# Said Hanrahan (We'll All Be Rooned)



## mathepac (4 Sep 2009)

This used to be a favourite of a late uncle of mine after a couple of mediums of porter of a Sunday night or around the winter fire-side. I haven't heard it since long before the man died, many, many years ago. A little poem that's apposite I feel.

Said Hanrahan

"We'll all be rooned", said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.

 The congregation stood about
Coat collars to the ears,
And talked of stock and crops and drought
As it had done for years.

 "It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke,
"Bedad it's crook me lad,
But never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."

"It's dry all right," said young O'Neil,
With which astute remark,
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran,
"It's keepin' dry no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out.

"The crops are done, you'll have your work
To save one bag of grain.
From here way out to Back o' Bourke
They're singing out for rain.

"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head
And gazed around the sky.

"There won't be grass, in any case
Enough to feed an ass,
There's not a blade on Casey's place
As I came down to Mass."

"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak,
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If rain don't come this week."

A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at his remark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.

"We want an inch of rain, we do,"
O'Neil observed at last.
But Croke maintained we wanted two,
To put the danger past.

"If we don't get three inches man,
Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."

In God's good time, down came the rain,
And all the afternoon,
On iron roof and window pane,
It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves,
On dripping spout and window sill,
Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song,
Way out to Back o' Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop.
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."

And stop it did in God's good time,
And Spring came into fold.
A mantle o'er the hills sublime,
Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat,
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass,
Through grass knee deep on Casey's place,
Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel,
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.

"There'll be bush fires for sure, me man,
There will without a doubt.
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan.
"Before the year is out."

John O'Brien (Fr. Patrick Hartigan (Clare parents) wrote under the nom-de-plume John O'Brien. He was curate and eventually pp of Narrandera, New South Wales)


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## Caveat (4 Sep 2009)

Very good.  

This has made me think of that really long one about the French girl.

(Do you know the one I mean? I'm trying desperately to think of some of the lines)

_Edit: The same kind of lyrical quality/wit and her name ended in something that sounded like champignon ? ?_


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## mathepac (4 Sep 2009)

I know the one it starts - 

"There was a French young wan from Nantes
Whose arm-pits were strangely piquantes...."


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## Caveat (4 Sep 2009)

Arrrgghhh!!


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## mathepac (4 Sep 2009)

"She said, 'Too many washes
With hose and galoshes
Has cost me jusque quarante' "

and goes on from there.


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## Pique318 (5 Sep 2009)

So who's gonna be first to mention 
"There was a young man from Nantucket..."?

...


oh


...


sorry, just bring the tone down again...


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## Sue Ellen (5 Sep 2009)

Caveat said:


> This has made me think of that really long one about the French girl.



Caveat,

Are you sure you haven't hit the ol' mid-life crisis?


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## mathepac (5 Sep 2009)

Caveat said:


> ... _Edit: The same kind of lyrical quality/wit and her name ended in something that sounded like champignon ? ?_


I have a vague memory of sitting at a Singers' Circle / An Góilín event listening to someone ( RTE connection?) recite "Medamoiselle de Champignon" - an epic witty poem as you describe.

For some reason I associate the poem with Barry Gleeson's song "Cupid's Visitation to Mick Dwyer" (I know all 13 verses ) and I think I heard them both for the first time at the same event.

I'm sure none of this helps...


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## Purple (5 Sep 2009)

Pique318 said:


> So who's gonna be first to mention
> "There was a young man from Nantucket..."?
> 
> ...
> ...


 That's the first one I thought of as well!


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## Caveat (5 Sep 2009)

* I've just found it:*

CHANTAL DU CHAMPIGNON (Brian O' Rourke)

"One night in a bar I was having a jar
When my destiny it beckoned
When a vision burst in on top of my thirst
And flattened my pint in a second
'Twas a lady fair with short blonde hair
And her beauty would shame all queens
With her glistening lips and her twisting hips
In her slim fitting Levi Jeans

I got off of my stool observed my first rule
I checked my fly and my fainne
And got ready for a story, all glitter and glory
Like Diarmuid agus Grainne
Well my opening line was "Hiya Sunshine
How's it goin? My name is John"
And with a toss of her head this goddess said
"I'm Chantal du Champignon"

"Bedad" says I "You're a thoroughbred
You're no cavewoman from Cavan
You're exotic operatic and very aromatic
So tell us what are you havin?"
From the furrow on her brow I could see just how
She was torn between the short and the long
"I'll have an Irish Coffee and a pint of Murphy's"
Said Chantal du Champignon

She'd been travelling around and as yet she hadn't found
No savages scouting for scalps
She'd scaled the peaks of Kildare and Leix
Which left her homesick for the Alps
She'd seen nearly all of Donegal
She'd learned "Slainte" and "Slan agus Beannacht"
'Till some racial purist who couldn't stand tourists
Told her go to hell or to Connacht

So here she stands with a week on her hands
Before flying back to France
And she'd like to get to know Galway and Mayo
So boys I saw my chance
I said "I'm your man, I've a Hiace van
And I've damn all to do just now
And my five acre farm won't come to any harm
Sure the calf can milk the cow.

Oh to you I'll show Galway and Mayo
My privilege and my pleasure
And for fear you'd grumble, sure I'll do like Cromwell
And throw Clare in for good measure
So to hell with the silage. Lets clock up some mileage
You'll be as safe as with your Daddy"
She said "I like you more than I did before
I'll have a Smithwicks and a Paddy"

So into the van and away we ran
All along the western seaboard
And the notes from her voice were twice as nice
As those from any keyboard.
For example, "Oh John you turn me on,
You completely fill up my senses
And I can see in your eyes all the stars in the skies
Shining out through your contact lenses.



So I pulled up the van and she said, "Oh John
Please don't take it amiss"
I said "That's not you'll find what I had in mind"
Sure all I want to take is a kiss"
Well her eyes shone bright and her teeth gleamed white
And her breath it smelled of garlic
And she tore into my lips like fish and chips
In the shadows of Croagh Patrick

In the county Clare I do declare
We drank many's the tasty beverage
And the intensity of our propensity
Was way above the average
Then I offered to show her the Cliffs of Moher
And she showed me a thing or two too
And in O'Connors of Doolin she said, "I'm not foolin,
I want to spend my life with you.

So next day we drove by creek and cove, 
All along the western seaboard
And the music of her voice was twice as nice
As the notes from any keyboard.
For example: "Oh John, you turn me on
You completely fill up my senses
I can see in your eyes, all the stars of the skies
Shining out through your contact lenses!

Well after such happiness, there was no stopping us
We clocked up hundreds of miles
We spent thousands of hours around round towers
Of various slants and styles
Near passage graves and lakes and caves
And historic and holy places
Near saint and hero, we reduced to zero
The distance between our faces

Then at Poulnabrone, under twenty ton of stone
We drank rainbow-coloured wines
Oh, Inside that dolmen, I thought of King Solomon
He could keep his concubines.
Then I offered to show her the Cliffs of Moher
And she showed me a thing or two too,
And in a pub down in Doolin, she said "I'm not foolin
I want to spend my life with you.

Well the days flew fast and the week soon passed
Between one thing and another
And she'd a plane to catch back to Paris-Match
To see her father and her mother
So we loaded up the van with cheese and ham
And some six packs from the fridge
With a Guinness keg for the final leg
Of our amourous pilgrimage.

In the ruins of Clonfert, we had a little flirt.
I thought I heard Saint Brendan cheerin'.
And we discovered new joys in Clonmacnoise,
Courtesy of Saint Ciaran.
We drew into Dunlavin at twenty-five to seven
And dropped in to see my Uncle Fred,
Then we hit Glendalough around eleven o'clock
And we slept in Saint Keven's bed.



Well, the two of us were yawning as the day was dawning
And it dawned on me - she was going,
So we drove to the smoke where these words she spoke
Before she boarded the Boeing:
"I'll acquaint my parents with what's transpired,
And my paltry possessions I'll pack,
Then I'll return on wings of desire
And up with you I'll shack."

That night I flew through Athlone and Ballinasloe.
I was home in an hour and a half!
And though it was kinda late, I just had to celebrate,
So I killed the fatted calf,
And next day I booked a room for my upcoming honeymoon
Where no-one would be any wiser,
And in raptures and raptures, I published my nuptials
In the Galway Advertiser!

For six days or seven, I thought I was in heaven.
I was trying it out for size,
But like every other lover, I was shortly to discover
'Twas an amadán's paradise,
For while I was thinking that the Kingdom had come,
And was chantin' "Alleluia,"
Chantal was listening to a different drum
And singing, "Johnny, I hardly knew ye!"

"Oh, John," said she, "I quite agree
That you could do with a woman,
But if you think I'll be your shrink,
You've got another think coming.
Consider, besides, if I was your bride,
In forty years, I would have no fun,
For I'm no more than twenty-four
And you are forty-one!

"Oh, yes, I know I'll miss your eyes and your kiss
And your fingers running through my hair,
But if I lost my head in St. Kevin's bed,
I got it back in the clear French air!
I got off that jet and my parents I met
And I got my act together.
I saw the line they'd draw at a son-in-law
Who was a middle-aged Irish header."

"Oh, but as sure as I'm blonde, of you I'm still fond,
And I might even write - we'll see -
And I don't regret and I won't forget
Our petit coin du paradis.
Now, I'm in a little hurry - be happy, don't worry
And think how much you have grown."
And when I opened my face to plead my case,
She put down the frigging phone!

Oh, was she down at heel in the town of Lille
Or at large in La Rochelle?
Or letting down her hair in the Follies Bergere
- Belly-dancing her way to hell?
Was she singing the blues, below in Toulouse
Or picking pockets in Perpignan?
And, mein Gott! but what if her name was not
Chantal de Champignon?



Well, I'd lost the scent so gung-o I went
To phone Monsieur Mitterand.
But I couldn't connect with the President
Although I threatened his aide-de-camp.
Then the towel I threw, I resigned, withdrew
Although I had done no wrong.
Oh, I thought I had her taped - but the vixen she escaped
Like Marie de Robinson!

Now, an awful lot of water has been led to the slaughter
Since she led me that merry dance.
And I never took a wife, for I wasted my whole life
Looking out for a letter from France.
Oh, Chantal, Chantal, sure I love you still
Like I did in the time that's gone
Although you're going on eighty four
And I'm tipping a hundred and one.

I've outlived all my mates, and I've lost all my slates
And I'm back in the oxygen tent.
And my ozone holes are scoring own goals 
In my pitch-black firmament.
There's more tears in my eyes than stars in the skies
I've lost contact with my lenses.
Ah but I'm sure I could get through a dark night with you
And recover my soul and my senses

So come all you middle-aged Irish nutters
And a warning take by me.
Beware when you go out to get scuttered 
In your local hostelry.
Don't be a fool, stay up on your stool
Sit tight and drink yourself stupid
Give your number one to whiskey and rum
And don't waste your vote on Cupid!

And if by chance some goddess from France
With luminous short blond hair
Lights up your horizon - stick to your poison
In two simple words - Beware!
Make no overture, give no misguided tour
'Cause Diarmuid agus Grainne went wrong!
And after all your mileage, she'll leave you sitting in your silage
-Like Chantal de Champignon.

Oh now, although you're jarred, please disregard
The advice I gave you just then
Or you'll be stuck in first gear for a hundred years
Like a friggin' old farmyard hen.
For when all is said and done, I once flew near the sun
For one week I was a swan
I was on the wing and I learned to sing
With Chantal de Champignon

Oh, Chantal, Chantal, I hope you're still my pal
And don't think this song a blunder
For I adore far more than I did before
The ground you walk on - or maybe under
Oh don't take a dim view - if I'm laughing at you 
What do you think I'm doing to me?
And please God and Saint Kevin, we'l recover in Heaven
Our petit coin du paradis"

_Mid life crisis - moi?_


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## mathepac (6 Sep 2009)

Excellent, thanks.

The bould hussy grew her hair and got a job advertising motor bikes after that - you were better off without her - [broken link removed]


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