He could have led an army and truly looked the part, handsome with manly bearing, courage overflowed his heart; six brace of snipe hit clean without a miss – taken with both barrels on the pivot – yes! He could have marched an army into hell and helped them fight their way out again. A God to his old red setter dog, it obeyed each sure command, the retriever for his approval, brought each prize gently to his hand. We walked high hills and valleys low – his even gait long stilled – he taught me much of country lore, of fallow fields and tilled. Showed me where the hazelnuts and whortle berries grew, we toiled up many steep hills just to admire the view; though city-reared, his heart was filled with the spirit of country life, he loved the changing seasons as each brought its own delights. For fifty years with rod and gun he sported o’er the lands of Thomond, from Arra’s slopes to Cratloe Woods; Corcamore to Aherlow and even beyond; he knew the pheasants’ haunts around old Bruree, could plot the mallards evening flight near Traderee. Could fashion a lure or tie a fly and with easy cast, caress the spot where a hungry trout broke water astern our cot – then with an upward flick of wrist hook himself a fighting fish and play him with sure touch ‘til gathered safely in the net. And he was known in every townland stretching for forty miles at least in each direction; and he could tell stories – paint word-pictures of people, places and of history – they still hang in the gallery of my memory: dramas of life and love, of gallant deeds and sordid play that ran the gamut, of humanity’s eternal doings on this planet. Told how the young Prince Brian had hunted over this terrain with warrior band for years before King Mahon was slain’ how Bishop Torlach died unyielding, noble and brave whilst Ireton, who had him hanged, soon followed him to the grave. He recounted the athletic deeds of kinfolk Willie Real and Paddy Ryan, that brought world honours and fame to his native Pallasgrean, of faction fights, evictions, or of some wretched toadying lackey, spoke too of the days when he had hurled with Sean O’Carroll and Tyler Mackey. -Oh! had I the skill with words to match his own, what a saga these verses would become. At party –time he joined the dance and could tread each lively measure, lissom grace and gallant bearing stirred each heart with pleasure; sang sweet songs, his baritone swelled many a happy chorus, old love songs rolled in richest tones, resonant and sonorous. Yet, he always went his own quiet way, nor sought the acclaim of men his riches were stored in mind and heart, gave scant thought to gain; his one abiding motto that I can now recall – five simple, telling words: Freedom and Justice for All. He always met troubles bravely – kept sorrows to himself – his ready smile and helping hand lightened others grief; the good deeds done so quietly, helped to lift many a load – in all he said it was the hand of God, that carried him on life’s road. Some facets of his worth I have recounted, others there were, but all to a simple greatness amounted. Now, that inevitable human flaw, if such it was – that Dal gCais temper -fierce, hot Celtic spirit of his race, which when sore provoked, could let rip like sudden gales in November – but would as quickly lose its awesome verbal spurts – then laughter and love, like sunshine breaking from thunder-clouds, healed all hurts. Then, one day at last, an ominous sign – he laid his rod and gun aside – and soon thereafter, mortally stricken, with dignity …. he died. Forty years on now – I have met them all, yet a manlier type than him I cannot recall; last of the mighty ones that I have known, he fills a niche reserved for him alone. Not many left now to recount his valour and skills and of late he beckons me to walk with him over Heavenly hills.
1989