, of whom the old women
in the workhouse spoke. I have heard some of Callinan's poems and songs;
but I do not find the imaginative power of Raftery in them. He seems, in
distinction to him, to be the poet of the domestic affections, of the
settled classes. His songs have melody and good sentiments; and they are
often accompanied by a rhymed English version, made by his brother, a
lesser poet. The favourite among them is a song on a wooden beetle, lost
by his wife when washing clothes at the river. She is made to lament the
loss of 'so good a servant' in a sort of allegory; and then its journey
is traced from the river to the sea. An old man gives me a little memory
of him: 'I saw Callinan one time when we went to dig potatoes for him at
his own place, the other side of Craughwell. We went into the house for
dinner; and we were in a hurry, and he was sitting by the hearth talking
all the time; for he was a great talker, so that the veins of his neck
swelled up. And he was telling us about the song he made about his own
Missus when she was out washing by the river. He was up to eighty years
at that time.' And there are accounts of the making of some of his songs
that show his kindly disposition and amiability. 'One time there was a
baby in the house, and there was a dance going on near, and Mrs.
Callinan was a young woman; and she said she'd go for a bit to the
dance-house; and she bid Callinan rock the cradle till she'd come back.
But she never came back till morning, and there he was rocking the
cradle still; and he had a song composed while she was away about the
time of a man's life, and the hours of the day, and the seasons of the
year; how when a man is young he is strong, and then he grows old and
passes away, and goes to the feast of the Saviour; and about the day,
how bright the morning is, and the birds singing; and a man goes out to
work, and he comes in tired out, and sits by the fire to talk with his
neighbour; and the night comes on, and he says his prayers, and thinks
of the feast of the Saviour; and about the seasons, the spring so nice,
and the summer for work; and autumn brings the harvest, and winter
brings Christmas, the feast of the Saviour. In Irish and English he made
that.' And this is another story: 'A carpenter made a plough for
Callinan one time, and when it came, it was the worst ever made; and he
said to his brother: "I'll make a song that will cut him down
altogether." But his brother said: "Do