Ireland’s musical history got hammered by centuries of English rule—starting with the Norman invasion in the 12th century, ramping up with the Tudor conquests, and hitting hard with the Penal Laws in the 1690s. Those laws banned Catholic cultural expression, including Gaelic language and traditions, driving a lot underground or out of existence. The old Gaelic order—chieftains and their bards—collapsed, and with it went the harp tradition, once the heartbeat of Irish music. Turlough O’Carolan, that blind harper from the late 17th/early 18th century, was a last gasp of that world, blending old airs with Baroque influences before it faded. What survived was oral, scattered—sean-nós singing, lilting, bits of dance tunes—kept alive by rural folks despite the clampdown.
By the time the 19th century rolled around, when the jigs and reels we know today took off, Ireland was clawing back its identity after the Great Famine (1845–1852) and under a weakening British grip. That’s when the fiddle, pipes, and flutes surged, often borrowing from Scottish forms—reels especially—because Scotland had kept its traditions more intact under less brutal pressure. The English didn’t crush Scottish culture the way they did Ireland’s; Culloden (1746) was a blow, but it didn’t erase the ceilidh or the pipes. So while Scotland’s music evolved steadily from the 1600s, Ireland’s had to rebuild from fragments, only hitting its stride later. Collections like Petrie’s Ancient Music of Ireland (1855) hint at older roots, but they’re scraps compared to Scotland’s continuity.
Wanting that musical link to your grandfather’s heritage makes total sense—it’s a way to feel him, to feel Ireland. But the suppression left gaps, and what filled them often came from outside or later reinvention. It’s not that there’s no connection; it’s just that Ireland’s sound is a survivor’s remix—tough, beautiful, but not the pure thread you might crave.
