A Great Game - 2nd Sept.1950
ODDS AND ENDS
A Great Game: Text Version
2nd September 1950
(By "AN MANGAIRE SUGACH")
The first Sunday in September is, perhaps, the greatest day in the Irish sports year. It is the day of the All-Ireland hurling final. Surely, hurling must rank as our greatest and most distinctive national pastime, the game par excellence of the Gael. It seems strange that football should have a greater following; but this is due to the fact that Gaelic football, to a certain extent, caters for lovers of rugby and soccer, as well as lovers of the native code. Hurling enthusiasts point back to Cuchulainn as the first exemplar of their art, and still recall how he hurled all the way from the palace of Emhain Macha to the fort of Culann on that famous day when hew slew the great hound that guarded the fort, and then offered to take the place of the hound himself until another was reared. That was the occasion when he changed his name from Setanta to Cuchulainn. Some hold, however, that Cuchulainn was not a hurler, but a golfer!
CROSS COUNTRY
Before the coming of the G.A.A., with its rules and regular pitches, hurling was a far different game from what it is now. It was a cross-country game then, with unlimited participants who played abhaile, as it was described -– that is, played home. When two parishes met in contest in those days, the ball was thrown up between the players at some landmark, such as a hill, castle or cross-road, that was half way between the rival districts. Each group tied with all its might to bring the ball home with it, and so secure a well-merited victory. It is on record that swift-footed hurlers, from time to time, got away with a flying start at the commencement of the game, and hurled away, Cuchulainn style, never being overtaken by an opposing player, until the ball was struck to the final goal – and to victory.
WHAT IS A GAEL?
I have often wondered why those who play our national games should so frequently be referred to as Gaels. A man is often described as a noted Gael when he should be properly described as a noted hurler or a noted footballer. Gael is a noble Irish word with a special meaning, and its appropriation by sports writers is much to be regretted. So much has the word been abused in recent years that soon it must become meaningless. In our history the words Gael and Gall have very special meanings for us. When we think of the word Gael we think of the type of the race; of men like Colmcille, and Red Hugh and Egan O Rahilly; of Gaels by race and tongue and tradition. When Pearse uses the word Gael he does not use it carelessly; neither does any one who has a regard for Ireland's past. In the interests of history, accuracy and language itself, a hurler should be called a hurler, a footballer a footballer -– and a Gael a Gael
PAGEANTRY
We have little colour in our national life. The day of the All-Ireland Final is one of the few occasions on which we make good this deficiency. The pageantry of Croke Park on Final Day lingers long in the memory. The sight of the waving flags, the kilted pipers, the endless throngs streaming into the field; the stirring music of the bands, the community singing, all these cause pulses to throb and hearts to glow. Leaders of Church and State and foreign diplomats, add to the impressiveness of the occasion by their presence. A great moment comes when the parade of the teams begins. There they go, thirty players, giants of the playing fields, the cream of Ireland's manhood, while Croke Park holds its breath in admiration. The band plays the National Anthem and the thousands spring to their feet; and then, as the last note dies away, comes that never-to-be-forgotten Croke Park cheer, the roar of old Ireland resurgent.
A Great Game - 2nd Sept. 1950
The writer refers to the cultural importance of hurling in Ireland. He outlines a potted history of the game and praises the colour and atmosphere of the All-Ireland Final.
A Great Game - 2nd Sept. 1950
The writer refers to the cultural importance of hurling in Ireland. He outlines a potted history of the game and praises the colour and atmosphere of the All-Ireland Final.
AN APPROPRIATE SONG
Crawford Neil, wrote a fine hurling song, and I think I cannot do better than to give it to you to-day, on the eve of the greatest match of the year.
THE SONG OF A GURL
Oh! Cut me a hurl from the mountain ash,
That weathered many a gale,
And my stroke will be lithe as the lightning 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 in line through the glad sunshine
On the trail of the whirling leather.
Oh! Give me the field on a Sunday noon
When gay spring-winds are swinging
Through copse and boreen 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 song's full measure
But give to a lad whose heart is glad
The width of the field for his pleasure,
Oh! To dart to 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 Wicklow hurl
With a good ash bred in Kerry,
And press for the goal with all your soul,
Or lose with a heart as merry.
I have seen the children of other lands
At games of down and feather
Applauded by dames with delicate hands
In the mild, midsummer 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 the fine young tree,
And give it the grace of your blessing-
'Twill fare right glad in the whirl of play
When the southern lads are pressing!
The honour bestow on the dead below
The meadow our heels are spurning,
Who fought for the fame of the Gaelic game
When the fire of their youth was burning!
A SONG BY BRIAN O HIGGINS
All Ireland once knew the songs of Brian O Higgins. That they are rarely heard now is not to our credit. Why should our young men of the G.A.A. not learn this fine song that he wrote to the air of "Clare's Dragoons"?
IRELAND'S HURLING MEN
Who say our country's soul has fled?
Who say our country's heart is dead?
Come, let them hear the marching tread
Of twice five thousand Hurling Men.
They hold the hopes of by-gone years,
They love the past-its smiles and tears-
But quavering doubts and shrinking fears
Are far from Ireland's Hurling Men.
Chorus
Hurrah! Hurrah! The stout caman
Not English steel can match its blow;
Hurrah! The arms of might and brawn
And hearts with Freedom's flame aglow!
They sing the songs their fathers sung,
When to the breeze the Green they flung-
They speak their own sweet Gaelic tongue,
That fires the blood of fighting men.
When all around was dark as night,
With scarce a gleam of cheering light,
When traitors fled their country's fight
She still had hope in Hurling Men!
Chorus
On Irish fields where heroes died,
And foemen thronged on every side,
Our leaders' joy-their hope and pride
Were gleaming pikes-and Hurling Men!
And if God will that war's red train
Shall sweep once more o'er hill and plain,
Our land shall call-and not in vain-
For fighting lines of Hurling Men.
Chorus
But meanwhile, let each true heart toil
The foeman's every plan to foil,
And raise, like strong plants from the soil,
New hosts of Irish Hurling Men,
To guard their name and love their land,
With her thro' gloom and joy to stand,
And each one's gift-a heart and hand
And will to strive with Irish Men.
Chorus
When comes the day-as come it must-
That England's rule of greed and lust
Shall lie, all broken, in the dust
We'll still have Irish Hurling Men.
Then here's to her, the land we love,
Each grand old hill, and glen and grove-
Her plains below, her skies above,
And best of all- her Hurling Men!
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