"The Galway Coulin or the Old Coulin"
George Petrie on the Galway Coulin
Writing in June, 1863 to the Rev. James Goodman, afterwards Professor of Irish in Trinity College, George Petrie said:
"The tune, of which you have sent me the setting has been known to me for a long period, and I have always considered it as one of the most beautiful of our melodies. It is generally known in the county of Galway and is called 'The Old Coulin', and most certainly it is not a tune of Carolan's but much older. I first set it from the singing of Paddy Conealy, the Galway piper, about five and twenty years ago, and shortly afterwards got a set of it very slightly different from a folio manuscript volume of Irish songs and tunes written by Edward O' Reilly, the Irish lexicographer. The volume passed into the hands of the late James Hardiman, and thence to the library of the Royal Irish Academy, in which it is now preserved. The tune was the favourite Irish one of the late Lord Rossmore, who had a strong love and a fine taste for Irish music. I have heard him descant upon its expression of sentiment, with an admirable appreciation of its beauty, for a quarter of an hour at a time. I should also tell you that the tune has been published by Edward Bunting in his first volume of Irish melodies about the year 1793, with the name of 'bFear Liom n ire' or 'I would rather than Ireland?'. But he has set it in the minor mode, which makes it appear a different tune, and I doubt that was right in doing so. I certainly never heard it so sung..."
Words of the Coulin
O Lov'd Maid of Broka!
From a literal translation of the original Irish,
by Hector MacNeill, Esq.
O lov'd maid of Broka, each fair one excelling!
The blush on thy cheek shames the apple's soft bloom,
More sweet that the rose-buds that deck thy lov'd dwelling,
Thy lips shame their beauties, thy breath their perfume.
Come, bird of the evening, sweet thrush, void of sorrow,
Come greet her approach to thy flower-scented thorn,
And teach her fond warbler, thy lov'd notes to borrow,
To banish her coldness and soften her scorn.
O perch'd on thy green bough, each lov'd note delighting,
How blest, happy bird! could I change lots with thee!
But, alas! while fast fetter'd, each prospect is blighting,
I would rather than Ireland again I were free!
But, adieu! though my hopes, by thy coldness and scorning,
Fall faded like blossoms half brown on the tree,
May love bless your eve, though it blighted my morning,
I would rather than Ireland once more I were free!
Music of the Coulin
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