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Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 22. The Reiver and the Gael. New Discovery!…

Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 22.

The Reiver and the Gael. New Discovery!

It never ceases to amaze me, the ignorance of our divided community in the North of Ireland (with all its plethora of titles). The general lack of knowledge about our origins, our history and who we are, is mind boggling. Our disinterest, unsurprising. Many of us have the historical knowledge, the width of a cigarette paper, yet we will, and have, fought, rioted, looted and killed “For God and Ulster” or “ The Fields of Athenry” at the drop of a hat, like performing circus animals, for hundreds of years. At least . . . some of us have.

In many cases, we wave flags, adopt political positions and riot, without fully understanding why we do so. Some of us end up in prison, damage our lifelong job prospects and deprive our children of income, safety, parents and a more stable existence, for what? The visual presence of a flag?

I wrote a song a few years ago, called “The Reiver and the Gael”, that I originally used in storytelling workshops, to explain a really vital missing piece of our history, rarely taught in any of our schools. “The Reiver & the Gael” is about how many of the people who came to Ulster, around the time of the Plantation, were, in fact, exiled “criminals”, from the borders of England and Scotland.

When I say criminals, I mean from the point of view of the authorities of the late 1500’s. It’s up to you to decide whether they were criminals or not. For these people had learned a very violent way of life, through living where they did, and for suffering the regular traumas of war between England and Scotland. To and fro. Up and down dale, across, and over their lands. Because of this they found it difficult, if not impossible, to farm, raise crops or tend to their own livestock.

The Reivers lived in clans, the biggest of whom were called Graham, Armstrong and Elliott. Three influential and powerful families. The names of some of the other clans, above and below the borders, were Kerr, Lyttle, Maxwell, Johnson, Hume, Nixon, Robson, Beattie, Huddleston, Hall, Herron, Irvin (Irvine), Charlton and many, many more. This list of these names reads like a role call from my school, when I was growing up in Belfast in the 1970s.

The Reivers were fighters. It was natural to them. The word “Reiver” means, raider. To raid and steal the belongings of other people was how they existed, as they could not farm land that kept on being burnt and destroyed. So necessity took a hand in their daily lives.

These border country people could not be governed effectively. This area was like a war zone. The borders were divided into six marches (areas). Three above and three below the border. This “no man’s land”, a sizeable area, had remained this way for 300 years before the Plantation of Ulster, in which many Reivers took part. However, it seems to me that all the exiled Reivers have since been re-branded “Planters”. Quiet, well organised colonists, coming to Ulster, to farm and to keep the law, rather than violent, murderous thieves. This re-branding prevents the telling of the full story of how the Reivers gained their foot hold in Ulster and other parts of Ireland and how they were enabled to stay.

In fact how could these war like people just change their ways overnight? Did they change completely, or is part of their culture and ways of living still there amongst us, today?

What were the Reivers like? Violence was certainly their common currency, used in many activities like the raiding of livestock from farms, by these men, on horseback. Like early cowboy rustlers, in gangs of up to 300 horsemen at a time. Can you imagine the thundering of the hooves as they arrived at your farm?

They wore light armour and steel helmets, (steel bonnets), with coloured scarves to protect their necks. They rode small horses called “hobblers” or “bog trotters” with small shields, long spears, swords and daggers.

The Reivers were involved in inter-family feuds, murder, blackmail (they invented the term), extortion, cattle and sheep theft, racketeering, smuggling, robbery. To “be-reaved” was to be raided, often resulting in killings. The Reivers were so feared and hated, that the Bishop of Carlisle actually lay a curse upon them.

Did this curse stick? And if it did, how do we rid ourselves of it now?

As King James the 6th of Scotland (and now James the 1st of England) wanted rid of these subjects, many were hung, drowned (drowning was cheaper), sent to be mercenaries in the Low Countries (the Netherlands/Belgium), or exiled to Ulster, where they prospered.

Yet, here’s my key point. The Reivers were all exiled and technically they were all Catholic, as the Reformation had not reached them. Consequently they fell onto both sides of the community here, as the next 400 years passed by, like a street procession. It is well worth considering the implications of these important points.

The bulk of the Plantation in Ulster is always described as Lowland Scots. What percentage of that “bulk” were the Reivers? The maths is fascinating along with the colourful history, as it tells a different story from the one that we have been led to believe.

I’m tempted to ask is Reiver culture still alive and well in Ulster today? Now, here’s that song . . .

The Reiver and the Gael

Down the silken valley
We wend our merry way.
The jangle of the stirrup
The burning of the hay.

The rattle of the swords now.
The armour we have on.
The wind blows off the hillside
As we ride to meet dawn.

Chorus.
Tiddley aye-um Tiddley aye-ay.
Tiddley aye-um Tiddley aye-now boys.
Tiddley aye-um Tiddley aye-ay.
The Reiver and the Gael.

Were fit to trod the land now
Were fit to take your life.
Like Vikings up on horseback.
Take care your lovely wife.

We leap across the borders
And now we cross the sea.
King James he wants to hang us
But in Ireland we are free.

Chorus.

It’s hard to change our ways now.
Three hundred years or more.
Sent to farm the Ireland.
Or King James’s warrior.

The rattle of the swords now.
The armour we have on.
The wind blows off the hillside
As we ride to meet dawn.

Chorus. Repeat

Copyright R.S.Hall ©

Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 22.
www.randallstephenhall.com

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VIDEO RADIO PEOPLE showcase "The Moon Shed", performing at the Spring Gig 21.3.1…

VIDEO RADIO PEOPLE showcase “The Moon Shed”, performing at the Spring Gig 21.3.13, Linenhall Library, Belfast. Many thanks to Video Radio for showing an interest in my music.

Linenhall Library Gig for Video Radio people.
http://vimeo.com/user15442618/review/66465242/5c73c1edf1


Feature – Stephen Hall
vimeo.com
Local Musician – Stephen Hall – talks about his band ‘The Moonshed’ and the type of muisc they perform

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18.6.13. "The Reiver and the Gael". Moon Shed Gig at the Long Gallery, Assembly…

18.6.13. “The Reiver and the Gael”. Moon Shed Gig at the Long Gallery, Assembly Buildings, Stormont, Belfast. 12.30 mid day. Some free tickets/invitations available. Just message me if you are interested. Thanks.
www.randallstephenhall.com

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Just be Yourself. That seems to be the best approach to date. "Bonnie Child" is…

Just be Yourself. That seems to be the best approach to date. “Bonnie Child” is one of my new songs, recorded live, 28.4.13, with the help of Matt McIvor, the “Sound-Shifter” at the Lagan Sessions. A listening audience and the opportunity to play to people who are looking for singer songwriters to entertain them. A good mix, all round. My thanks for the invite goes to Steve Amos and David McCann, two of the players and organisers at this new venue, at the Pavillion Bar on the Ormeau Road, Belfast.

I thought I would take this simple, live guitar and vocal track and combine it with a walk around the shoreline of Lough Neagh at Antrim town.


20 May 2013 16:20

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Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 21. The Dark Angel of Antrim. By Randall Stephe…

Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 21.
The Dark Angel of Antrim.
By Randall Stephen Hall. © 2010.

There’s something new and different on a gable wall
in Antrim. It isn’t a flag. It isn’t an aggressive mural. It isn’t
ropey graffiti or even a poster for some event. Some of us
are unable to recognise something special, even when it’s there, standing amongst us. We continue just to opt for the chips in life, rather than taking risks with a new taste to the tongue.

The need for new symbols, that we can all share, stands amongst us, like a missed opportunity, just waiting to happen.

There is, in Antrim town
The dark imprint of an angel.
Dusky silhouette,
On a gable wall.
And yet I’m left to wonder . . .

Yonder, at the wall,
So tall, this dark stain.
The evidence of such a presence
In this local town.
Lounging by the Six Mile Water.

I ought to make a note
So I’ve pressed my pen to paper.
Thrown my coat in the back seat
And not let the moment pass.

The paper bag
Containing his chips,
Dipped in fat and salty confidence.
The evening’s optimism,
Shielded him, or he,r
From being “outed” as an angel
Amongst the Friday throng.

Watching the sizzle
And the Soaps . . .
All queued up for onion rings,
Gravey chips and life on the ropes.
To wrongly assume that
This person, so tall, so tall.
With wings stickin’ out from their shoulders.
Dark, with dark hair and ageless, older
Should be in fancy dress . . .

Of course! That’s it!
For what else could it be?
A hungry stripper maybe?
On their way to an early commission.
Just scootin’ in to this chippy
Feelin’ nippy and on a mission.
For convertin’ fish and chips
into the purest of energies.

They lean towards the T.V. screen
And eagerly listen . . .
Maybe there’s somethin’ exciting happenin’
Somewhere else, out there . . .
But never round here.
“Not much goin’ on round here, eh big lad?”

What left its mark?
Which dog did bark,
At such a sight?
As the tall stranger
As he walked through the wall
That night.
Full bag of chips, fish and all?

The following day
I bent down to pick up
One of the long dark feathers
From out the gutter.
While some neighbours muttered
And murmured on . . .

“Sure, no one would believe me.
As if I could see angels.
Dark or light, it doesn’t much matter,
Right?
If one of these were standin’ at my gate
I’d ask him in for a cup of tea.
Offer it gin, right straight I would!

For I’d have some questions for him . . .

Like, where’d my husband go
In Nineteen and Ninety Three?
And, is there life after death
For him and me?”

The dark angel of Antrim.
Still marked there.
Not far from the bottom
of the Greystone Road.

Down past the library and shops.
Take a right down into the town.
Stop before the last round-a-bout.
Look back and left
Right there
Is your reward . . .
If you have eyes to see it.

The Dark Angel of Antrim
Just don’t tell anyone I told you.
It’s just between you and me.

Right?

Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 21.
By Randall Stephen Hall © 2010
www.randallstephenhall.com

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Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 20. Flags and the Fear of Biscuit Theft. “W…

Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 20.

Flags and the Fear of Biscuit Theft.

“What’s yours is yours. What’s mine’s me own.” This wee poem/song portrays the deep fear and emotion that lies close to our core as individuals around biscuit theft.

If the biscuit is what we enjoy and hold dear, then it is understandable that people get upset over other things, like flags, boundaries, perceived rights to march, and to display colours. Human nature in action. Time for a bit of light relief . . . This wee track can be heard at www.myspace.com/randallstephenhall

This tune/poem has been inspired by the music of James Brown and Chuck Brown and the tradition of funk in North Antrim, amongst the tribesmen from that region, especially on the banjo. (“Get Down! Ye boy ye!”)

Biscuits
By Randall Stephen Hall. © 2007

Don’t go near my biscuits
What ever that you do.
Don’t go near my biscuits
For they are not for you.

Don’t go near my biscuits
And take near three or four.
Don’t go near those biscuits
Or you shall have no more.

Chorus:

Swing yer thing, swing it now
Swing yer thing, like a big rear ended cow.
Swing yer thing, swing it now.
Swing it like it ain’t no joke.
Swing it like a pig goin’ to hoke.

For if you touch one more of my biscuits
You’ll be no welcome then.
For you are like a hungry fox
And me a chucky hen.

Don’t go near the biscuits
Don’t you think you’ve had enough?
Don’t you dare go near my biscuits
For this is not a bluff boy!

Chorus

You’re nothing but a biscuit thief
Dear Reverend, it must be said.
I’ve never seen a man of God as good
At hiding my biscuits in his head.

Get oot! shoo! You biscuit devil!
Get oot from my wee hoose!
My biscuits are all dishevelled.
Some are broken, some are shaken,
some are loose!

Chorus.

So you can take all of your
Greedy weedy ways.
To some other biscuit hoose.
You’ll not have one more of my biscuits.
Cause I’ve given the last one to the mouse!

Don’t go near my biscuit tin.
I’ll show you to the door.
For I’ve got no biscuits left now
And you shall have no more.

The Citizen Ship Belfast 2013.
By Randall Stephen Hall ©2007
www.randallstephenhall.com

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Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 19. Flagging up the hard life in Belfast….

Citizen Ship Belfast 2013. Nos 19.

Flagging up the hard life in Belfast.

By Randall Stephen Hall.

He was born into a tough life and his mum would soon be gone. A tale of transformation. The story of Robert Duff, whose mother has died from heart complications, yet still, follows him throughout his daily life. Lucky for Robert, and anyone else like him, who struggles with their weight and the desire to score another bag of tray bakes.

Bobby Bun Face.

Big Bobby bun face
Belly in a bun case.
Sweeties in his digger.
Body getting bigger.

Big Bobby bun face
Stuff it, squeeze it in.
Drippin from your lips.
Stickin’ to yer hips.

Big Bobby bun face
Older, liking beer
Fags are even better.
Fat enormous sweater.

Sagging as the pounds
Clamber on like marching ants.
His pants and chest are tighter.
His light is so less brighter.

Who is here to save
Bobby bun face from his fate?
He needs a guardian angel.
A trainer, special mate.

Who will save him from himself
When Bobby’s buns go marching by?
Who’ll fill him full of pasta
Instead of great big greasy fries?

Big Bobby bun face
Has turned the corner now.
A heart attack at thirteen
Nearly killed the man and boy.

But an angel intervenes
As he’s lying there in bed.
Strapped up to big machines
From piggy toe to piggy head.

The angel comes and hugs him,
Leaves a kiss upon his face.
Then sits and reads some magazines
And waits about the place.

Til’ the danger’s all but gone away
And he’s back up on his feet.
The angel stands on guard
When he’s wanting something sweet.

But things are gettin’ better.
Now he’s lighter on his toes.
No more need for tray bakes
No more need for pasty dough.

He first begins with small steps
With some walking every day.
His heart and lungs respond
So the breath soon comes his way

Then jogging pulls him up and out
Away from boggy ground.
His head is looking up.
As his weight goes riding down.

The months go sailing by
Like a windmill in a breeze.
For he struggles like a Trojan
As he scrapes his muddy knees.

For Robert Bobby bun face
Is an athlete and so proud.
He’s shed the pounds like leaves.
They’re just lying on the ground.

He races now, so fast and far.
Never stops for just a jar
The fags that dragged him down
Well, He left them in the bar.

He even has a neck now
And a re-discovered chin.
He’ll never be a greyhound
And he’ll never be dead thin.

But Robert feels, so very happy.
More comfy in himself.
He’s lost that heavy feeling
With his re-recovered health.

Robert, Thin Man smiley face
Has evolved into a god.
So different from that lardy boy,
He’s such a smiley sod.

That angel, who once helped him.
Well, she never went away.
She always stayed on guard
Just in case young Bob should stray.

Binging on a load of buns
Is what young Bobby loved.
Eclairs and fancy fairy cakes
In his mouth he loved to shove.

No more empty bun cases
Lying beneath young Bobby’s bed.
No more lardy, lardy chops.
No more feet of lead.

For Robert Bobby bun face
That angel was his mum.
She never ever left him.
For her work was rarely done.

She hung around
And hung around
Until he got the message.
“You don’t need pie and chips son
Or that great big extra sausage.”

So let that be a lesson
And a pointer to all of those.
Who struggle with their weight now.
Find it hard to fit their clothes.

Invite a guardian angel in
To hang around with you.
There might just be a crowd of them
Who follow what you do.

Next time you lift that slice of cake
And hold it to yer lips.
Imagine just how sexy
You’d be with slender hips.

So cut the fags and drinkin’
Get some exercise today.
You’ll just not know yerself, boy
As your body finds its way.

To a new found kind of freedom
As you glide on down the street.
Your friends will shout and comment.
“Has the butcher trimmed your meat?”

Bobby’s mum will often visit
Just to keep an eye on him.
Make sure he pounds the streets.
Instead of pounds around his chin.

He’s even got a girlfriend
And his heart and love’s in bloom.
There’s a baby on the way now
They got married just last June.

By Randall Stephen Hall ©
The Citizen Ship. Belfast. Nos 19.
www.randallstephenhall.com

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Thanks Matt. I'm glad you see my song that way. Your help with the sound was gre…

Thanks Matt. I’m glad you see my song that way. Your help with the sound was great too! See you soon, and thanks for the tracks.


Stephen Hall – Love’s Alive
soundcloud.com
Recorded live at The Pavilion Bar, Ormeau Road, Belfast on Sunday 28th April 2013. www.lagansessions.com www.facebook.com/LaganSessions Record…

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Citizen Ship 2013. Belfast. Nos. 18. My wee journey in words continues. Inspi…

Citizen Ship 2013. Belfast. Nos. 18.

My wee journey in words continues. Inspired by the Flag Protests in Belfast, late in 2012. I’m trying to work through my own thoughts upon symbols, emblems and the things that attempt to hold us down. Even the dogs in the street know how to bark. So what terrible beatings trained us to lie so silently, in the dust of our streets?

Here’s a new poem . . . So take a wee step onto the Citizen Ship, this small ark of words.

The Hidden Ground.

It is a lie
That we are simply two communities.
Cookie, cut.
One Irish, one British.
Two, set apart.
Set out upon this land,
Like chess pieces.
To do battle.
Like chattels and slaves,
Knights and knaves.
Played with, by our betters.

It is an absolute falsehood
That we should define ourselves
Through the merest of labels,
Like British and Irish.
For what does that tell us
About who we really are?
This shallow scar of knowing.

It is a complete sham
To look heavenward,
To some divisive hand.
To pick at who we are,
Like crows,
Sitting on different telegraph poles.

For we are still only crows.
Preening our feathers.
The sheen of which
Is the same blackness,
As if by some miracle,
Turned green or bloody red.
The flesh and blood, instead,
Of the one great crow,
Himself.

Our wealth of collected lies,
On this island,
About who we are,
Is, by far, hard to calculate.
For, if gold, the very weight
Of these treasures
Would make us sink
Beneath our cold narrow waters
Like the broken backed Titanic.

But this shared wealth is not gold.
Rather, it is the dullest lead.
Pulling us down into the bog instead.
To preserve our lies further.
The brown water, like tea
About our teeth and toes.
Where do we lie?
Nobody knows.

We continue to sink
Into our denial, like an old easy chair.
Patched and moth eaten.
Forty shades of green,
Beaten into a ragged submission.
An awkward alloy.
A careful collusion.
For we’ve lost our posture
Amongst these lazy beds.
Fighting over fields.
One after another,
Concerning our origins.
The wiring in our heads.

But if we collected
All the truths about our origins,
Our blow-ins,
Our invaders, our leaders,
Our darker Darth Vaders,
We would be up to our oxters
In the gold leaf.
In the frame.

There, to be recognized.
The rich Autumn colours
Of rusty shapes,
And aged iron ploughs.
Once more, ready
To overturn our soil.
And plant new seeds
Amongst the hot white magic
Of the hidden ground.

The Citizen Ship.
Belfast 2013. Nos 18.
By Randall Stephen Hall
14.5.13 ©
www.randallstephenhall.com

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Celtic Bridge. Randall Stephen Hall and the Moon Shed. Here is a collection o…

Celtic Bridge. Randall Stephen Hall and the Moon Shed.

Here is a collection of tunes and some craic from the Celtic Bridge Radio Show. This is our second visit to Josephine Mulvenna at QFM, based in Ballymena, not far from Slemish, herself. That mysterious lump in the landscape, calling you to climb her slopes. What a view from the top and what peace too. I’ve been up there on different days, in the sun and the rain.

I was lucky to have the help of my friends, Rohan Young and Michael Sands. There was tea and buns and the craic was mighty. So I hope you enjoy listening to the show. Slán hey!

http://www.qradionetwork.com/site/more-on-q/only-on-q/q-podcasts/item/952-celtic-bridge-randall-stephen-hall-the-moonshed-band.html