J - Comhaltas Archive

Kilacloran was a name that to me
meant mountains and heather, primroses
and ferns, laughter and music ; and
the end of a story which I feel I now
must write- not about my uncle , but
about a gentle white-haired old man
who was the friend of so many Irish
children. I'm thinking that there must
still be many Irishmen in this country
today who remember Old J im the Piper,
for year in , year out, he walked all over
the South of Ireland playing his
weather-beaten bagpipes in the small
towns where he was greeted with
warmth and respect. And the people
who remember him didn't think it
strange or queer that Old J im had felt
obliged to leave his home in Kilkenny to
wander and play all over the country.
"Shure," they said, " when a man has
music in his heart, 'tis only natural he
should want to share it; and, besides,"
they said, " isn't he a walking saint to be
doing such a grand service in keeping
alive the old melodies of Ireland ."
How right they were, I thought; for
soon (so my sister mentioned in her
letter) the distinguished musicians of
Ireland would have a monument erected
over h is lonely grave.
OVER THE HILL
Maybe we saw him only two or three
times a year- I was so small I don't re·
member- but one thing was sure, when
the robin built her nest in the old iron
kettle that was stuck in a branch of the
hawthorn tree , we knew it was time to
start glancing up the long white granite
road . Sooner or later we'd see him
coming over the hill and with cries of
delight we would fly like the wind to
greet him . As we proudly escorted him
to our home he would tell the most
wonderful stories a child could wish to
hear.
I well remember the last time Old
Jim came walking down the road , in a
circle of laughing children. Mother was
all smiles too, because he was her own
special link with the Wicklow Mo un·
tains, and he wo uld have mu ch to tell
18
Old Jim The Piper
Maureen Kinsman
The letter from Ireland telling me of the death of my Uncle Luke came as no
surprise-he was very old and my sister had written to say he was dying. Yet
suddenly my heart seemed to be aching with memories of my childhood and I knew
that time and distance could never blot out the enchantment and happiness I had
known in Kilacloran, the lovely old house where my uncle had lived and died.
her about grandmother and Uncle
Luke. As usual, he would take an old
red or white handkerchief out of his
pocket, in which were a few crushed
primroses, or heather, picked from the
grounds of Kilacloran- her old home.
After a hot cup of tea and a " bite to
eat" he smiled and sa id , "Sure , M'am.
'tis happy I am to be able to tell you
that yo ur mother, God bless her, is still
hale and hearty, even if she is pushin'
eighty ; and the old house looked like a
fairyland of appleblossoms nestled in
th e lovely mountains. Why' the sight of
them , so tall and blue, always see med to
light en my step and tug at my hea rt."
Sighing, as though th e memory mad e
him homesick, he sa id , "As I walk all