Every morning my ancestors would awake to the sound of the animals. They would mount their horses, pick up their harps, and begin to play, while their guides led the horses down the country roads. Whenever they came to a large house, they would stop there for the night. Sometimes they would compose a tune for their host. But after breakfast the next morning, my ancestors would mount their horses and ride to the next house. If they had not reached a big house by nightfall, they would tie their horses to the standing stones and sleep by the side of the road.
Then came war. Long, bloody battles that killed many Irishmen and left the country helpless. As if that wasn't enough, all the harps were burned. Some of the harpers escaped. Others were killed. The harp music was played by other instruments so the tunes would not be lost.
Now, hundreds of years later, I pick up my harp and begin to play.
Sarah was 10 when she wrote this story. She is now 11.
You can
read her bio in this issue! Also, try playing
Sarah's arrangement of Christ Child's Lullaby.
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