I Taught My Nephew the Song and Now He Won't Stop
So I may have created a monster.
Last Sunday we were all at my sister Orla's house for dinner. Herself, her husband Declan, and my nephew Cian who is seven years old and has more energy than should be legal. We'd just finished the main course — a lovely roast, fair play to Orla — and Cian was bouncing off the walls because he'd had two glasses of Mi Wadi and was essentially vibrating.
I don't know what possessed me. Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly what possessed me. Cian asked me what my website was about, and I said "the best song in the world," and he said "what song," and I said—
Well. You know what I said.
The First Verse
I started slow. Just the chorus. "Ho ro the rattlin' bog, the bog down in the valley-o..." Cian picked it up immediately. Seven-year-olds are like sponges for songs — it's how the oral tradition works, really. One go through the chorus and he had it.
Then the first verse. The bog, the tree. Easy. He was singing along by the second line.
The Escalation
By verse three — the limb, the branch — Orla was smiling. "That's nice, Seamus," she said. She didn't know what was coming.
By verse five — the nest on the twig — Cian was STANDING ON HIS CHAIR. Arms waving. Singing at full volume. Declan had joined in. He doesn't even like trad music, but the bog doesn't ask permission. The bog doesn't care about your musical preferences. The bog comes for everyone.
By verse seven — the bird in the egg — the whole table was singing. Orla was singing. She was trying not to, you could see it on her face, but the chorus gets you. It always gets you. "The bog down in the valley-o" — try NOT singing that when everyone around you is belting it out. You can't. It's impossible.
The Flea
When we hit the flea verse, the whole thing fell apart in the best possible way. Cian couldn't get the words out fast enough. He was laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair. Declan was clapping along and getting the order wrong. Orla had given up any pretence of disapproval and was singing as loud as anyone.
And the recap — "the flea on the hair and the hair on the feather and the feather on the bird" — was absolute chaos. Nobody got it right. Everybody was laughing. The dog was barking. It was perfect.
The Aftermath
Here's the thing about teaching a seven-year-old The Rattlin' Bog: you cannot unteach it.
Orla rang me on Monday evening. "He sang it fourteen times today, Seamus. FOURTEEN." She didn't sound angry exactly. More like... exhausted. Apparently Cian had taught it to his friend Rory at school, and Rory's mam had rang Orla to ask what on earth her son was singing about a flea on a bird in a bog.
He sang it at breakfast on Tuesday. He sang it in the car. He sang it at bath time. Orla says he's started singing it in his sleep, though I think she might be exaggerating. Might.
Am I Sorry?
No. I am not sorry. Not even a little bit.
This is how folk songs survive. This is how they've survived for centuries. Someone teaches someone, who teaches someone else, who teaches their kids, who teach their friends. Cian will remember The Rattlin' Bog for the rest of his life. He'll teach it to his own children someday. The chain continues.
Also, it's absolutely hilarious imagining Orla's face as Cian sings the flea verse for the thirty-seventh time in one day.
A Note for Parents
If you're thinking about teaching your children The Rattlin' Bog: do it. Yes, they will sing it constantly. Yes, it will drive you slightly mad. But you're giving them something real — a piece of the folk tradition, a song that connects them to generations of singers before them, a memory they'll carry forever.
And if their mam rings you to complain, just tell her BogLord2002 sent you.
Slan, BogLord2002
P.S. — Orla has informed me that I am not to teach Cian any more songs "until further notice." I have already begun planning to teach him "The Wild Rover" at Christmas.