Dungarvon Whooper - Whelan's "Dungarvon Whooper" Song

Whelan's "Dungarvon Whooper" Song

While the exact origin of the story is unknown, the best known version comes from a song published in a local newspaper by Michael Whelan in 1912. The song is set to the tune of Where the Silvery Colorado Wends Its Way, by J. Aldrich Libbey.

Far within the forest scene,

Where the trees forever green,

Form a contrast to the beech and birches grey,

Where the snow lies white and deep,

And the song birds seem to sleep,

And cease their sweetest singing all the day.

Where the mighty monstrous moose,

Of limbs both large and loose,

Through the forest sweeps with strides both swift and strong,

Where the caribou and deer

Swim the brooks so crystal clear,

And the mighty deep Dungarvon rolls along.

Where the black bear has his den,

Far beyond the haunts of men,

And the muskrat, mink and marten swim the stream,

Where the squirrel so light and free,

Swiftly springs from tree to tree,

And the lovely snow-white rabbit sleep and dreams;

Where the sounds of toil resound

Far across the frozen ground,

And the thousand things that to the woods belong,

Where the saws and axes ring,

And the woodsmen wildly sing,

And the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

In a lumber camp one day,

While the crew were faraway,

And no one there but cook and boss alone,

A sad tragedy took place,

And death won another race,

For the young cook swiftly passed to the unknown;

From the day of long ago,

Comes this weary tale of woe,

The sad and solemn subject of my song,

When this young man drooped and died,

In his youth and manhood's pride,

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

When the crew returned that night,

What a sad scene met their sight,

There lay the young cook silent, cold and dead,

Death was in his curling hair,

In his young face pale and fair,

While his knapsack formed a pillow for his head.

From the belt about his waist

All his money was misplaced,

Which made the men suspect some serious wrong,

Was it murder cold and dread,

That befell the fair young dead

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon rolls along?

When they asked the skipper why

He had made no wild outcry,

He turned away and hid his haughty head;

"Well, the youngster took so sick,

And he died so mighty quick,

I hadn't time to think," was all he said;

A tear was in each eye,

Each heart it heaved a sigh,

While through each breast the strangest feeling throng;

When each reverent head was bared,

As his funeral they prepared,

Where the mighty deep Dungarvon rolls along.

Fast fell the driven snow,

While the wild winds they did blow,

Till four feet deep upon the ground it lay,

So that on the burial day

To the graveyard far away

To bear the corpse impossible was found.

Then a forest grave was made,

And in it the cook was laid

While the song birds and the woodsmen ceased their song;

When the last farewells were said

O'er the young and lonely dead

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

When the crew returned at night

Their dear comrade still they mourned,

While the shades o'night were falling o'er the hill,

All that long and fearful night

All the camp was in affright,

Such fearful whoops and yells the forest fill;

Pale and ghastly was each face,

"We shall leave this fearful place,

For this camp unto the demons does belong,

Ere the dawning of the day

We will hasten far away

From where the dark Dungarvon rolls along."

Since that day, so goes the word,

Fearful sounds have long been heard,

Far round the scene where lies the woodsman's grave,

Whoops the stoutest hearts to thrill,

Yells that warmest blood to chill,

Sends terror to the bravest of the brave;

Till beside the grave did stand,

God's good man with lifted hand,

And prayed that He those sounds should not perlong

That those fearful sounds should cease,

And the region rest in peace

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.

Since that day the sounds have ceased

And the region is released

From those most unearthly whoops an screams and yells,

All around the Whooper's spring

There is heard no evil thing,

And round the Whooper's grave sweet silence dwells

Be this story false or true,

I have told it unto you,

As I heard it from the folklore all life long,

So I hope all strife will cease,

And our people dwell in peace,

Where the dark and deep Dungarvon sweeps along.