From Bard of Erin: The Life of Thomas Moore, by Ronan Kelly.
OVER THE COURSE of the twentieth century, Moore had been effectively banished from the highest literary company ("In the clearing of one hundred years," rang The Bell's anniversary knell in 1952, "we know that Moore's verse is dead, dodo-dead"). But there was a world elsewhere, in which there was life in the old bird yet ("Bird", incidentally, was what Moore's wife called him ). He was still current at countless firesides, as the parlour party piece, and, in the case of competitive fleadhanna, as an opportunity to exhibit the highest levels of proficiency. This, of course, was the world Joyce had tapped into and which, given a pre-war boost by Count John McCormack and the arrival of the wireless, still had its place in twenty-first century Ireland, albeit largely in my elders' memories.
Talking to people of my parents' generation, the mention of Moore brought forth stories: many featured mothers doing housework, when the lyrics would be half-sung, or the melody half-hummed; someone else told me her father's trademark Sunday tune was The Harp that Once, which would come drifting up the stairs with the smell of a fry.
Other memories were not so warm: variations on standing in schoolyards, frozen in short trousers, singing The Minstrel Boyfor some inspecting Monsignor or other. And some stories were unclassifiable, like the invocation of Moore in one household every time the thunderous plumbing kicked in: "Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of they water . . ." More than once I was treated to unstoppable extempore performances (mostly, I think, Oft in the Stilly Night). Other avenues again yielded up other gems, including Nina Simone's version of The Last Rose of Summerand Joe Strummer's snarling through The Minstrel Boy. (There was also Bugs Bunny's attempt at Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charmson a booby-trapped piano . . .) Time and again, I was astonished by Moore's reach.