The Wake that Woke the Dead

I’ve heard of life imitating art but the only time I ever saw death imitating it was at Samuel John MacPherson’s wake down in Glut, a little village you might have heard of (or more likely haven’t) that’s in the townland of Slievefada in North Donegal. Every time I think about the whole shocking episode it brings two other wakes to mind – and they were fictional: the often sung song Finnegan’s Wake (with an apostrophe) and James Joyce’s famous novel Finnegans Wake (without an apostrophe) which many people claim was inspired by the song.

There. I’ve already strayed away from my own scandalous story that I just sat down to tell you but seeing I’ve started I’ll stay strayed for a bit. Now there may be some among you who have never heard of the song that’s called Finnegan’s Wake. It’s about a hod-carrier called Tim Finnegan who was born with a weakness for the hard stuff. Anyway, poor Tim falls from a ladder while under the influence, breaks his skull and is pronounced dead at the scene. The mourners at his wake become a little too lively with the drink flowing and all, and somebody spills whiskey over Finnegan who is laid out on the bed. The smell and taste of the drink bring Tim to back to life and he ends up joining in the celebrations. So whiskey causes both Finnegan's fall and his resurrection. (Maybe you should be told here that the word whiskey is derived from the Gaelic phrase uisce beatha, pronounced ˈiʃkʲə ˈbʲahə, meaning "water of life". So put that in your glass and drink it). To do justice to the ballad you need to see the whole thing. And here it is. By the way, full musical score will be supplied by me on receipt of a case of Irish whiskey, preferably Jameson’s. If they’re out of Jameson’s, Jack Daniel’s will do just fine.

FINNEGAN’S WAKE (hic!) Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street, a gentle Irishman mighty odd. He had a brogue both rich and sweet, and to rise in the world he carried a hod. You see he'd a sort of a tippler’s way but the love for the liquor poor Tim was born, And to help him on his way each day, he'd a drop of the craythur every morn.

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner, around the floor yer trotters shake. Wasn't it the truth I told you? Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

One morning Tim got rather full, his head felt heavy which made him shake – Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull, and they carried him home his corpse to wake,

Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet, and laid him out upon the bed, A bottle of whiskey at his feet and a barrel of porter at his head.

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner, around the floor yer trotters shake. Wasn't it the truth I told you? Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

His friends assembled at the wake, and Mrs Finnegan called for lunch. First she brought in tay and cake, then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch. Biddy O'Brien began to cry, "Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see, Tim avourneen, why did you die?" "Will ye houl’ your gob?" said Paddy McGee.

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner, around the floor yer trotters shake. Wasn't it the truth I told you? Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job. "Biddy," says she, "you're wrong, I'm sure." Biddy gave her a belt in the gob and left her sprawling on the floor. Then the war did soon engage, t'was woman to woman and man to man, Shillelagh law was all the rage and a row and a ruction soon began.

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner, around the floor yer trotters shake. Wasn't it the truth I told you? Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

Mickey Maloney ducked his head when a bucket of whiskey flew at him. It missed, and falling on the bed, the liquor scattered over Tim. Begod he revives, see how he rises, Timothy rising from the bed Saying, "Whittle your whiskey around like blazes, thunderin' Jaysus, do ye think I'm dead?"

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner, around the floor yer trotters shake. Wasn't it the truth I told you? Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

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Where was I? Ah yes, Glut. Glut is the lovely little place I was telling you about, not far from my native Derry. But one of its number was Samuel John MacPherson, a second cousin of mine and easily the most unpopular man I’ve ever had the misfortune to come across. Sam was as voracious and violent a drinker as you could imagine and nobody that I knew felt sorry for him even with the terrible handicap that had left him bent nearly double. And when he died in his sleep in the blessed year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-five there wasn’t one that mourned his passing.

The undertakers had a job on their hands getting him into the coffin. I’m told they tried to break his back – something that many a man would gladly have done during Sam’s life – but without success. Wee Mike O’Halloran from up by Culmore suggested they use a sledgehammer which he would supply himself but morticians Denis MacGillapatrick and Philip McOxenbauls gloomily declined Wee Mike’s offer. The truth was of course that they were squeamish.

So what they did was to tie Samuel John down, knotting the thick ropes that they had around his chest and legs to the outside of the cof

fin underneath where they had bored four holes. I only found this out afterwards so for most of the first hour of the wake I sat wondering how it was that the old bastard could be lying so horizontally.

The answer came shortly after the Rutherford twins arrived, each carrying a Mass card and a knife. The Mass cards were displayed sanctimoniously in their hands and the knives were hidden deep in their raincoat pockets. I should perhaps inform you here that Sam and the Rutherfords had history. After a fierce argument one night in the Keg O’ Poteen between Sam and the twins Sam had gone out and rustled two of their sheep and had them slaughtered and half eaten by the time the twins even discovered they were missing.

Ronald Rutherford was actually in the middle of whispering a hypocritical Hail Mary when I saw the glint of steel rising from his pocket. He leaned downwards towards Samuel John and drew a naggin of Glen Moray Single Malt Whisky from his other pocket, placing it roughly on the dead man’s chest (yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of Malt) while the knife in his other hand gnawed stealthily at Sam’s bottom half. This of course was not something you normally see at a wake and I was half way across the floor to try and put a stop to it when I heard foul-mouthed old Sally Bawn McArthur behind me shouting “You’re a bit late Ronnie. The fucker’s dead!” By the time I reached the coffin I could see that the other Rutherford, Billy by name, had got there before me and was hacking away at Samuel John’s top half.

“For God’s sake boys,” I hissed. “Have you lost your senses or what?” And with that the top and bottom sections of the dead man sprang up and Mass cards and strands of rope were flying everywhere. But even in my state of numbed shock I couldn’t help but notice that the only item in the casket that remained relatively undisturbed was the naggin of Glen Moray which had slid down Sam’s chest and now lay snugly between his hands.

Colm Herron is the author of four novels and numerous essays and articles. He hails from Derry, Northern Ireland, and his newest novel The Wake hits stores this November.