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Letters from Quotidia, 2024- Episode 1. Quentin Bega welcomes back those who listened to some or all of the previous Letters. And to any new listeners- glad you are visiting Quotidia. The Letters launched on January 11th, 2021, as a pandemic project culminating on 31st December 2023 having chalked up a total of 266 posts. From the fevered throes of podcast freneticism, which at one stage saw five posts in a week, the stream abated to one or two a fortnight in the latter stages of the project. Now, there will be one a month, Deo volente. And maybe this just reflects the fact that the phenomenon of the podcast, like goblin mode and sourdough baking is a fading relic of a time humanity would rather forget and move on from at a quick march! thank you very much! But here in Quotidia the same dispensation obtains as before. This is, then: a podcast for lovers of music, poetry, and the Crack- that most Irish of nouns which may encompass, news, gossip, fun, entertainment, and enjoyable conversation. Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary. I extracted from that treasure trove that is Wikipedia a rather extraordinary piece of information recently. That most august of American newspapers, The New York Times opined as follows in an obituary of 1890: "the most conspicuous English dramatist of the 19th century. Who could that possibly be? Any guesses? So, if I were to drop the name Dionysius Lardner Boucicault, would your eyes light up in rueful recognition? I’m guessing, probably not. It just goes to show the evanescence of fame because, Dion Boucicault as he is more familiarly known, was born 26 December 1820, and died 18 September 1890. He was an Irish actor and playwright famed for his melodramas. By the later part of the 19th century, Boucicault had become known on both sides of the Atlantic as one of the most successful actor-playwright-managers then in the English-speaking theatre. I was vaguely aware of him when I was studying Irish literature of the 19th Century back in the early 1970s, but it was only when I was researching the background to the first song to be featured this year that I became better acquainted with this rather colourful character. The song, a drinking ditty recorded by the Clancys in the early ‘60s, is called The Cruiskeen Lawn. The translation of the chorus is, Oh! My heart’s love is my little jug, my little jug/Bright health to my darling/ My heart’s love is my little full jug, full, full, full/Oh my heart’s love is my little full jug. So, without more ado, here is my version of The Cruiskeen Lawn. [insert song] I shamelessly added a verse of my own to bulk it out! And I like the title, too, as it reminds me of that wonderful Dublin writer, Flann O’Brien whom I have read with pleasure for decades. He had a long-running satirical column in The Irish Times called The Cruiskeen Lawn. His short-form prose work as well as longer forms such as the novel will repay perusal, IMHO. He was fond of a jar or two, as is the composer of the next verse extract on the subject, Seamus Heaney. He translated an Irish poem and folk song, An Bonnan Bui or The Yellow Bittern by Cathal Bui Mac Giolla Ghunna. To hear it sung in Irish, go to YouTube and listen to Dianne Cannon’s wonderful unaccompanied version. Here, now, is the final verse in English, The woman I love says to give it up now/Or else I’ll go to an early grave,/But I say no and keep resisting/For taking drink’s what prolongs your days./You saw for yourself a while ago/What happened to the bird when its throat went dry;/So my friends and neighbours, let it flow:/You’ll be stood no rounds in eternity.// Now, isn’t that the truth! The final song of this inaugural post for 2024 is another popularised by the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, The Cobbler. It featured in their songbook which I bought in the late 1960s as I was learning guitar- still learning. I’ve sung various songs from their repertoire in venues in Ireland and Australia, but never this one- another one of life’s little mysteries because do I rate it highly! Tommy Makem’s mother, Sarah Makem, a reputed folk artist herself, is credited with bringing this 18th Century song to wider notice. The persona is an itinerant cobbler; a maker of footwear, who carries his tools with him from place to place. He has a chequered past, having spent time in prison or oul’ camp, as he puts it in verse one. And while he says he’s resolved to repent; I have my doubts. There was widespread agitation in 18th Century Ireland for rights of various kinds and the cobbler may well seek to keep his affinity for reform under wraps given the harshness of the penal system. He is, however, sanguine in the face of life’s vicissitudes as outlined in verses two and three while verses four and five focus on his domestic life where marital strife is addressed by means of a river. Here is my version of The Cobbler: [insert song] I hope you have enjoyed your brief sojourn in Quotidia. I plan to lob another podcast your way in about a month’s time- although I am mindful of the admonition, If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans! And since AI seems to be taking over the world, here is an excerpt of verse created by my soon-to-be master, if pundits are to be believed: He works all day with leather and nails/Fixing the shoes of those who walk the trails…/He finds his joy in his whiskey and his rhyme/He is a cobbler and he is content with his time.//CUL8R

The Cruiskeen Lawn (Dion Boucicault)

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