SOURCE: "O'Casey, the Style and the Artist," in "Since O'Casey" and Other Essays on Irish Drama, Colin Smythe, 1983, pp. 62-77.

[Hogan is an American playwright, educator, and critic. In the following excerpt, he discusses O'Casey's "expressionistic" use of rhetorical, dramatic, and stylistic artifice, which sharply contrasts with the more familiar methods of realism.]

The style of O'Casey's plays has evoked two quite disparate reactions. Critics such as T. R. Henn, Raymond Williams, Ronald Peacock and Moody Prior, who are more concerned with drama as literature than as theatre, disparage it. As, for instance, Prior says [in The Language of Tragedy, 1964], 'On occasion, O'Casey introduces speeches in a prose more elaborate and mannered than that which serves for most of the dialogue in the play, and the effect is almost invariably one of sentimental effusiveness which seems to encourage the poetic cliché.' On the other hand, critics such as John Gassner, George Jean Nathan, Brooks Atkinson and Maxwell Anderson, who are more aware of the drama as theatre, admire O'Casey's style rather extravagantly. For instance, 'He has used language as though he were writing not for our modern pictureframe stage, but for the Elizabethan platform on which most of our great English drama was created'—to quote Gassner [in 'Genius Without Fetters,' in Selected Plays of Sean O'Casey, 1954].

Everyone seems to have a general impression of heavy rhythm, thick alliteration and dictional flamboyance, but so far both attitudes have remained impressionistic, and O'Casey's style has been subjected to little searching critical analysis. Although it is impossible in a short compass to say much about it, I would like to hazard a couple of general observations, and then to suggest a few specific peculiarities of the late plays.

It is now a commonplace that O'Casey's general dramatic technique underwent some notable changes, and his work is usually divided into an early, a middle and a late period. His dramatic style, however, is somewhat deceptive, for it initially appears, with one or two exceptions such as Act II of The Silver Tassie, to be much of a piece. In his rambles around Dublin as a young man, O'Casey had a retentive ear and a ready notebook, and certainly many phrases in his early plays which sound raciest to a non-Irish audience were familiar to Dubliners. This repertorial characteristic is most apparent in the early Dublin plays, but it still appears in the late ones. Similarly, in the early plays one notes such prominent characteristics as the singing of songs, the reciting of poems and the weaving of snatches of poems into ordinary conversation, the making of correct and incorrect literary and historical allusions, the making of malapropisms such as Captain Boyle's famous 'state o' chassis', the use of tag lines such as Joxer's 'darlin' and Fluther's 'derogatory', the use of repetition and alliteration, and the tendency toward rhythmical speech. All of these characteristics were present from the beginning, and all were sieved through a simple phonetic reproduction of Dublin speech.

However, the plays of the early period seem chiefly characterized by what might be called a heightened realism. The conjunction of the characteristics mentioned above produces an effect which is recognizably realistic, but nevertheless considerably richer than the speech of life. Little or nothing in the early plays could not have been said by a Dubliner; but, while an ordinary realist such as T. C. Murray, Lennox Robinson or George Shiels tried to reproduce the ordinary flavour of real speech, O'Casey tried to select the raciest of real speech.

The dominant dramatic technique of O'Casey's middle period is—to tack the usual label on it—expressionistic. Years ago Denis Johnston noted hints of Expressionism in the basically realistic early plays, and O'Casey himself was fond of pointing to the allegorical one-act of 1923, Kathleen Listens In, as evidence that he had from the outset of his career been intrigued by the technique. The second act of The Silver Tassie, then, was only a seemingly abrupt leap into expressionistic statement; and so it was not really unpredictable that the entirety of the next play, Within the Gates, should be expressionistic. With The Star Turns Red, O'Casey began a partial retreat from Expressionism, and that play, although basically phrased in generalizations, has many realistic touches. In Red Roses for Me, the third act contains elements of Expressionism which lift a basically realistic mode into a momentarily lyrical one. After Red Roses, Expressionism does not entirely disappear from O'Casey's dramatic technique, but it is reduced to a contributory role.

The dominant rhetorical mode of O'Casey's middle period is that of dramatic poetry, and it was probably his misunderstanding of the nature of dramatic poetry that largely contributed to the eclipse of his reputation until the middle 1950s. By the canons of either heightened realism or lyrical poetry, much of the language of these middle plays is florid and overblown, and I myself a number of years ago attacked this style as blowzy and banal. I think now that such a view rests upon an imperfect understanding of the practical function in a theatre of dramatic poetry. The techniques of effective dramatic poetry have eluded good poets from Browning and Tennyson to Eliot and Auden, and it is far outside the scope of my competence to discuss them. Very generally, though, it might be said that the language of dramatic poetry works much like the language of song. The words of a ballad or, for that matter, the libretto of an opera may be insipid, but their alliance with a fine melody can work a miraculous transformation. The 1969 revival of The Silver Tassie by the Royal Shakespeare Company was not in all respects successful, but the staging of Act II faithfully recreated O'Casey's intention and thoroughly vindicated his language.

Certain characteristics of this middle style—particularly its highly coloured and romantic diction—recur in the style of the late plays. These late plays—especially Purple Dust, Cock-a-Doodle Dandy, The Bishop's Bonfire and The Drums of Father Ned—are, I think, versions of pastoral; and their style is a complex mixture of the elements of O'Casey's early style, plus the addition of a few new devices. Although the late plays belong to the same general genre, they differ radically in tone, and so the overall style has in different plays different emphases. Certain rhetorical techniques are stressed in one play and appear much less significantly in another. This rhetorical emphasis gives much of the particular individuality to each play, and I should now like to illustrate what these devices are and where they mainly appear.

Purple Dust is an extravagant farce in which everything is exaggerated. The Irish are overwhelmingly Irish—vastly quaint, picturesquely shiftless, subtly cunning and fulsomely lyrical. The English are immoderately English, the cows are super cows, the hens are 'entherprisin' and lay their eggs with 'pride an' animation', the cocks are so 'prime an' startlin' that they scatter hens 'over hill an' dale, lyin' on their backs with their legs in the air, givin' their last gasp,' and even the lawn-roller is such a behemoth that one roll is sufficient for the season ('An', faith … for every season after too.') The lawn-roller in the Berliner Ensemble production looked big enough to level the Parthenon.

The language of the play is similarly extravagant, and its notable devices are parody, pastiche and mis-allusion. The most obvious parody is an extravagant stage-Irish dialogue when the Irish are guying the visitors. To take one instance from many, there is O'Killigain's reply to Avril's 'Top o' the mornin', boys!':

Same to you, miss an' many of them, each of them fairer an' finer than the finest of all that ever brought the soft light o' the dawn at the peep o' day into your openin' eyes.

Similarly, when the English attempt to put on the Irish dialect what comes out is bald parody, half stage-Irish and half memory of Synge. Poges says, for instance:

Looka that, now. Arra, whisht, an' amn't I told it's strange stories you do be tellin' of the noble things done by your fathers in their days, and in the old time before them.

There is also parody of the language of philosophical discourse, as when Basil says:

If we take the primrose, however, into our synthetical consideration, as a whole, or, a priori, as a part, with the rest of the whole of natural objects or phenomena, then there is, or may be, or can be a possibility of thinking of the flower as of above the status, or substance, or quality of a fragment; and, consequently, correlating it with the whole, so that, to a rational thinker, or logical mind, the simple primrose is, or may become, what we may venture to call a universal.

There is parody of the language of art criticism, as when Poges says:

Aaah! Precious, precious! The chaste form, the tender planes, the refined colouring, the exquisite design, the tout ensemble—they go into the undiscoverable deeps of the heart!

There is parody of the language of stock patriotism, as when Poges says of the English:

But every right-minded man the world over knows, or ought to know, that wherever we have gone, progress, civilization, truth, justice, honour, humanity, righteousness, and peace have followed at our heels. In the Press, in the Parliament, in the pulpit, or on the battlefield, no lie has ever been uttered by us, no false claim made, no right of man infringed, no law of God ignored, no human law, national or international, broken.

Several times there seems to be a pastiche of the language of Synge. The curtain line of Act One is a case in point. The Yellow-Bearded Man peeps down through his hole in the ceiling and learns that Avril is 'careerin' all over the counthry on horseback with only her skin as a coverin'!' He then cries in aggravated anguish, 'Oh, isn't it like me to be up here outa sight o' th' world, an' great things happenin'!'

Often O'Killigain and the Second Workman will use Irish dialect not satirically but eloquently. At the risk of redundance, it might be called a heightened eloquence because it uses the conventional devices of moving dialogue that are to be found in Synge, Hyde, Lady Gregory, Fitzmaurice and M. J. Molloy, but uses them in a contrived profusion which probably should not, but usually does work. For instance, at one point the Second Workman remarks:

That was in the days o' Finn Mac Coole, before his hair was scarred with a hint o' grey; the mighty Finn, I'm sayin', who stood as still as a stone in the' heart of a hill to hear the cry of a curlew over th' cliffs o' Erris, the song of the blackbird, the cry o' the hounds hotfoot afther a boundin' deer, the steady wail o' the waves tumblin' in on a lonely shore; the mighty Finn who'd surrendher an emperor's pomp for a place with the bards, and the gold o' the King o' Greece for a night asleep by the sthream of Assaroe!

The third prominent rhetorical device is the erroneous allusion. Poges' conversation is full of them:

Especially the wild flowers that Shakespeare loved—the—the—er—er the primrose, for instance; you know—the primrose by the river's brim, a yellow primrose was to him, but it was nothing more; though we all actually know all there is to be known about the little primrose.

… the, the glory that was Rome and the grandeur that was Greece—Shakespeare knew what he was talking about when he said that.

Obviously these are in the play as comic illustrations of Poges' pretensions, but many are so drolly unexpected in their details that the play is lifted into the realms of lyrical nonsense. Just one last example:

POGES. Oh, if the misguided people would only go back to the veneration of the old Celtic gods, what a stir we'd have here! to the delightful, if legendary, loveliness of—er—er—er—what's his name, what's her name, what's their name? I have so often said it, so often in my mind, the chief or one of the chief gods of the ancient Celts?

SOUHAUN. Was it Gog or Magog, dear!

POGES. [with fierce scorn] No, no, no, no; try to think a little, if you really want to assist me. Can't you remember that Gog and Magog were two Philistinian giants killed by David, or Jonathan, or Joshua, or Joab, or Samson, or someone? It's the old Celtic god I have in mind, the one—what was his name?

SOUHAUN. Gulliver?

POGES. Oh, no; not Gulliver!

SOUHAUN. Well, I don't know the hell who it was.

POGES. [clapping his thigh exultantly] Brobdingnag! That was the fellow.

Cock-a-Doodle Dandy is usually considered among the best—indeed, perhaps the best—of the late plays. Curiously, though the play is not rhetorically too interesting. There is some humour in Sailor Mahan's nautical diction, but this is a stereotyped device of comic rhetoric and handled with no great flair by O'Casey. There is a good deal of alliteration; in the first four or five lines of dialogue, for instance, there is 'edge of evil … long an' leering … sinisther signs … evil evocations … dismayin' decorations … lurin' legs.' Some alliterative phrases, like 'mangled into a monstrosity' or 'th' moody misery of th' brown bog', have a fine visual whimsicality; many others, like 'constant consternation' or 'causin' consthernation,' are not notably engaging. In only one or two instances does O'Casey pull out the stops and gain a strong comic effect by the device, as in:

Are you goin' to pit our palthry penances an' haltin' hummin' o' hymns against th' piercin' pipin' of th' rosary be Bing Bang Crosby an' other great film stars, who side-stepped from published greatness for a holy minute or two to send a blessed blast over th' wireless, callin' all Catholics to perpetuatin' prayer!

Perhaps the most engaging device is the 'Latin-lusthrous' language. This would include the playful dog-Latin which O'Casey used also in the autobiographies as a device of genial satire ('Oh, dana eirebus, heniba at galli scatterum in Multus parvum avic, ashorum!'), the Latinic saint's name ('St Custodius, pathron of th' police, protect us!') [In a footnote, Hogan remarks: 'O'Casey in various places creates quite a pantheon of such saints. There is also in this play a mention of St. Crankarious; there is the statue of St. Temolo in The Bishop's Bonfire; there is St. Sinfoilio in Behind the Green Curtains. An allied device is the symbolic portmanteau name. In this play, One-eyed Larry mentions the terrible spirits Kissalass, Velvethighs, Reedabuck, Dancesolong, and Sameagain. In Behind the Green Curtains, Beoman refers to the "blessed saints" of religious reaction—Stepaside, Touchnrun, Dubudont, and Goslow. There are many other instances, especially in the autobiographies.'], and the incongruous misuse of polysyllables derived from the Latin, and juxtaposed against the ordinary monosyllabic diction of colloquial discourse. This last device is the most effective of the three, and there are frequent instances of it. For example:

… so that you could controvert yourself into a dapper disturbance … liquidate whatever it is with your Latin.

… th' circumnambulatory nature of a woman's form often has a detonatin' effect on a man's idle thoughts.

Be on your guard against any unfamiliar motion or peculiar conspicuosity or quasimodical addendum, perceivable in any familiar thing or creature common to your general recognisances.

Aw, th' oul' fool, pipin' a gale into every breeze that blows! I don't believe there was ever anything engenderogically evil in that cock …

Looka, if you were only versed in th' endurin' promulgacity of th' gospels.

This comic device seems to work by 'fillin' broody minds with loose scholasticality'.

Another effective rhetorical device is the personified adjective. Here, O'Casey takes an inanimate noun, often a concept or a generalization, and 'galvanizes' it into 'visuality' by a most animate attached adjective. Some notable examples are:

       stern commotion
       jubilant store [of banknotes]
       lyin' hallucinations
       dapper disturbance
       rosy rottenness of sin
       reverberatin' fright
       bewildhered land
       half-naked finality
       rowdy livery
       taunting comfort
       somersaultin' prayers

He depends often upon a very visual verb choice. It might, in fact, be called a poetic choice, for the best instances are apt and unexpected:

       … you could shutther th' world away with a kiss!
       … she went sliddherin' down to hell!
       … edgin' into revolt …
       I'm not goin' to squandher meself conthrollin' live land-fowl!
       … to perjure their perfection …
       … I'd cyclonise you with a box [in the eye]!
       If you want to embalm yourself in money …
       … jet out your bitther blessin' …
       You'll dhribble th' blackness of sin no longer over our virtuous bordhers!

The most noticeable rhetorical technique in The Bishop's Bonfire might be called the derogatory epithet. Usually it is simply a pejorative noun preceded by the word you. It is sometimes, but not always, modified by one or more adjectives or by an adjectival phrase. In the first act, the following appear:

       you holy hoodlum
       you rarefied bummer
       you spoilers of men's hopes and men's fancies
       you curses on Ballyoonagh
       you slimy touch of hell
       you buttoned-up delusion
       you dirty, evil-minded lugworm
       you huckster of hollow an' spiteful holiness
       you get
       you God's remorse for men
       you canting cod
       you blob of dung
       you muted jays
       you prayin' gaum
       you prayer-gasper
       you monkey-souled jays
       you bunch of destituted owls
       you menacer
       you neon light of ignorance and ruin

Only once or twice does O'Casey vary this form to something like, 'You're a nice Christian cut-throat' or 'Who are you to talk?… A dirty leaf torn out of a book'.

Had O'Casey used a less heightened diction, he would have written something like 'you crazy old fool', and this conventional and inexpressive criticism is the only other use of the form in the act. In a play like The Drums of Father Ned, where O'Casey is concentrating almost overwhelmingly on the device of allusion, the few derogatory epithets are, in fact, conventional. For instance, the only ones in Act III of that play are:

       you rascals
       you fool
       you dangerous fool
       you damned fool
       you bastards
       you hussy

And in Behind the Green Curtains, where O'Casey is still relying upon allusion for most of his effects, there are again few derogatory epithets. In Scene II, for instance, the only notable ones are 'you gabby slug', 'you painted doll', 'you festhered lily', and 'you ignorant, impudent little arcadian tart'. All of these occur on one page, and all but one occur in the same speech.

O'Casey's use of allusion is governed by the necessities of dramatic dialogue. The prime necessity is that it be immediately apprehensible. If an audience must mull over the meaning or the implications of any particular line, then it cannot attend to what the actors are presently saying. This necessity does not absolutely imply that a dramatic author's allusions must be so obvious that any boob can understand them; but, when O'Casey weaves recondite allusions into his dialogue, he avoids obscurity by making his line function also on a non-allusive level. That is, a line of dialogue containing an obscure allusion will usually be perfectly clear and appropriate as literal statement to a person who does not recognize its reference.

Of the late plays, The Drums of Father Ned and Behind the Green Curtains are the most allusive, and The Bishop's Bonfire is the least. Act III of Father Ned can well illustrate the type and range of the allusions. First, among the conventional references to or quotations from something notable in the general history or literature of the world are the following:

Tom has a line, 'An' bid th' world farewell!' This seems to reflect a phrase from Thomas Campbell's 'Pleasures of Hope':

       Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
       And Freedom shrieked—as Kosciusko fell!

Later, Michael tries to remember the following lines from Tennyson's 'Locksley Hall', and Nora then quotes them:

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid.

In the middle of the act there is a longish debate about religion, in which Lutheranism is referred to by the mention of Wittenberg, Calvinism by the mention of Knox, and Roman Catholicism by the mention of St. Robert Bellermine and Maynooth seminary. Shortly after there are mentioned 'the Anglican Thirty-nine Articles, the Westminster Confession … the Creed from the Council of Thrent'. This then is shortly followed by one of the most comic uses of allusion in the act:

McGILLIGAN…. It'll all settled already! St. Pether, an' afther him St. Pathrick, is our man, th' Rock on which our Church stands. What's yours piled up on? On a disgraceful, indecent attachment of a despicable English king for a loose woman!

SKERIGHAN. [trying to overthrow McGilligan] Lussen, mon, lussen tae me!

McGILLIGAN. [furiously] I've lussened to you long enough—Henry the Eighth I am an' his harlot! Th' two saints of your church—Henry the Eighth an' a harlot! Oh, it makes me laugh—ha ha ha ha!

Michael then enters the conversation by referring to Joyce's 'a shout in th' street', and in his next speech refers to Bunker Hill, the French Revolution and the Soviet Revolution.

When Father Fillifogue enters, he cries, 'Are we goin' to be out in th' dear, dead days beyond recall? Me an' me boys of the old brigade'. The first line recalls the first line of G. Clifton Bingham's popular 'Love's Old Sweet Song', and the second line recalls Frederic Edward Weatherly's poem 'The Old Brigade'.

Then, Skerighan remarks, 'Wull ye no' tak' th' tumber awa' frae th' wharf tull th' muckle Lammas moon is glintin' on ye!' There may be a reminiscence here of Burns's poem 'The Rigs O' Barley', of which the first four lines are:

       It was upon a Lammas night,
         When corn rigs are bonnie,
       Beneath the moon's unclouded light
         I held awa to Annie.

The resemblance is not particularly close, but Burns was one of O'Casey's favourite poets, and O'Casey fairly frequently quoted from him.

Nora paraphrases a famous line from T. S. Eliot's 'The Hollow Men', when she says, 'Here's the whole town, currying a question to be answered, not with a whimper, but with a bang'.

There may be in Nora's comment, 'Doonavale has become th' town of th' shut mouth', a reminiscence of Brinsley MacNamara's novel, The Valley of the Squinting Windows. Undoubtedly, Murray's line, 'Dee trumpets blow, dee banners wave', reflects the first line of the second stanza of Burns's 'My Bonny Mary', which reads, 'The trumpets sound, the banners fly'. This is the poem, incidentally, from which O'Casey also took his title of The Silver Tassie.

Or, there is the following exchange:

BINNINGTON. [feebly] Bring me me bow of burnished gold!

McGILLIGAN. [attempting to be bolder] Bring me me arras of desire!

This is a slightly phoneticised version of two well-known lines from the Preface to Blake's Milton. Blake's complete stanza reads:

       Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
       Bring me my Arrows of desire:
       Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
       Bring me my Chariot of fire!

O'Casey's use of Blake is broadly ironic, and he gains an effectively ludicrous contrast by having these spirited lines emerge from such feeble speakers.

O'Casey's most appropriate and deftest use of allusion is his frequent quotation of once-popular patriotic Irish ballads and poems. He relies almost invariably on pieces which were once in the popular consciousness, and few of his Irish allusions will be found in conventional literary anthologies, such as The Oxford Book of Irish Verse. Instead, one will find his references in old, popular collections such as The Spirit of the Nation or The Emerald Isle Song Book. O'Casey's Irish quotations, as well as his simple Irish allusions, function as a running subliminal reminder of the best of Irish character and national aspirations. The Irish allusions are also made in an interesting variety of tones. Sometimes the tone is a straightforward melancholy or regret, sometimes it is genially satiric, and sometimes it is bitterly ironic. Practically always, however, the allusions are used to criticize the shortcomings of modern Ireland by the ideals of its past.

Act III of Father Ned, for instance, opens with a half-comic and half-plaintive discussion of Irish mythology, in which reference is made to Conn of the Hundred Fights, Brian Boru, Saint Columcille and Young Angus. There may also be an allusion to Boucicault's Sean the Post, in the reference to Jack the Cantherer, Doonavale's postman. Or there is a comic discussion about Yeats and Oliver Gogarty, and one of the lines—'th' poet Yeats an' Gogarty were goin' down Sackville Sthreet'—is a close resemblance to the title of Gogarty's most memorable book.

A less recognizable allusion appears when Mrs. McGilligan tries to make peace with the irascible Ulsterman Skerighan by quoting:

       So let th' Orange Lily be
       Thy badge, my patriot brother.

Mrs. Binnington then adds:

       Th' everlastin' green for me.

And Binnington and McGilligan chime in together with:

       An' we for one another.

The nobility of the sentiments, the broad and rather banal simplicity of the phrasing, the declamatory stiltedness of the delivery, and the complacency of the speakers all combine to produce an effect of mildly charming absurdity. However, the knowledge that the poem was not composed for the occasion by O'Casey, but was originally quite seriously intended and well known, insinuates a running truth of the play: although the Binningtons and McGilligans are amiably engaging, what they stand for is genially but firmly criticized throughout the play. This particular verse is from a poem called 'Orange and Green' or, more usually, 'Song for 12th July, 1843'. It was written by John D. Fraser, or Frazer, 'the poet of the workshop', who was one of the more popular writers for the organ of the Young Ireland movement, The Nation. The four lines which O'Casey uses are the conclusion of the first and final stanzas of Fraser's best-known poem [which, Hogan notes, is available in The Spirit of the Nation].

A few pages later, Father Fillifogue tries to stir Binnington and McGilligan to action in a speech which ends with the clause, 'youse'll be outlaws in a land forlorn'. O'Casey is here closely paraphrasing the first line of the chorus of Dr. George Sigerson's ballad 'The Mountains of Pomeroy'. Sigerson is not much remembered now, but he was for years the respected president of the Irish Literary Society in Dublin. His early translations from the Irish were pioneering work, and his 1897 volume, The Bards of the Gael and Gall, was influential and was known by O'Casey as a young man. Sigerson's stanza reads:

       An outlawed man in a land forlorn,
       He scorned to turn and fly,
       But kept the cause of freedom safe
       Up on the mountain high.

A bit further on, Father Fillifogue ineffectually murmurs, 'I'll lead youse. Minsthrel boys, minsthrel boys, harps an' swords, swords an' harps'. Here the humour is obvious because of the inevitable memory of Tom Moore's still well-known and stirring song 'The Minstrel-Boy', which begins:

       The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
         In the ranks of death you'll find him;
       His father's sword he has girded on,
         And his wild harp slung behind him.
 
       'Land of Song!' said the warrior-bard,
         'Though all the world betrays thee,
       One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
         One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

Shortly after, a similar incongruous contrast is made between the allusion to an heroic poem and an ineffectual effort in the play, when McGilligan remarks lamely, 'Firm each foot, erect each head, an' step together'. Father Fillifogue picks up the allusion by his desultory reply, 'Like the deer on mountain heather'. Both men are quoting fairly closely from the rousing opening stanza of M. J. Barry's poem 'Step Together', which originally appeared in The Nation. Barry's first stanza reads:

           Step together—boldly tread,
           Firm each foot, erect each head,
           Fixed in front be every glance—
           Forward, at the word 'advance'—
           Serried files that foes may dread;
       Like the deer on mountain heather.
           Tread light,
           Left, right—
       Steady, boys, and step together!

Behind the Green Curtains is a more caustically critical play than the genial Father Ned, and so the Irish allusions usually function as mordant comments on the faults of the present. In Scene I, Beoman functions as O'Casey's mouthpiece, and many of his comments are angry criticisms of the present, phrased in quotations from Irish songs and poems. He scornfully criticizes a drolly ignorant version of heaven by calling it 'a Phil th' Fluter's Ball!' 'Phil the Fluter's Ball' is, of course, a still popular comic song by Percy French. Or, when the Catholic artists are dithering about whether to attend the funeral of a Protestant artist (which is actually an allusion to the funeral of Lennox Robinson), and worrying about whether their attendance will mean excommunication, Beoman lilts softly a verse from the well-known ballad 'The Ould Orange Flute':

So th' old flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic, 'Twas fasten'd an' burn'd at the stake as heretic.

While th' flames roar'd round it, they heard a strange noise; 'Twas the old flute still whistlin' 'Th' Protestant Boys!'

The song is followed by a satiric discussion of how the leadership of Yeats is sadly needed now, and that is followed by Chatastray's exhortation, 'For God's sake let us go in together'. To this, Beoman replies mockingly from Barry's 'Step Together', which was also used in Father Ned, 'Like th' deer on mountain heather'.

When Reena urges the artists to enter the church, Beoman makes one of his few non-ironic quotations during the scene, and cries out enthusiastically, 'Thou art not conquered yet, dear land'. He is quoting from the first line of an anonymous poem called 'Thou Art Not Conquered Yet'. Its first stanza goes:

       Thou art not conquered yet, dear land,
         Though pale thy once bright cheek,
       Although thy lips of golden song
         Now mournfully do speak.
 
       Although thine eyes have dimmed their hue,
         And with cold tears are wet,
       Mother, thy heart beats proudly still;
         Thou art not conquered yet.

(Incidentally, the name 'Reena' may be an allusion to Ria Mooney, who was the first 'Rosie Redmond', who was the first director of Red Roses for Me, and who acted at Lennox Robinson's funeral just as Reena does in O'Casey's play.)

Beoman is not the only character to make allusions. When it appears momentarily that the artists have decided to enter the church, Chatastray cries, 'Ah, sure, I never doubted you, said Rory of the hill'. He is paraphrasing Charles J. Kickham's poem 'Rory of the Hill', and there is certainly some irony arising from the contrast of the heroic attitude of Rory in the poem and the cowardly one of the poets in the play. The poem in part reads:

       Right Hearty was the Welcome
         That greeted him, I ween,
       For years gone by he fully proved
         How well he loved the Green;
 
       And there was one amongst them
         Who grasped him by the hand—
       One who through all that weary time
         Roamed on a foreign strand;
 
       He brought them news from gallant friends
         That made their heart-strings thrill—
       'My soul! I never doubted them!'
         Said Rory of the Hill.

John Gassner has written in a vague but sympathetic essay that O'Casey's characters are often found to be 'lilting'. Probably he meant simply that lilting was the highly coloured mixture of rhetorical devices and vague rhythms. However, one narrower use of the term 'lilting' is song or snatches of song or even allusions to song. Although other devices may be prominent in one play, and more or less insignificant in another, I cannot think of an O'Casey play from the earliest to the latest in which this lilting is not a significant device.

As with allusions, the effect of song is various. Sometimes the song functions simply as background music to raise the emotional temperature. Often the songs suggest drolly or bitterly ironic attitudes, and often they are romantic or melancholy or stirring. Many of them are Irish ballads, and these, like the allusions, are almost always a reminder of some Irish ideal which is now withering away.

The effect of song can be tremendous in a play, and the effect can hardly be judged by the words and notes on a page. But perhaps generally we can say that the effect permeates the plays with a buoyant lyricism. The characters in O'Casey's plays are always tilting toward song, even at incongruous moments. For instance, there is a speech in Act III of Father Ned, in which Michael uses song as the clincher to an argument:

It might be a shout for freedom, like th' shout of men on Bunker Hill; shout of th' people for bread in th' streets, as in th' French Revolution; or for th' world's ownership by the people, as in the Soviet Revolution; or it might just be a drunken man, unsteadily meandhering his way home, shouting out Verdi's [he lilts the words] 'Oh, Le-on-or-a.'

George Orwell, reviewing one of O'Casey's autobiographies, commented that the style was 'a sort of basic Joyce.' He undoubtedly meant that O'Casey's style was a simplified, and probably simpleminded pastiche of complexity. As any successful play must evoke a mass public response, rather than the individual private response asked by poetry or fiction, any complexity in its writing must have at least the appearance of simplicity. Indeed, on one level a play must still have more than the appearance; it must have the actuality of simplicity. The style of O'Casey's plays does, of course, work on a simple, primary level of overt meaning, but it is a good deal more than a pastiche of complexity. It is complex.