?ec­n­deeinedaNua ynAm­ralfli­wod

Irish Examiner - Farming - - NEWS -

The whole coun­try has gone ba­nanas for mu­sic since Sharon Shan­non played a tune to a field of cows in Dun­gar­van last week.

On this farm, over the week­end, my daugh­ter Grace, with con­certina in hand, played ‘Britches Full of Stitches’ for the gal­lop­ing herd.

She didn’t put a foot wrong.

And sure enough, just like with Sharon Shan­non, my cat­tle couldn’t get enough of it. They came stam­ped­ing to her side from all quar­ters. In­deed, be­fore she had fin­ished, I could swear that one or two of my more light-footed bul­locks had made an at­tempt to do some class of a jig (even though Britches Full of Stitches is, if truth be told, a polka).

Any­how, af­ter Grace’s per­for­mance, there was noth­ing for it but the main act. I strapped on the gui­tar like Johnny Cash, plus a few tunes of my own.

And with U2 play­ing in Dublin over the week­end, I felt I could do a lot worse than to treat the steers and the half squeezed bulls to the songs made fa­mous by the Dublin out­fit.

I started with ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’ and wrapped it up with ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Look­ing For’.

I did them just like Bono him­self.

Af­ter my ren­di­tion, I ex­plained to the gath­er­ing in the field that U2 were a very in­flu­en­tial band, and that Bono was a great fel­low en­tirely.

I also told my bul­locks that I would have been there my­self in Dublin to hear him sing, if only I had got a ticket for free.

With the U2 cat­tle con­cert at an end, I re­ally got go­ing and, strap­ping on the banjo, headed next for the hen house in an ef­fort to ser­e­nade the poul­try. Yerra, Sharon Shan­non only half did the thing, if you ask me.

The pair of hens re­sid­ing there have been the bane of my life ever since their ar­rival a few weeks ago.

A most unsavoury pair of birds, it has to be said. Any­how, start­ing of in a G chord, I belted out a few Pecker Dunne clas­sics, start­ing with ‘The Tinkers Lul­laby’.

The hens loved it. Now we were cook­ing!

They con­nected with the Pecker.

It was a great at­tempt by me to get the birds on­side, and it worked a treat. With the hens fly­ing high, in the end, didn’t the el­der of the two birds strike off her­self with some sad old lament. Prob­a­bly about a long lost love or some­thing. She clucked away for a good quar­ter of an hour, and I ac­com­pa­nied her on the banjo.

I was un­able to de­ci­pher much of what she was ty­ing to ex­press, for I don’t speak hen lan­guage.

But I heard enough to know that it was a mourn­ful old bal­lad with noth­ing but sad­ness to it.

It was like the kind of thing the old peo­ple used to sing on the ra­dio years ago.

The hen re­ally plucked at the old heart strings, there wasn’t a dry eye in the hen house.

With her song over, our mu­si­cal jour­ney at an end, I bade them farewell and re­turned to the great out­doors.

Over­all, the whole melodic ex­pe­ri­ence had been noth­ing short of a re­sound­ing suc­cess, noth­ing per­formed in Croke Park over the week­end could match it.

A farm op­er­at­ing in ab­so­lute har­mony can be a won­der­ful thing to be­hold.

Sharon Shan­non play­ing the fid­dle and ac­cor­dion for a herd of cows in Dun­gar­van, Co Water­ford, was a big hit on her Face­book page.

Grace Le­hane in con­cert.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from Ireland

© PressReader. All rights reserved.