A regular feature on traditional songs of County Wexford. This week: The Hills of Christnasthow

CHRISTNASTHOW is the name of a crossroads which is halfway between Kilmuckridge and Blackwater. It is recorded on the Ordnance Survey maps as ‘Cros na Stouc’ and is overlooked by the hill Tullakenna (Thulaigh Uí Chionaoith) in the townsland of Ballinamona.

This poem in praise of place was written by Myles O’ Connor who was from Templeshannon in Enniscorthy. Apparently Myles was a regular visitor to Matt Brien in Tinnaberna, Kilmuckridge, where he claimed he would happily stay and ‘live on a herring a day’.

During the course of a recent song project I facilitated in Kilmuckridge Rachel Uí Fhaoláin set it to the air of the traditional song ‘As I Roved Out (on a bright May Day…)’. This beautiful light air perfectly complemented the lyrical language in the poem. I was delighted to hear this ‘new song’ being performed recently at the County Fleadh in Carrig-on-Bannow on May 13 where Rachel’s daughter Éire sang it and took first place in the U-12 traditional singing.

To hear Éire sing it go to the ‘Songs of Wexford’ Facebook page. If you’d like to hear more new songs written specifically for children you can check out our latest project ‘Songs for Our Children’. The premiere concert featuring a dozen new songs in the traditional style by singers from all over the country was broadcast on Facebook Live (on the ‘Songs for Our Children’ page) from St Aidan’s Primary School, Enniscorthy, last Friday May 18.

The Hills of Christnasthow

Words: Myles O’ Connor

Air: As I Roved Out (on a Bright May Day) There’s a winding path through the purple heather, That blooms on the Hills of Christnasthow,

And wends its way towards the mighty ocean,

The gallant ships these waves to plough.

To see the sloping banks of Tinnaberna,

They seem bowing to the whispering shore,

And the sparkling dew on the scented heather, Makes one think of fairy lore.

Then over yonder there old Kilnew,

Nestling there in the little glen,

Near the holy well of Toberlomina,

The haunt of thrush and gentle wren.

And thru’ the valley that rippling river,

By the old thatched mill standing so sedate,

And the ancient smithy where pikes were forged, In the bitter year of ninety-eight.

That rippling stream thru’ the flower strewn glen, ’Neath the little bridge gently flowing,

Where the lark sings sweetly in a cloudless sky, There my thoughts are forever going.

And the evening’s glorious sunset,

Casts its rays o’er the purple heath,

O’er the sea and thru’ the valleys,

And on the fields of ripening wheat.

A harvest moon o’er the picturesque homesteads, Nestling nigh these sheltering slopes,

Where peace and contentment reign supreme, Thinking on tomorrow with ardent hopes.

The enchanting splendour of these hills,

Amidst the heather so enhancing,

Where fairies hold their nightly revels,

In the moonlight lightly dancing.

The bewitching view of these rippling waves, Glimpsed from the brow of the hills above, And the snow white sails of a coasting ship, Oh, again to see this place I love.

Pass time and tide but a memory lingers,

Of a winding path through hills divine,

And a rippling stream seawards flowing, Ever onwards to the end of time.