21 ‘Rambling Jack’, Ned Holohan, a ‘knight of the road’ (died 1931) recalled in this article of 1961 by the late Alo O’ Brennan, War of Independence activist and late manager of the Tullamore Labour Exchange, and Pat Fanning, Offaly journalist, with a poem from Athlone. No 21 in the Offaly History Anniversaries Series

In his entertaining reminiscences last week, John Freyne laments the “Vanishing Knights” and incidentally recalls a Prince among them, the sightless Edward Holohan, better known over a great part of Ireland as “Rambling Jack.”

Mr Freyne tells of the respect and affection, with which this famous wandering minstrel was held in Moate. It was only symptomatic of the esteem-amounting almost to veneration in which he was held in the many counties, that he traversed twice each year, from his native Limerick of the rich pastures, to the shores of Lough Sheelin. A noble hearted Fenian himself, Ned Holohan was a living link with ’67  [The Fenian Rising of 1867] and everything that Fenianism stood for. He was born at Darnstown, near Killmallock, on the way to Bruree in 1839, and he died there on 27th December, 1931 in his 92nd year. He lost his eyesight in the attack on Killmallock Police Barracks in 1867 and his famous old fiddle, which up to then, had been his amusement, became for him his means of livelihood. His herculean physical strength failed, one brown October day, on the main road between Birr and Banagher, while making his way to the later town. He was removed to the old County Hospital at Tullamore where he was among real kind-hearted friends, many of whom still survive. He recovered and took up his permanent abode in Tullamore where he lived until shortly before his death. He returned to his beloved Limerick to die on the spot where he was born. No Irishman did more than Ned Holohan in a humble way, without pension, fee, or reward of any king to tend the Phoenix flame of Irish nationality. He was one of the real old Fenian stock, staunch and true, an inspiring rebel to the end.

In this issue we have pleasure in publishing a photograph of the late Ned Holohan. It was taken some time during the years of his retirement in Tullamore by Mr A. O’Brennan, the esteemed Manager of the Tullamore Labour Exchange, to whom we are indebted. It is a true likeness of the old Fenian, taken by Mr. O’Brennan as he sat by the roadside on the Arden Road, outside the town playing some old Irish air on his beloved fiddle. They are legion among our readers all over the country who will recognise and remember this veteran travelling musician, and not only are we indebted, but they are all indebted to Mr. O’Brennan, who was a lifelong friend and admirer of the subject of the photograph.

Rambling Jack/Ned Holohan, in the 1920s. Photo by Alo O’Brennan

LIFE ON THE ROADS WITH HIS FIDDLE

Ned Holohan had spent the greater part of his long life on the roads, and when failing health and the growing danger from motor cars compelled his retirement, it was his practice to walk out the Arden Road, and sit down near Tom Bracken’s and there beguile the time with the soul-stirring music of the fiddle. He had an immense repertoire of rebel ballads and songs and he was endowed by nature with a powerfully rich baritone voice. He was a man – apart from his glorious voice and his haunting music – who immediately arrested attention. The present writer once stood, beside a Circuit Court Judge, now dead, in Columcille Street in Tullamore, many years ago, while Ned rolled forth in telling style, “The Smashing of the Van.” He was a magnetic personality and everywhere he went, as Mr Freyne so truly remarks of Moate, he attracted a crowd of delighted people, or as Mr Freyne says “an escort.” He possessed the instinct of the blind to a most remarkable degree. Although he was a fluent Irish speaker, he was a man of very few words and talked very sparingly.

Ned Holohan was a pure-souled patriot and a man apart, who spent his long life in the most unselfish devotion to the cause of Irish nationhood. When he could no longer serve by the sword he served by the shield. He was loved and respected by both young and old, and by none, was he respected more than by the R.I.C., no matter how often he sang “The Peeler and the Goat.” He was, during the years of his retirement, an honoured figure always on the platform at the old Offaly County Feis in Tullamore, where one occasion he stood beside Lord Longford. He was in the true tradition of the old Irish Bards and wandering minstrels. He never sang unworthily. On one occasion, he gave striking proof of this when he declined to sing the well-known ballad “Master Magrath.” Asked to explain he said, “I only sing of Irish men. I never sing about dogs even though they might happen to be Irish dogs.” He was a man of the highest principles and character.

Maura and Alo O’Brennan. Mrs O’Brennan was on the staff of St Brigid’s NS, Tullamore for many years.

AN UNIQUE FIGURE

Ned Holohan was a unique figure on the Irish roads and in the streets of every town and village in several counties from Limerick to Cavan. He had a fixed route and visited each place twice a year. He knew every twist and turn on every road in his itinerary. He recognised everybody by voice and rarely made a mistake. He was a man of exemplary courage, and he had all the true old soldier’s love for discipline and regularity and personal cleanliness. Readers will notice the almost immaculate white shirt and spotless collar in the photograph. He never wore a tie.

An instance of his death-less devotion to his ideals is furnished by his attendance in Glasnevin in 1915 at the funeral of his old Chief, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa. He played his fiddle and sang his rebel ballads, half way across Ireland, to be at the graveside of his old Commandant. It was one of the very few occasions that he visited Dublin, and certainly nobody who saw the lonely, blind old man that day ever thought of him as a survivor of the Rising of 1867, or that the was a feeble, failing link between it and 1916. The oration at O’Donovan Rossa’s graveside was delivered by Padraig Pearse and the words were as balm to his aged ears. In the remaining years of his life he was wont to quote them from memory, an attribute with which he was very richly endowed. Mr Freyne states that he, Ned Holohan, figures in the late Lennox Robinson’s play, “The Lost Leader.”

P.H. Pearse

This opinion is generally held, but what is not so well known is the fact that he certainly figures in a very famous Irish novel by a celebrated living Irish novelist. In the novel, there is a vivid true-to-life pen picture of the old man, and his inseparable fiddle and the story of the famous incident in which he figured in a County Westmeath village is admirably told. In the very patriotic time in which we are living now, the story is incredible. But there it is recorded for all time. Ned Holohan suffered the fate of Myles Cogan in “The Graves at Kilmorna” as told by Canon Sheehan. He was beaten and his fiddle smashed in smithereens by the west Britons of the day who took exception to his separatist singing. No doubt, these people, having seen the error of their ways, are today among the most ultra-patriotic of our fairweather sea green incorruptibles.

DEAD FOR THIRTY YEARS

Ned Holohan was one of the truest Irishmen that ever lived-for him there was no country but Ireland. He is dead for almost 30 years. He was one of the last of the Fenians to die and one of the noblest of their ranks. They are legion who remember him still. A tall, spare, athletic old man, always neatly dressed in black with a great broad-rimmed hat as in the photograph. He always carried a blackthorn stick, and a faded umbrella carefully folded and tucked in a shoulder-strap haversack on his back. When spoken to he always replied in Irish with a very pronounced nasal twang. His fine manly figure was a striking one to meet on the roads with the fiddle tucked under his coat of bottle green, and invariably his right hand behind his back with a big brown rosary beads slipping though his aged fingers. He must have walked thousands of miles in his half century on the roads of Ireland. His arrival in a town or village was always a signal for a crowd to gather no matter what the weather conditions prevailing. They recognised him for what he was-a man apart, and one whose distinguished appearance in any assemblage immediately arrested attention. As stated, Ned Holohan died in Darnstown and was laid to rest in the gathering loom of a chill December day in historic Ballingarry Cemetery. May the sod of his native Limerick rest lightly on his once powerful and always patriotic, frame. – P.F. [Patrick Fanning]

The old county hospital, Ardan, Tullamore.

“Rambling Jack”

(To the Editor) published in Offaly Independent, 18 February 1961.

Dear Sir,-Will you kindly allow me to thank you most sincerely for the beautiful article published this week-end on “Rambling Jack.”

May God bless the hands of the photographer and the writer. I was thrilled in seeing the vivid picture of the old, blind man to whom I had the great pleasure of listening, almost fifty years ago, in the streets of my native town, Tullamore. The descriptive particular of “Rambling Jack” and life and time, could hardly be surpassed in bring to life once again the grandeur of our bards.

I heard “Rambling Jack” singing “Who Fears to Speak of ‘98” outside Johnny Ryan’s in Harbour St., Tullamore over 45 years ago. I could hear again the thrilling notes of his fiddle and his stirring voice spellbound, as I was, as a youth. I was still more thrilled after 45 years, in reading the article and looking into the grand old face of “Rambling Jack.” He was repeating once more the words:

“Come and listen to the adventures of ‘Rambling Jack,’

Who Never yet was lame or lazy to gather the full of his pack.”

God rest his soul!

With grateful acknowledgement to all concerned with the production of the article.

Michael Hensey, Comdt. (Retd.)

“St. Anne’s,”

Beechpark.

Athlone.

11/2/’61

An earlier picture of Ned Holohan

The Travelling Men

SECOND ARTICLE published in Offaly Independent, 20 July 1963

By John Freyne

No articles about travelling men would be complete without mention of the sightless Ned Holohan, known all over the country as “Rambling Jack.” Ned was the most beloved and respected of all travelling men and I can recall the warm greetings he was accorded on his visits to Midland towns, where he was escorted by many admirers to his various stands where he sang patriotic songs. Who could sing “Boolavogue” like Rambling Jack, or render a haunting Irish air so beautifully on his beloved violin.

I often wonder what are the qualities that go to make a gentleman, but whatever they are Ned Holohan must have had them in abundance, because he was truly one of nature’s gentlemen. I can also recall that Sir Thomas Beecham once said that only great singers should sing Irish songs.

Some years ago I referred to Ned Holohan in the course of an article in this newspaper, which had a very happy sequel as it inspired the late Mr. Pat Fanning, well-known Offaly journalist, to pen a most moving account of this grand old wandering minstrel’s life. It was illustrated with a photograph of Ned by Mr. Brennan, Tullamore. It must have been one of the most widely read articles ever published in the Offaly and Westmeath Independent, and I feel sure many readers would like to be republished in both newspapers. I had five copies of this article but all went to foreign parts.

DIFFERENT TO ALL OTHRS

Travelling men who were different to all others I ever knew were the journeymen tailors. Like the swallows, they came with the Spring flower and faded with the Autumn leaves. They were a respectable hard-working but reserved lot. They worked for a period with local resident tailors until the urge to move seized them. They were sociable up to a point only and I never succeeded in striking up an intimate friendship with any of them. Like the “Miller of the Dee.” They sang whilst they worked. They spoke little but some sixth sense told them where a barrel of fresh porter was on tap. To see one of them address a pint was to see an artist at work, and under its mellow influence they were always ready to oblige the company with a song, but never lost their dignity or decorum. I often wondered how they fared in winter time. They are now a lost fraternity, because like their employers they are victims in the changed economy of the countryside.

Nor did I ever win the confidence or friendship of a tin-smith, though once in an indirect way I secured an invitation to one of their colourful weddings. Only Crown Forces prevented my presence, and I am sure it would have been an experience which I would have treasured ever afterwards.

FEATURE OF IRISH LIFE

I think a lot of nonsense have been both written and spoken concerning the “wanderers of the roads.” It is very easy to let sentiment rule our judgement or go to the other extreme and condemn there travelling folk as vagabonds. What is certain is that for some centuries these good people have been a feature of Irish life. There was a time when farmers welcomed them and were glad to avail of their unique skill. They were always welcome in my own father’s home at any rate. Personally, I have always found the men folk dignified in their own curious way of life, and the womenfolk possessing a certain grace and good manners.

These folk have been on the defensive as long their history goes back, it is not surprising that they are suspicious and cautious of strangers.

I think we will always have a share of “travelling people,” despite the welfare state. Most of them I knew were good people, and I am proud to have had their friendship. I learned a lot from their kindness and old-world courtesy and good taste.

A fair day in Athlone in the 1930s possibly

Old Athlone [with Rambling Jack]

Through the ancient town of Athlone,

The Lordly River Shannon has for centuries flown;

‘Midst changes of time, battles and strife,

Its annual overflow continues regardless of life.

Two hotel proprietors, they once earned renown,

Possessed two buses-the only two in the town,

Conveyed weary travellers to their peaceful domains,

Were well patronised by all at incoming trains.

St. Mary’s Church bell, with its strange note of appeal,

Ot’ warned the vanquished worshipper inside to kneel.

All mortals have differences, sorrows and joys,

Its peal once rang forth in old Clonmacnois.

The Baptist Chapel, with its sonorous choirs,

Could be heard quite easily from Larry Maguire’s;

Bereft almost of its once former people,

The only Church in the town boasts of no steeple.

The Bower Convent stands on a stately eminence,

It possesses the remains of its once former penitents.

Their fundamental characteristics of uprightness and honesty

Was imparted to pupils in that sacred monastery.

The coach-maker, on fair days, his products displayed,

Before mechanical transport superseded his trade;

The staccato note of his anvils were very well known

In the adjacent vicinity of the old town of Athlone.

The itinerant violinists, the father and his sons,

Rambling Jack and the two Dunnes;

Their skill was admired at all monthly fairs,

Jigs, reels, hornpipes and old Irish airs.

“Dr.” Cummins, with his long head of hair

A noted celebrity at the old January fair;

Well stocked with bottles and sugarcoated pills,

Had a remedy for all human ills.

His eloquence and advice mostly to assuage,

Result-the people lived to a great age;

Like his contemporaries, has gone to his haven of rest,

His epitaph he have to humanity, his skill of the best.

Most have passed on within in the last half century,

Awaiting the Resurrection Morn in Cornamagh Cemetery

  -Tinsmith.