Junior's Last wishes
When my last days have come, I'd like to be assured
to let me walk through the fields that I drained and manured
And lie in the bed where I got sick and got cured
And in that same bed let me peacefully die.
and give up my soul to my Maker on high
and lay me down easy with music galore
by the side of the chapel near Caisleán an Óir
Yes, leave me down easy with music that I prize
By the side of the chapel where I was baptised.
Junior died peacefully in the room where he was born on the 3rd of August 1998 wuth his family at his bedside. He was waked at home as he wanted.
Music dominated the whole concelebrated Mass. Sean-nós was recalled by Lillis O Laoire and Tim Dennehy at the graveside. His family played at the graveside too. There was such a gathering of musicians that the sessions which took place aferwards were great. Junior's wishes were granted. There were many tributes payed to Junior on his death. Tim Dennehy wrote a poem in memory of Junior called "Parting"
Junior Crehan is my Grandfather. I was 7 years old when he died. I wish I was older as I could have learned a lot from him especially now that I am learning the fiddle but I'm sure he will look after me from heaven. We affectionately called him "Cookie". We still miss him and love him very much.
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam
PartingFor Junior Crehan, artist and friend)
My heart is heavy, my eyes teared,
Since you slipped into a quiet sleep.
Monday - August '98......
Walking from Markham's Cross to Mount Callan
Notes fall gently like tears in the soft rain
The Mist covered Mountain, Caisleán an Óir,
Farewell to Miltown.....
Seated by your bedside that Thursday.
As you prepared to leave-
Matt played The Parting of Friends
Each Lonesome-sweet note
Coaxing the Robin closer to the pane
Your fingers moving in time, your eyes soaking the emotion-
Later you grasped my hand, your voice
surprising me with its strength when you said:-
"Keep singing the songs, Tim
Music , Song and dance were my life
The house dances my university".
I walk today through Ballymackea
To your gate at Bonavilla
The music of the fiddle harmonises with the breeze,
As they kiss the branches of ash and sycamore-
the Mowing Machine, the Otter's Holt
The Hills of Coore.
I see you then in your cap and coat,
Slightly stooped in your back garden, singing lowly,
At one with your beloved earth.
The warm earth that cradled you in its embrace.....
Monday...... August '98
Tim Dennehy, Lúnasa, '99
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