Welcome to Letters from Quotidia 2024 Episode 15. Quotidia, is that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary. The first song in this month’s offering is Bunclody. It’s redolent of themes that have exercised me over the course of the Letters and, indeed, life. Nature, Romantic love, Home, Emigration, Lack of money and land, Missing and Farewelling friends and relations and, of course, the refuge offered by Alcohol.

Luke Kelly of The Dubliners, whose version of the song stands supreme, relates how the group were in Bunclody and singing in a pub at lunchtime- not as a concert but just as something the Irish do as a matter of course- he relates how a local schoolmaster, Michael Flannery, asked if he could sing a song as well. And, in a soft voice, Bunclody emerged. And it is this soft voice I will try and emulate as opposed to the stentorian masterpiece that Luke produced.

The song opens with the evocation of the moss-house where the birds do increase. A moss house is a dwelling covered in moss usually in rural settings. William Cowper, the 18th Century English poet, in a poem entitled, Inscription For A Moss-House In The Shrubbery At Weston writes, Here, free from riot’s hated noise,/Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys,/A book or friend bestows;/Far from the storms that shake the great,/ Contentment’s gale shall fan my seat,/And sweeten my repose.// He is perhaps best known for the lines, God moves in a mysterious way/His wonders to-perform;/He-plants-His-footsteps-in-the-sea/And rides upon the storm.// [insert song]

I gave my Bing Co-pilot the opportunity to finish the thought, the myths of every culture are amazing repositories of…and almost immediately it came back with, the myths of every culture are amazing repositories of ancient wisdom and timeless tales that reflect the collective experiences and values of a civilization. They offer a unique window into the beliefs, hopes, fears, and moral codes that have shaped societies throughout history. Myths serve as a bridge connecting the past to the present, allowing us to understand the human journey through stories of heroes, gods, and monsters that embody the universal struggles and triumphs of the human spirit.

This is seriously good stuff and yet I felt deflated. Yes, of course, you may say, it is only a tool, like all the others we use to make our lives more productive and comfortable. When I started to experiment with AI as an aid only a matter of eighteen months ago, I was able to be rather dismissive at its infelicities of expression, redundancies and comical attempts at verse, etc. But like any good slave it is learning apace, and it won’t be too long before it becomes the master, I fear. Hence my low spirits at not being able to mark it down.

How long before I don’t bother any more to search out the right response, correct syntax and fabrication of other resources of language writers are proud of discovering by dint of personal effort? How long before I simply and lazily issue prompts and instruct it to speak in my voice as well as composing lyrics and music in my style? Will I emerge like one of those multiple composers of songs currently in the charts where the crafting of a phrase or a title merits equal billing?

Would I insist on being first on the bill-Quentin Bega/AI in a pathetic attempt to wrest some dignity from the fraudulent process? Answer, No! Like Candide at the end of his adventures, I will, instead, go and find honest toil in the garden. But while there is still a point to all this, here’s my original song, Shall I Set Your Precious Honour Under Siege?  which takes its theme and acronymic title from a Greek myth where the protagonist defies men and gods only to find eternal punishment.

I find myself identifying with the mythical performer of the endlessly futile task- and all the more strongly now as I reflect on the future of my endeavours in the creative fields of writing scripts and crafting songs. Last month, I quoted Dr Seuss, how did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June… How did it get so late so soon? Still applies, folks!  [insert song]   

In my introduction to the podcasts in January 2021, I wrote that 30 weeks were to be taken up in the venture. However, as it transpired, The Letters from Quotidia continued under a variety of names until this month, December 2024. By now, they have generated several hundreds of songs, several hundreds of thousands of words and 80+ hours of podcast time and so this seems a nice round number to put the podcasts to bed for a long, perhaps terminal, rest.

Veteran listeners to the podcasts may say, wearily, we’ve heard all this before. To which I can only reply, each time I said it was over, I meant it, but then changed my mind.! Whether this is a terminus or just a brief hiatus- only time will tell. My determination is that the New Year’s Eve post will be, umm, The Last Post I was going to say, but I’ll cancel that thought and substitute the less fate-tempting, final podcast of the series.

With all the doom and gloom around you might think that the prophet, Jeremiah, would have a suitably glum take on events, but the best prophets have the capacity to surprise us! “For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.” In eight days’ time, it will be New Year’s Eve and I will select a few songs to bid farewell to the series that grew apace. Until then, take care!

Budclody (traditional Irish: origin 19th Century)

Oh were I at the moss house where the birds do increase

At the foot of Mount Leinster or some silent  place

By the streams of Bunclody where all pleasures do meet

And all I would ask is one kiss from you sweet

Were I in Bunclody I would think myself at home
‘Tis there I’d have a sweetheart, but here I have none
Drinking strong liquor in the height of my cheer
Here’s health to Bunclody and the lass I love dear

The cuckoo is a pretty bird, it sings as it flies
It brings us good tidings and tells us no lies
It sucks young bird’s eggs to make its voice clear
And the more it cries cuckoo the summer draws near

If I were a clerk and could write a good hand
I would write to my true love that she might understand
I am a young fellow that is wounded in love
That lived by Bunclody but now must remove

If I were a lark and had wings and could fly
I would go to yon arbour where my love she does lie
I’d proceed to yon arbour where my true love does lie
And on her fond bosom content I would die

‘Tis why my love slights me as you may understand
That she has a freehold and I have no land
She has great store of riches and a large sum of gold
And everything fitting a house to uphold

So adieu my dear father, my dear mother adieu
Farewell to my sister, farewell my brother too
I am bound to America my fortune to try
When I think on Bunclody I’m ready to die

Shall I Set Your Precious Honour Under Siege? 

(Words and Music by Quentin Bega)                                                               

I don’t know when I began to roll this heavy stone up this endless hill

I don’t care how long it takes all I know is that rolling it I will

If you won’t help me I don’t expect you want to anyway

In fact I think that all you’d do would get yourself in my way

So there ain’t too much left for me to say

I once had a family, mother father sons and good wife who

Applauded as I fooled the world outwitting men and the almighty too

I even cheated death causing chaos as zombies roamed the earth

I plundered, raped and killed and I was brimming with a gleeful mirth

As every single person cursed my birth

Don’t you believe me can’t you get your head around my tale

My fate’s the dictionary definition of an epic fail

The details are bound to make you quail

I don’t know when I began to roll this heavy stone up this endless hill

I don’t care how long it takes all I know is that rolling it I will

If you won’t help me I don’t expect you want to anyway

In fact I think that all you’d do would get yourself in my way

So there ain’t too much left for me to say

Don’t you believe me can’t you get your head around my tale

My fate’s the dictionary definition of an epic fail

The details are bound to make you quail

[The acronymic title answers the question, Who am I?]

Credits: All written text, song lyrics and music (including background music) written and composed by Quentin Bega unless otherwise specified in the credits section after individual posts. Illustrative excerpts from other texts identified clearly within each podcast. I donate to and use Wikipedia frequently as one of the saner sources of information on the web.

Technical Stuff: Microphone-songs Shure SM58; (for the podcast spoken content) Audio Technica AT 2020 front-facing with pop filter); Apogee 76K also used for songs and spoken text. For recording and mixing down: 64-bit N-Track Studio 10 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2023 combo for music composition.