Shane MacGowan's Sister Siobhan Gave A Heart Warming Tribute At His Funeral

I must have missed Shane’s sister eulogy and what a fine memory that is . . . . . .  

 . . . . . . . . we will not see his like again

Song of the Day :: SHANE MacGOWAN : THE POGUES - 'White City'

 White City - The Pogues 

 . . . . . just another bloody rainy day!

Well it sure is here! Rainy dull and looks to be set in for the day so here’s another memorial song for Shane

Thanks to TWILIGHT ZONE (they posted the Nips track t’other day and have been sharing some gems as ever!

SHANE MacGOWAN & CHRISTY MOORE | Spancil Hill (& Fairy Tale of New York for Shane)

 Shane . . . . . .with fellow legend Christy Moore (a favourite song)

Christy sings Fairy Tale of New York for Shane MacGowan

a Pair of Brown Eyes - Christy and Shane 

*NB "Spancil Hill" lyrics

Last night as I laid dreaming of the pleasant days gone by,
My mind being bent on rambling and to Erin's Isle I did fly.
I stepped on board a vision, I sailed out with a will,
And I quickly came to anchor at my home in Spancilhill.

Enchanted with the novelty, delighted with the scenes,
Where in my early childhood I often times have been.
I thought I heard a murmur, I think I hear it still,
'Tis that little stream of water at the Cross of Spancilhill.

And to amuse my fancy I laid upon the ground,
Where all my school companions in crowds assembled 'round.
Some have grown to manhood, while more their graves did fill,
Oh I thought we were all young again at the Cross of Spancilhill.

It being on a Sabbath morning, I thought I heard a bell,
O'er hills and vallies sounded, in notes that seemed to tell,
That Father Dan was coming his duty to fulfill,
At the parish church of Clooney, just one mile from Spancilhill.

And when the ceremony ended, we all knelt down in prayer,
In hopes for to be ready to climb the Golden Stairs.
And when back home returning, we danced with right good will,
To Martin Moylan's music at the Cross of Spancilhill.

It being on the twenty third of June, the day before the fair,
Sure Erin's sons and daughters, they all assembled there.
The young, the old, the stout and the bold came there to sport and kill,
What a curious combination at the Fair of Spancilhill.

I went into my old home, as every stone can tell,
The old boreen was just the same and the apple tree over the well,
I missed my sister Ellen, my brothers Pat and Bill,
And I only met strange faces at my home in Spancilhill.

I called to see the neighbors, to hear what they might say,
The old were getting feeble and the young ones turning grey.
I met with tailor Quigley, he's as stout as ever still,
Sure he used to mend my breeches when I lived in Spancilhill.

I paid a flying visit to my first and only love,
She's as pure as any lily and as gentle as a dove.
She threw her arms around me, saying: Mike I love you still,
She is Mack the Ranger's daughter, the Pride of Spancilhill.

I thought I stooped to kiss her, as I did in days of yore,
Says she: Mike you're only joking, as you often were before,
The cock crew on the roost again, he crew both loud and shrill,
And I awoke in California, far far from Spancilhill.

But when my vision faded, the tears came in my eyes,
In hope to see that dear old spot some day before I die.
May the Almighty King of Angels His Choicest Blessings spill,
On that Glorious spot of Nature, the Cross of Spancilhill.

The song "Spancil Hill" was composed by Michael Considine (1850–73), who was born in Spancil Hill in Co Clare and later migrated to the US. 

The ballad bemoans the plight of the Irish emigrants who so longed for home from their new lives in America. This song is sung by a man who longs for his home in Spancill Hill, Co Clare, his friends, and the love he left there. All the characters and places in this song are real.

Considine spent his first few years of emigration in Boston before moving west to follow the gold rush in California. He fell into bad health at the very young age of 23 and it was during this time that he wrote the poem of Spancil Hill which then turned into a ballad. Considine did not see past his 23 years and died in 1873.

Before he succumbed to death he managed to send his ballad to his six-year-old nephew John Considine in Clare who kept it safe.

In the ballad, we hear the emigrant pine for the girl he left behind. In Michael Considine’s case, he left Spancil Hill for America with the intention of bringing his sweetheart over when he had made enough money but, sadly it never materialized.

THE POGUES | THREE ALBUMS via URBANASPIRINES

Shane MacGowan and The Pogues - 3 Abums from URBANASPIRINES

Wow well Kostas doesn’t hang about and here comes this from his desktop after the passing of the poet and iconoclast of punk and folk tradition, the mercurial Shane MacGowan who we lost on Thursday!

Kostas begins : 

Shane Patrick Lysaght MacGowan (25 December 1957 – 30 November 2023) was an English-born Irish musician best known as the lead vocalist and songwriter of Celtic punk band the Pogues.

And Kostas continues:

The Pogues were an English or Anglo-Irish Celtic punk band fronted by Shane MacGowan and others, founded in King's Cross, London, in 1982, as Pogue Mahone – an anglicisation of the Irish Gaelic phrase póg mo thóin, meaning "kiss my arse". The band reached international prominence in the 1980s and early 1990s, recording several hit albums and singles. MacGowan left the band in 1991 owing to drinking problems, but the band continued – first with Joe Strummer and then with Spider Stacy on vocals – before breaking up in 1996. 

Looking at three of the main contenders for their best albums ever, comes his look at Red Roses for Me of 1984, Rum Sodomy and The Lash, 88’s If I Should Fall From Grace With God if you do anything buy these three as they cover all the most classics of the bands work and Shane’s songwriting and selection at its very peak!

Really check it out

This one for Kostas! The Nips (formerly The Nipple Erectors! just as The Pogues were formerly Pogue Mahone [trans:”Sit on My Face!”] here with ‘Gabrielle'

Shane MacGowan and The Popes with Sinead O’Connor | plus some classic MacGowan . . . . . .

JUST BECAUSE . . . 

Rest easy now you two

R.I.P  SHANE MacGOWAN 

Shane and Sinead - ‘Haunted'  (Song from Sid & Nancy) written by Shane

(Thanks to the always brilliant International Times)

and this from the always fascinating Guess I’m Dumb!

• Track Name

  Sally Maclennane

• Album

  Rum Sodomy & the Lash

• Artist

  The Pogues

GUESS I’M DUMB

Sad to say I must be on my way
So buy me beer and whiskey ‘cause I’m going far away
I’d like to think of me returning when I can
To the greatest little boozer and to Sally MacLennane

R.I.P. Shane

Shane MacGowan by Andrew Catlin.

Dirty Old Town

Rainy Night In Soho

Some folks on Facebook and elsewhere asked me why I favoured the work of Shane wasn’t he just a punk drunk ex-pat Irishman!!? did you say that of Brendan Behan? Welshman Dylan Thomas? The answer is no he was a poet . . . . . . . .

I’ve been loving you a long time
Down all the years, down all the days
And I’ve cried for all your troubles
Smiled at your funny little ways

We watched our friends grow up together
And we saw them as they fell
Some of them fell into Heaven
Some of them fell into Hell

I took shelter from a shower
And I stepped into your arms
On a rainy night in Soho
The wind was whistling all its charms

I sang you all my sorrows
You told me all your joys
Whatever happened to that old song?
To all those little girls and boys

Sometimes I’d wake up in the morning
The ginger lady by my bed
Covered in a cloak of silence
I’d hear you talking in my head

I’m not singing for the future
I’m not dreaming of the past
I’m not talking of the first times
I never think about the last

Now the song is nearly over
We may never find out what it means
Still there’s a light I hold before me
You’re the measure of my dreams
The measure of my dreams

A Rainy Night in Soho

Shane MacGowan

More sounds for Christmas :: A Fairy Tale of New York - THE POGUES (LIVE) 2012

Wouldn’t be Christmas with Shane MacGowan and The Pogues from ten years ago (although we send this one out to Kirsty MacColl and her family . . . . . . )