Stories 

We are fortunate to have a sense of James Gandsey through stories published by contemporaries, complete with all the insight and enjoyment of actual dialogue. 

“No, not to-morrow, Mahony, I am going on the lower lake — but what music is this?”  

I listened more attentively, and heard an excellent performer indeed. 

“Waiter, who is the bagpipe player?”  

“O, sir, that’s Mister Gandsey, Lord Headly’s own piper — if you want real music, sir, ’tis he that can give it to you in style.” 

“What Gandsey, of whose pipes I have heard so much! — pray tell Mister Gandsey I shall be most glad of his company.” 

The person thus invited soon made his appearance: he was blind, and entered the room leaning on his son; but though blind, the light of genius beamed from his countenance, so as to render his want of sight scarcely perceptible. In addition to Gandsey ‘s talents as a musician, (which, if not of the highest, are of a highly respectable order) he can tell a good story, sing a good song, and cap Latin verses with any man in the classical County of Kerry. 

I had a most delicious evening with Gandsey and his pipes. He played for me one old Irish air after another, accompanied with much skill and taste by his son on the violin; and he told me their traditionary histories. 

“Good night, Gandsey — good night, I hope to see you again to-morrow — many thanks for your music — Bless me, ’tis just twelve o’clock, I did not think it was ten; really you have given additional wings to time.” 

“Much obliged to you, sir — good night, sir.” 

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A stag hunt creates quite a sensation in Killarney; on such occasions the town pours forth almost its whole population.  Sometimes the stag makes his escape up the mountains, leading hound and hunter a long and weary chase. On this occasion, however, matters were better managed; for the stag, after several vain attempts to ascend, made his appearance, and ran along the river’s side for nearly a mile, in full view of the boats and those on the shore, till, finding himself too closely pressed by the hounds, he plunged into the river. Then came the struggle, the chase, and the race, for the honour of taking him, which was at length done by Mr. O’Connell. A handkerchief was bound round the poor animal’s eyes, his legs tied, and, thus secured, he was lifted into the boat. The boat then put in to the shore, in order to allow every one a peep at the stag; to obtain which, the fleet gathered round, and all hurried towards one point on the shore, where soon stood nobility and mobility, huntsman and peasant, indiscriminately grouped together. Close to Mr. O’Connell’s barge was that of the Earl Kenmare, into which stepped the round, rosy, and reverend Lord Brandon, at the same time, apparently, addressing some courtly compliments to the Lady Kenmare — then there was the good Lord Headley with his famous piper, and my worthy friend Gandsey. 

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We dined; and, after a well-served dinner, Gorham made his appearance, to inquire if I would wish for Gandsey’s company? 

Gandsey entered, as on a former occasion, leaning upon his son. “Ah, Gandsey,”said I, “this was very good of you to come to me, especially as it is my last evening in Killarney.” 

“I thank you, sir,” was the modest reply of Gandsey; “you are very good, sir.’ 

“Here is a glass of wine — but perhaps you would prefer some whiskey punch?” 

“I drink the wine to your honour’s good health and long life,” said Gandsey; “but the whiskey punch, sir, if you please, harmonizes better with the melodies I am going to play, sir.” 

“Waiter, some whiskey punch. — Gandsey, I wish much to hear ‘the Eagle’s Whistle’ so I think the war-march of the O’Donoghue is called — Yon can play it, of course.” 

“Without any kind of doubt I can do that same,” returned Gandsey. “Boy, is your violin in  tune? There’s the note — Week — week — week — squeek — that will do. Now, sir, — but first, if you please, suppose, sir, that I give you, because, you see, it is the oldest of the two war-marches of the O’Donoghue, the Step of the Glens'” (Here Gandsey played the barbarous strain) 

“Oh, ’tis the O’Donoghues were the boys that could stir their stumps down the side of a mountain,’ said Gandsey, when he had concluded. “And now, sir, here’s the Eagle’s Whistle; that was their other war-march, you know. Boy, tune up that note a leetle higher.” (Here Gandsey played the melody) 

“Gandsey,” said I, “it is easy to prophesy, that the fame of your Eagle’s Whistle will go forth, alight as beard of thistle.’ 

“How close is the resemblance,” remarked Mr. Lynch, “between the Irish and Scotch pibrochs. I remember”— and he was about to proceed with, I have no doubt, some interesting reminiscence or remark, had not Gandsey run his right hand up the pipe, with Tir-a-lee-ra-tir-a-lee-ra-lee-BOOM. 

“Come, Gandsey,” said I, “another tune, if you please — but something with a history to it.” 

“I’ll give you, sir,” said Gandsey, “the lamentation for ‘Myles the slasher,’ a real ould air of Erin.” (Here Gandsey played the melody) 

“And now,” said I, when he had concluded, “now for the history.” 

“Why, you see, sir,” said Gandsey, placing the pipes at rest upon his left knee, “why, you see, sir, Myles the slasher was an O’Reilly — and if he was, he was like every one of the same name, fond of Erin, for she was his country. Well, sir, when the bloody Cromwellian wars were going on, you see, Myles the slasher headed his clan, and died like a brave commander, defending the bridge of Finea, in the County Cavan, against that robbing and murdering thief of the world, Cromwell. ‘Twas a fine death he had; and ’tis as fine a tune that I’ve played for you, sir, to keep his memory up among the people, as can be, in my opinion. But if he did die all covered with wounds, ’twas on the flat of his back that Myles O’Reilly the slasher was laid, with a thousand voices after him, 

Up! away, away! —  
Light as beard of thistle; 
‘Tis the morn of May —  
Sound the Eagle’s Whistle! 

In the monastical church of Cavan, though ’tis since destroyed, to build a horse-barrack; and these were the very words that were carved out over him, upon as beautiful a gravestone as could be: “LECTOR NE CREDAS SOLEM PERIISSE MILONEM HOC NAM SUB TUMULO, PATRIA VICTA JACET.” 

“This lamentation pleases me so much, I hope, Gandsey, you can favour us with another.” 

“Oh, that I can, sir, lamentations in plenty — for sure ’tis little else is left, for green Erin or her children, but sorrow and — 

“Whiskey,” said Mr. Lynch. 

“True,” said I, “we have justly been called ‘a persecuted and hard-drinking people.’ ” 

“But the lamentation,” said Mr. Lynch. 

“Tis the widow’s lamentation,” said Gandsey: “You see her husband, one William Crottie, was hanged through the means of one Davy Norris, a thief of an informer, who came round him, and betrayed him.  And so Mrs. Crottie, whose own name was Burke, a mighty decent woman she was, and come of decent people, made up this lamentation about her husband.” (Here Gandsey played the melody)  

“And now, Gandsey,” said I, “mix yourself another tumbler of punch, and then let us hear an Irish melody with something more of sentiment in it, than the singular strains you have already played. Suppose some ditty, which an unfortunate lover might sing to the mistress by whom he was neglected and abandoned. You have an air of this description, I doubt not, Gandsey, for such heart-breaking affairs must have happened in Ireland as well as elsewhere.” 

“Oh, plenty of them, sir,” said Gandsey; and he immediately commenced the melody. 

“Yes, that is Irish — truly — intensely Irish,” “how exquisitely the violin accompaniment harmonizes with the pipes. Pray, whose arrangement is that?” 

“Twas I, sir,” replied Gandsey, “just fixed it out for boy to learn.” 

“Have you any words to this melody?” inquired Mr. Lynch. 

“None, sir,” said Gandsey, “though they’re much wanting to it; but I have some words of own making too, which I’ll sing, with the greatest pleasure in life, to the air of ‘Bob and Joan.’ Come, boy, scrape away.” 

“Bravo, Gandsey,” said I. “Bravo,” echoed Mr. Lynch. “You must be thirsty from your exertions.  ‘Gansey, to promote, Harmonious tunes so jolly.’ So here are the materials for another tumbler of punch. You want something?” 

“Water, if you please, sir, — for what is whiskey punch without the water is screeching hot, and just sings to you like a Banshee?” 

“Do you hear the unearthly music of Gandsey’s glass,” remarked Mr. Lynch, as the boiling water made a kind of musical murmur within it — and he continued, while Gandsey sipped the boiling mixture — “I never hear that simmering, without mentally recurring to an incident which recently happened to me.  It was with a feeling of content and pleasure, that on the Christmas eve of 1826 I gazed around my cottage kitchen, and saw that it was duly decked with holly; the dark green leaves and red berries mingling fantastically with the bright tin vessels which hung upon the white walls….”