill)

Oh! Cut me a hurl from a fine strong ash
That weathered many a gale
And my stroke will be lithe as the lightenings flash
That leaps from the thunder's flail.
Oh! my feet shall be swift as the white spin-drift
On the bay in wintry weather,
As we run out in line in the glad sunshine
On the trail of the whirling leather.

Oh! give me the field on a Sunday at noon
When gay Spring winds are swinging
Through copse and lane to the merry tune
The lads of the South are singing.
Give a rose to a maid or a silken braid
Give a singer his songs full measure
But give me a lad whose heart is glad
With the width of a field for his pleasure.

Oh! to dart on the wing and twist again
With a puck that is swift and burning:
Or to swing out the line in attack and strain
Every nerve till the tide is turning.
To weaken the swirl of a Wexford hurl
With a good ash bred in Kerry
And press for the goal with all of your soul
Or lose with a heart as merry.

I have seen the children of other lands
At their games of down and feather
Applauded by dames with delicate hands
In mild mid-summer weather
But such poor sport is a weary sort
With never a thrill to quicken
Like the flash and flame of the Gaelic game
When the hot strokes swarm and thicken.

So fashion a hurl from a fine strong tree
And give it the grace of your blessing.
It'll fare right glad in the whirl of the play
When the Southern lads are pressing.
And honour bestow on the dead below
The meadows our heels are spurning
Who fought for the fame of the Gaelic game
When the fire of their youth was burning.

Johnny Crowe from Cluantasmeartha in Inagh parish was the best known singer in the area where I was reared from the age of two to five. Many the night I sat on his knee as he entertained those on "cuairt" at my grandmother's house in Illaunbaun. I have never heard anyone else singing this song, one of his favourites.