Irish Love Songs, Irish Language

Folk Songs

Folk Songs in Celtic Languages

There are thousands of breathtakingly good songs in the Celtic languages that are also folk songs: that is, songs made in a traditional idiom whose original maker is no longer know, and which have passed through many singers before being taken down in print. (Not as unsanitary a process as it may sound.) Most of them are Irish or Scottish Gaelic, with Vannetais Breton in second place and Welsh penillion.

In most of Western Europe, peasant communities were integrated more and more closely into the hegemonic urban and “official” culture and language during the 19^th century, so that their songs (as recorded mostly late 19^th century and after) are really tin pan alley songs: pop songs written by urban professional and sold (as broadsheets) for a profit. These songs are mostly pretty bad, or at least pedestrian and boring. Most are hackneyed and almost none are heartfelt. They are interesting social history, and the ones that were accepted into the tradition can tell us a lot about the concerns of peasants and industrial and other workers in this period of change, but as songs, well...

I once investigated the sources fairly thoroughly, and came up with about five good English folk songs, and that includes Ireland. (Doesn’t include America or Lowland Scotland, where older ballads kept going, and more “folky” communities continued producing more interesting songs). I’m not sure if I could come up with five good French ones. German is maybe even worse: there, peasant communities were integrated very early into mainstream society and produced very boring music, except in a few fringe communities cut off from mainstream Germany, such as Lorraine. Composed and often “romantic” lieder often entered the folk tradition. Denmark is a bit similar, though there are great earlier ballads. I don’t know Spanish or Italian songs at all, but I do know that once you get into Slavic territory, you’re back into the good stuff.

The religious revival of the early 19^th century convulsed Welsh society and reshaped it in a new form that was vital and vigorous until forty years ago, but if your eyes are on heaven and the Bible and respectability, you don’t have time for folk songs. The only places songs stayed vital were in north Pembrokeshire where the dialect was very aberrant and where the Calvinistic Methodists never were strong; and also in the mountains between Denbighshire and Merion. The songs that survive are not that great, to be honest. The best most accessible collection is in in Kennedy’s Folksongs of Britain and Ireland.

Penillion and Tribannau (Glamorgan/Gwent) were the great folk lyrics of Wales: single stanzas, sung in apposition to stanzas from other singers, or strung together in longer forms. They were mostly a northern Welsh thing, plus Glamorgan/Gwent, though, and didn't really survive the religious revival. (Modern concert pennillion are not the same, but are a light classical exercises using stanzas of poetry sung in apposition to a different harp tune, usually played in a plodding piano-based style.)

Here is a song, but not a penill.

Lliw’r Heulwen (The Color of the Sun)

The gleam of the sun on the hillside,

the sheen of the lily on the mountain;

when I leave and go away from here,

my love, remember this.

Your form, your hand, your eye,

your fair ways, girl,

your dear quiet nature

have taken my love.

It's easy to know the squirrel

running along in his haste;

it's easy to know the partridge

when they rise in uproar;

it's very easy to know the oak

among the small clover:

alas for me, it's not so easy

to know a dear pretty girl’s heart.

The mill is obliged to grind

when the water turns it;

the smith is obliged to work

as long as the iron is hot;

the sheep is obliged to love

the little lamb while it's weak:

I am obliged to love

the one who is fated to me.

See my blog entry on Manx for information on Manx songs. The situation there was similar to England. There is one good song (At the Fiddler’s), a Fenian ballad (Fionn Mac Cumhail, no very like Irish som=ngst O’Leary!), and lots of ribald or obscene stuff.

No Cornish songs were ever written down, except one that's in A Celtic Miscellany.

Breton folk songs were generally ballads used for dancing or for singing, of course (gwerz), and these are often produced broadside ballads of the late 19^th century that probably pushed out older ballads. Older ballads were published in Barzaz Breiz in 1839 (see also the Pengwern Collection, only recently published). Barzaz Breizh (Poetry of Brittany) was assumed in the 20^th century to have been composed by the collector in order to supply an Breton ancient and national literature, but research thirty years ago showed them to be actual folk ballads taken down from old people in the early 19^th century. They are ballads, though, not lyrical songs, which I guess is what I'm focusing on here.

Yann-Fanch Kemener is the great modern (though still dead) singer.

There is a tradition of lyrical song in Breton (at least in central Brittany in the late 20^th century) that is really not well known. It may mostly be modern. Very little has been published. I wish I could say something more intelligent here, but…You see how it is.

The southeastern Breton province of Gwened/Vannes does have great lyrical songs, though, be it that the song tradition is dying with the language and rest of the culture. The songs are very different from other Breton songs probably because of the extremely aberrant Breton dialect and the distinctive culture. There was a lot of singing in groups in Vannes while walking, working or just sitting around, so there were more opportunities for non-dance and non-ballad song than in other provinces.

Diberder is the main collection (also Herrieu), only actually published in the last few years, and the tradition belongs really only to “Upper” Gwened (i.e. Pontivy town to Vannes town to Lorient/Quimperle, and Baud; rather than to the Guemene area (Lower Gwened) which was a transition to the rest of Brittany.

A song.

E Tan-Me ag er Hoed (I will Go to the Wood)

I will go to the wood, my love, to hear the the nightingale,

singing a song there on the top of the whitethorn tree.

He sings, again and again, he says in his discourse

“Those that love never sleep, during the day or at night.”

Those that love never sleep, during the day or at night;

neither their heart or their mind can find rest.”

You speak the truth, little nightingale, it's true what you say,

for since I have come to love, I can no longer sleep.

When I arrived in this village, my heart leapt(???) up,

because in this village lives my chosen love Marion.

“I have come to this village, my love, to know how you are,

I cannot forget you, I think of you every day.

Between your house and my house there are three leagues?

I has taken me barely an hour to come here to see you.

Anyone who saw me coming would think that I was flying.

No, no, I didn’t fly, but I walked a right good pace.

Will you open your door to me, my love,

since it's your dearest beloved that asks you to open?”

“I will not open my door at this hour of the night,

eleven o’clock sounded long ago, soon it will be midnight.

Eleven o’clock sounded long ago, soon it will be midnight;

it's past time for you to go home, to take your rest.”

“I would like for us to go together, my beloved Mari,

before the moon goes to its rest, to walk in the woods.

We’ll hear the rain, the wind stirring in the branches

and the happy little birds singing their joys.”

“So late to the wood with you, indeed I will not go.

the birds have long since ceased to sing in the trees.”

“I will go home then, my love, but I cannot sleep,

for my mind is troubled, my heart is bewildered.

There are two flowers between your house and mine;

one of them opened, the other did not.

One of them opened, the other did not.

All that shows that you do not love me, my love.

With my poor heart heavy with sorrow I went home alone.

When I rose in the morning, I heard a bird singing.

That bird was singing in glorious joy on a branch,

but I, alas, sighed in anguish at every note.

“Young man, tell me why it is that you sigh,

do you have some sorrow, some pain, some secret love?”

“Sorrow and pain I have, surely, and unrequited love.

I love, little bird, but I am not loved in return.

Since you have wings and feathers, go now, little red bird,

go, fly as fast as you are able to my love’s window.

Tell her, in your song, that I have money and farm stock,

enough to make her happy as long as she lives.”

“That’s enough, young man! Silver and gold,

when love is lacking, will never bring happiness.”

Irish songs are great. I’ve written a few blog posts about various aspects, and waxed poetic in those places, so please go there for more information, or to be inspired.

The first collections were those made in 1796 by a County Down Irish scholar, O Loinsigh, who was employed by Bunting (harp music collector) to wander around and collect the songs that were sung to the harp tunes taken down by Bunting at the Belfast harp festival. The portions of O Loinsigh’s notes for Counties Leitrim and Mayo survived, and were published as issues of the Journal of the Irish Folk Song Society. They have been republished recently, but I don’t have the details. They are be referred to as the Bunting Collection, and are great.

Other 19^th century collections wereb made by Charlotte Brooks (published as Reliques of Irish Poetry, 1789 ), and by Hardiman (published as Irish Minsteltry, 1831 ). Both of these books include poems, as well as songs. Hardiman also collected a lot of songs that now survive as manuscripts in the British Museum (Egerton 117: 105 songs entered by Philip Gibbons and another in phonetic script some time after 1814: in Egerton 151; and also in Egerton 130, which is O’Donovan’s transliteration of the songs from a phonetic spelling into regular Irish.)

There were also broadsides in Irish, mostly in a similar English-based phonetic script. A list was published in Eigse years ago, but I’m too lazy at find it right now.

The text of the Irish original of Donal Og is in Nua-Dhuanaire, Cuid I, edited by Padraig de Brun, Breandan O Buachalla and Tomas O Concheannain, and published by Institiud Ardleinn Bhaile Atha Cliath (Dublin Institute for Higher Studies), in 1975. That is a great anthology of modern (circa 1500 - 1900) Irish poetry and songs. There are also volumes II and III, just as good.

Yes, everybody knows this song, but I like it a lot.

My love’s hair is the color of the blackberries,

the color of blackthorn fruit on a fine sunny day,

the color of blackest bilberry that’s on the mountain,

black hair and a shining white body.

My heart is as black as the blackthorn fruit,

black as the black coal that’s burnt in the forge,

black as the track of shoes on white hall floors,

and there’s a great melancholy behind my laugh.

Oh Dónal Óg, you’d be better off with me

than with a proud demanding noblewoman;

I’d milk the cow for you and I’d churn the butter,

and if you were in danger, I’d strike a blow for you.

Late last night the dog was speaking about you,

the snipe was speaking of you deep in the marsh,

that you’re a lonely wanderer through the wood,

and may you have no mate forever until you take me!

You promised something to me, but you lied to me,

that you’d be waiting there at the sheep-pen for me;

I whistled and I called out twelve times for you,

but there was nothing there for me but the lambs bleating.

You promised me something that wasn’t easy to do;

golden ships under silver masts,

twelve market towns,

and a fine white palace beside the sea.

Your love was only like a drift of bright snow,

like a sandbar in the middle of the sea,

like a wind running over the top of the gardens,

like the torrent of a stream after a rainy day.

My mother told me not to speak to you,

not on any day of the week or on Sunday;

it's a poor time she chose to give me a warning--

like a wall around a garden after it's been plundered.

I denounce love--alas for she who gave it

to yon mother’s son who never understood it;

he left my heart black in the center of chest,

and I can’t see him in the village or any place at all.

The great Irish collections start with Hyde’s Love Songs of Connacht (1893), and keep going into the 1930s. They include O Maille’s Amhrain Chlainne Gaedheal (Connacht); Ceol na nOilean, O Ceallaigh, 1931 (islands of Conamara): Padraig Breathnach’s various Munster collections from Fuinn na Smol (1913) on into the 1920s; Freeman’s Ballyvourney collection (Irish Folk Song Society, 1920-21): Ni Annagain’s Londubh an Chairn, 1927: and Costello’s Amhrain Muighe Seola, from the Tuam, Galway area, 1919.

Not forgetting of course the great Ulster collections: Cead de Cheolta Uladh, and Dha Chead de Cheoltaibh Uladh, both by O Muirgheasa. The first includes a lot of south Armagh, south Monaghan songs, and Meath, from 19^th century manuscripts. Amhrain Chuige Uladh, by Muireadhach Meith is mostly from Omeath, County Louth, and should be read with P Ni Uallachain’s A Hidden Ulster, (2003) which publishes a lot of songs from the same area collected in the early 20^th century.

Scottish Gaelic also has thousands of great songs, and they were recorded starting early, thanks to the fact that the people loved the songs (Scottish Gaelic literature is really a song/poetry literature), and to the fact that there was a Gaelic “middle class” (mostly clergymen and minor landlords/clan chiefs) in the late 18^th century who had time and writing apparatus.

The MacLagan manuscript collection dates from the 1760s on. It has never been published, except for some songs in issues of Gairm by Derick Thomson, though it is catalogued in MacKinnon’s Descriptive Catalogue of Gaelic Manuscripts. There are probably two hundred great lyrical songs there, as well as Fenian ballads, and poems from poets like Ian Lom, Alasdair Mac Maighistear Alasdair, Robb Donn and so on. Versions of some of the songs show up in the recently-published MacDiarmid Manuscript Anthology of 1790 (Thomson, 1992), and in the unpublished MacNicol collection. The first two collectors were from Perthshire; the last from Argyll.

There are many many collections in Gaelic published from about 1790 on into the 1930s: too many to list. The first to include “folk” songs is the Gillies Collection. All were aimed at the literate Gaelic society that existed in those times (thanks to religion) in the Highlands and in Glasgow and in Cape Breton.

A song.

Faill Ill O Agus Ho Ro Eile

These are meaningless vocables of the chorus, sung by everyone present when the sung was sung. (You are excused from this.) Scottish Gaelic songs were traditionally sometimes known by the pattern of vocables of the chorus, rather than by a title.

Chorus:

Faill ill o agus ho ro eile,

faill ill o agus ho ro eile,

air faill ill o agus ho ro eile,

I am sad and weary, going to sleep and rising.

Don’t you think yourselves that I was wretched

of an Autumn evening on the harvest field;

every woman had her own man by her side,

but my own fine love is away at sea?

I would go, I would go, I would go with you,

I’d go far through the leafy woods with you;

when I was young and had little sense,

it was love for you that wounded me.

My mother promised me a golden ring;

my father promised me a fold of cows;

though I got those and all the world too,

I’d much prefer to have that young man’s love.

Dear sister, be kind to me,

keep the cows and the calves apart;

even were I to take up the sack and go begging,

don’t keep me from my choice of husband.

God, if I saw you going past the cattle fold,

I’d smash the pail and toss away the rope,

I’d put my own two arms all around you,

and who, love, would keep you from me?

Primroses flower and grow in the spring:

Apples grow on the tops of the branches;

those things remind me of my lover’s kiss,

every one of them with the taste of honey.

Aimed at an English audience were the dubious Songs of the Hebrides (Fraser, Kennedy); Shaw’s Folksongs and Folklore of South Uist (1955) (great!); J.L Campbell’s three volumes of Hebridean Folksongs (actually all waulking songs but great!); Francis Tolmie’s really fascinating collection from Skye, published in the Journal of the Folk Song Society in Volume, IV, 1910-14. (They are “Songs of Occupation”, which means a lot of spinning songs, lullabies, waulking songs, etc, but lots of great!): Gaelic Songs from Cape Breton (I think I have the title right), collected by MacLeod; Songs Remembered In Exile, from Cape Breton, edited by Shaw; and a few more recent volumes. The magazine Tochar published a lot over the years, and the School of Scottish Studies etc. collection of tapes is online at Tobar a Dualchais – an incredible resource of incredible songs that incredibly shames Ireland, Wales and Brittany.

(Many of the early (up to about 1900) Scots Gaelic published collections were digitalized and available on the Internet Archive. Not sure if they're still there or if it is.)

If anyone would like to know more, you have only to ask.

Frozen Roads

Muiris Ó Conchobhair was a shipwright in Cork City and also wrote some Irish manuscripts. Nothing much is known about him but that.

The following two letters occur in a National Library of Ireland manuscript, G 351 (Catalogue of Irish Manuscripts in the National Library of Ireland, Fasc VIII, cataloged by Nessa ní Shéaghdha and published by Dublin Institute in 1984. Two other of his manuscripts survive. This one mostly contains Central and East Cork poetry of the early 18^th century.

I started out keeping to his spelling (adding explanations), but gradually modernized a little when some forms got confusing.

Two rare 18^th century letters in Irish and a charming (I think) glimpse of a man and a time.

“Muna mbeadh go bhfuilid na boithre fluich salach doimhin do-chshiúbhalta agus na crannaibh (dative plural) agus na cráochaibh ina bhfoilaribh feoire fiadh-ramhlaidh fásaigh (of wilderness) gan fosga gan fothain (shelter) agus gan puinn de’n bhfáltas (resorces, ie. money) againn , do bheithmíos (bheimis, ie. conditional) a tfochuir ( I do fochair: together with you) hoir seal do’n tsaoírse, gidheadh is leór a fhaid atamaoíd gan tfaicsin (I think it excessive how long I’ve been without seeing you.), agus an tan (tam) do dhruidfeadh an ghrian annsa chúrsa sholsmhar the (thé), agus do bheadh na láthaibh (dative plural) fada geal glé-mhaiseach, an áinla (éanlaithe) glórach gliúndrach ag cantainn ciúil (genitive of “ceol”) air chrannaibh agus ar chráochaibh (craobhachaibh), an tan (am) do bheadh libhráe (colours) rógh-shnasda air na maghaibh (plains) agus air na machairidhibh (machaire, dative plural) go mor-dhálach agus na féadha (forests) le fórthas ag sgéith a nduileábhair agus a mbláth, na ród (roads) agus na ráonta (ways) go huile sgriosta sguabhtha gan súgha (sucking) gan slogadh acht amhuill (amhail) párlús (parlor) ríoga ró-aluinn, do ba fhéidir go gcuirfeadhdhís fonn frithir firinneach orainn súil do thabhairt oruibh a (“in”) i_ gcionn fheil (feile) oirdheirc na blighna .i. an Chasg.” (D 47)

Letter Two

“A charuid ionmhuin agus a Bharraigh (Vocative of Barrach, ie. surmame de Barra/Barry) uasail oirdheirc onóraigh ghasda Ghlinn binn-bhriatharuig, is uaigneach atuirseach aighmhéilleach atáuid re cian daíir .1. ón uair d’fagbhuis an Chaithirse, Óir (because) níor tharluig (go firinneach) aon do’d shórd liom o shoin I leith (since then), agus bíodh a fhios agad, b=da mba mhian leat troitheach (footman) nó taiddiollóir (fear taisteala) do chur ar feadh Eirionn iaithghlais uille-ánaigh aig iarraidh tuarasghabhala (tuairisc) dhuine bhoicht bhuarthadh ina aigne, gurab gonuig (to) mise do ba inreacht (suitable) do, agas sin uim an abhar reimhraighte. Ach sgeal tairis dúinn go foil (anothrr matter for now), an cuimhin leat gur thárlaógláoch forsda fearamhail fial de chloinn Chiarmhic ort annsan mbaile re a ráightear (with that is said/called) Baile na Martara? Is cuimhin gan ámhras. Agus bíodh a mhairg dhuit no ataimse meallta (and you’re worse for it if I’m not mistaken), nar gheallais (didn’t you promise) go humhal-chraoídheadh uait féin do, go ndeanfadh feartlaoi (memorial poem to the dead) , mairbhne (formal lament poem), nó niígh égin da shord, da mhnaá agus da bhánchele insan am chéadna: is fíor gur gheallais agus nár chómhlíonais (didn’t fulfill). Ar an abhar sin, bí go róaireach (very careful) ar do choímead féin air (blank space_ agus go deimin, ní fa (faoi) aoinníh dá raibh eadraibh roimhesi (before), acht amháin fá (faoi; concerning) gan tusa do chimh lionnadh na geallta thuas, ó, a dhuine, is truagh mar rugadh thú (Alas you were born. Ie. You’re in trouble!), acht ní miste a nduramar, má geibhum anois (incomphrhensible word) é. (But all that I said is no harm/worry, if we get it now). Biadham (let us be) sídhach , búidheachas do Dhia, is grod an tsíochain (peace will soon be here) agus (another unreadable word) tré chónghamh do dheabhfhótuidhe (servant) bith-dhíleas go bas .i Muiris Camshrónach Ua Conchubhair, December 19^th 1764.” (D 45-46).

There you are.

Blúiríní Eile

Heinrich Wagner’s Linguistic Atlas and Survey of Irish Dialects produced four volumes: one of maps of Ireland plotting vocabulary, and three approximately three hundred page volumes giving 1175 sentences, phrases and words for each of the points where he found native Irish speakers in 1960 in Munster, Connacht and Ulster plus some Scottish points and Manx. They were published by DIAS.

I’m giving a sample here of two sentences: “How did you do that? (#948) and “There are black clouds in the sky” (#890)

In some cases, the whole phrase was not recorded, or even any of it.

I’m not including but about half the points.

Underlined means the syllable that takes the word accent. The entries are written in phonetic symbols. I didn’t try to represent fine shades of pronounciation here.

After having done this, I’m not sure why I thought it would be interesting, but it’s done, so I’ll post it.

1)       Ring, Waterford sgamaill dhu(bha) or sgamail dhorcha
C Conas a dhin tú é sin?

2)       Rathcormac, east Waterford sgamaill dhorachairi Conas a rinne tú…

3)       Newcastle, south Tipperary sgamailli / (ca)Dé an tslí a rinne tú…

4)       Ballymacode, east Cork (Youghal) thá sgamaild du(bha) sa spéir / Conas a dhinis é

5)       Ardfield, Cork, near Clonakilty Tá sgamail dubh insan aer. /(#948 As Ballymacoda)

6)       Skibbereen Tá sgamallach du(bha) san aer/948 as (as Ballymacoda)

7)       Bantry Tá sgamail du(bha) ar an spéir/ (948 as Ballymacoda)

8)       Ballyvourney Tá sgamaill dhu(bha) insan spéir) (As Ballymacoda)

9)       Ivreagh (Dromad parish) Sgamallacha du(bha): spéir bhreá (As Ballymacoda)

10) Killorglin Tá sgamail dhu(bha) sa spéir (As Ballymacoda)

11) Dunquin (Dingle) Sgamaill dhu(bha) (As Ballymacoda)

12) Kilbaha, south Clare Tá clabhtaí (?) du(bha)cha ar an spéir Conas a dhin sib(h)…

13) Ballyvaughan, Clare Same as Kilbaha / Cé’n nós ar dhin tú…
14

CCamderry, Northeast Galway Tá clabhtaí dubh ar an aer / Cé’n chaoi a rinne sibh…
15 Central Galway Clabhtaí /Cé’n chaoi a ndearna tú…
16 Kinvarra Tá clabhtaí dubha insan aer / Cé’n chaoi a dhin tú…
17) Inland border of Clare/Galway          Bhí na clabhtaí… /As in Kinvarra
18) central Roscommon …doracha // Cé’n chaoi a rinne tú…
GGlenamaddy (Not recorded) / Té’n chaoi a ndearna/rinne…
19) Abbeyknockmoy (east Galway)         clabhtaí / Cé’n chaoi a ndearna tú…
20) Annaghdown Tá clabhtaí dubh san aer /Cé’n chaoi a rinne…
21) Claregalway Tá clabhtaí dubha ar an spéir
(I I don’t have any of the Connamara/West Mayo points, or Sligo)
22) Kilmovee, northeast Mayo/Roscommon       sbéir du(bh) doracha / Cé’n chaoi a rinne...

OOmeath (Co Louth Not recorded / Godé an doigh a rinne …
24 Rathlin Island Tá speara (?) du(bh)a insan aer Goidé an doigh a rinne thú…
25) Inishowen, Donegal Not recorded / Goidé ma rinne..
26) Fanad …bocain dhu(bha) / (As Inishowen)
27) Gortahork Tá nealta du(bh) ar an spéir / (As Inishowen)
28) Rannafast Tá nealta du(bh)a sa spéir / (As above)
29) Gweebarra (na ba dorcha) (darker) /not recorded
30) Cruacha Gorma neilí du(bh)ha …doragan du(bh)ha

Goidé an doigh a dear’ tú…
31) Glencolumcille Tá sgamaill dhu(bha) ar na spéir / cadé an doigh a dear’ tú…
32 Manx …bojalan… / Conas tá shu…(How are you)

33) Isle of Arran (Scotland) Thá neoil du)bha) nan spéir

                                                              Cadé marn d’rinn thú…

34) Benbecula, Scotland                     Thá neoil dhu(bh)ha insan sberan

                                                               Cé mar a rinn thú…

35) Lewis                                               …scathan du(bh)a insan aer

                                                               Cadé mana rinn thú…

36) Wester Ross …neol dhu)bh) as an aer / Cé mar a rinn…

37) Assynt …scoban du(bh( ar an iarmailt /Conas a rinne thú…

Blúiríní

Níl ní ar bith dá ngintear nach ó rúta ("stock") éigin a gintear é, cuirim i gcás gur fás talmhaí nó créatúir análacha iad, amhail agus go bhfuil a rúta féin ó nádúir i ngach ní, agus a bhfréamhacha féin ag gach rúta, agus is uathu seo a thagas meidhir (ie. fuinneamh), mian agus fonn. Agus ní thuigeann daoine seo, cé go bhfuil sé follas go leor dá gcéadfaí, gur ghnáthfhocal ag na sinsir le gach ní dá leanadh béasa a shinsear: “ Thug sé ó rúta leis é, mar thug an mhuc an rútáil.”

d117, Fealsúnacht Aodh Mhic Dhomhnaill, éag. Colm Beckett, an Clóchomhar, 1967.

(Fear ó Dhroim Conrach, tuaisceart na Mí ab ea Aodh, 1802-1867. Múinteoir, fear láimscribhinni, agus file ab ea é. Chuidigh sé le Roibeard Mac Adhaimh (Robert Adams), Protastúnach ó Bhéal Feirste, láimhscribhinni agus ceol a chruinniú. Cara le Peadar O Gealagáin é.)

Hallaig

Ceann de mhór-dánta ár linne, dár liom. Ag tagairt do lomadh Oileán Ratharsair le linn an Dara Cogadh Domhanda, ag soláthar adhmaid do Arm Shasana atá an file, Sorley MacLean. (Coill bheithe a bhí ann.) Ag tagairt freisin atá do bhanú an Oileán féin atá. Níl anso agam ach cuid bheag den dán.

Tha búird is táirnean air an uinneig (“boards”: tairní)

Troimh m’ faca mi ‘n Aird an Iar (tríd a bhfeaca mé)

‘s tha mo ghaol aig Allt Hallaig (grá)

‘na craoibh bheithe, ‘s bha i riamh… (ina crann: sí)

Fuirichidh me ris a’ bheithe (fanfaidh mé leis an gcoill)

Gus an tig i amach an Cárn, (nó go dtiocfaidh sí)

Gus am bi am bearradh uile (nó go mbeidh: “ridge”)

O Bheinn na Lice f’s sgáil. (faoina)

Mura tig ‘s ann theárnas mi a Hallaig (Muna dtagann: “will go”; do)

A dh’ionnsaigh sábaid nam marbh, (do: Sabath)

Far a bheil an sluagh a’ tathaich, (mar a bhfuil: san áit a bhfuil: ag tathú)

Gach aon ghinealach a’ dh’fhalbh. (glún a d’imigh)

Tha iad fhathast ann a Hallaig, ( fós, i)

Clann Ghill-Eain ‘s Clann MhicLeóid,

Na bha ann ri linn Mhic Ghille-Chaluim (a raibh anmn le linn)

Chunnacas na mairbh beó.

Na fir nan laighe air an lianag (ina luí: ar, “green”)

Aig ceann gach taighe a bh’ ann, (ag: a bhí ann)

Na h-igheanan ‘nan coille-bheithe, (na cailíní: in a)

Direach an druim, crom an ceann. (a ndromanna: a gcinn)

(d. 143 agus 145, Reothairt is Contraigh: Taghadh de Dháin 1932-1972, Canongate, 1977)

Is amlaidh gur thosnaigh sé i gceart ar an bhfilíocht nuair a thit sé i ngrá le Nessa Ní Sheaghdha, ban-sgoláire Eireannach a bhuail leis agus iad araon in Edinburgh.

Sean -fhocail ó Micheál óg O Longáin’s Collection of Irish Proverbs, éagarthóir Tomás O Rathaile.

(Sean-fhocail iad so thíos a chruinnigh Tomás O Rathaile féin ón litríocht)

Ní ar aoinchois a tháinig (Naomh) Pádraig go hEirinn.

Námhaid ceard, muna gcleachtar.

Is leor ó dhuine a dhícheall.

Coileán gach cú go (until) fiach

Ní ghabhann dorn dúnta seabhac

Colann gan ceann duine gan anam-charaid.

Bluirín ó Eachtra an Mhadra Maoil, (Two Arthurian Romances, ed. R.A. Macalister, 1908), d 10

Chuireas litriú an lae inniú, mar déarfá, ar cuid de na focail.

(Tá Rí Artúir agus a chuid ridiri fagtha ag laoch anaithnid ceangailte sa choill.)

“Is trua an gníomh so do tharla dhuinn,” ar sé (an Rí), “oir da bhfeasadís bantracht agus ban-dhala Dúna an Halla Dheirg ar mbeith (that we are) mar so, do dhéanfaidís baol mhaghaidh agus fonóide dínn agus do chuirfidís ar mí-chliú agus ar meatacht fa’n domhan mór uile, agus ní thabhraidís taobha frinn (linn) go bruinne an bhrátha agus go foircheann an bheatha. Agus is é is indéanta (possible) dhúinn, fanúint san ionad so, go bhfaighimid neach éigin don Adhaimh-Chloinn do bhearfas furtach nó fóirthint dhúinn ó’n móir-éigean so ina bhfuilimid.”

Ciodhtracht (However) , do bhíodar amhlaidh sin go fuinneadh néill nóna agus go húr-thosach na hoíche gan furtacht nó fóirthint: gur labhair an Rí le Balbhuidh (Gawain), agus is é do ráidh:

“A Dhalta dhíl-ghrádaigh,” ar sé, “Tá éigean is mó ná gach éigean orm-sa, óir tá teasbhac thirim tarta agus rian rabhartha ró-dhein iótan (“trace of a violent storm of drought”) orm, agus gan cara nó compánach i bhfogus dhamh do bhearadh cosc m’iótan chugham.”

“A Oide iomhain,” arsa Balbhuidh, “dá dtugtaoi-se (if you would give) t’arm agus eidheach damh-sa agus eolas d’ionnsaí tiobraide, do rachainn ar chionn dighe dhuit gan moil.”

“A Dhalta dhil-ghrádhaigh, “ar an Rí, “an tiobraid is goire dhúinn anso, níl sa domhan ionad in ar (in which is) lia geilte glinne agus deamhain aeir agus arrachtaigh éig-cheillidhe fuathmhara fíor-ghránna ina dtimpeall ach í…”

Cuid de sgéal ó Mháiréad Ní Mhionacháin, Dhá Dhrom Amuigh, Béara (Béarach Mná ag Caint, Cló Iar-Chonnachta, 1999)

…Bhíodh comhluadar gach aon oíche acu ansan, agus bhíodh rinnce agus ceol – puss music – nuair a bhí an máistreás ann. Bhídís ann deireannach ansan, agus d’fhanadh sé seo (mo dhriotháir) deireanach, mar do bhí dúil ins na hamhráinaibh (dative case) agus sa chaitheamh aimsire aige. Thug sé athghearr air ansan ó’n dtigh sin chun dul abhaile, agus nuair a tháinig sé tamall den tslí—ní raibh sé rófhada – chuala sé an tiomáint is an ceol roimis. Well, shuigh sé anuas: bhí claí mar sin, agus steip ag dul trasna an chlaí, agus chuir sé cos leis thar an gclaí agus do shuigh sé síos ag eisteacht leis an gceol a bhí tamall bhuaidh, timpeall, is dócha, cúig nó sé de phéirsibh (dative). Dá gcimeádfadh sé an cosán, do thagfadh sé díreach mar a rabhadar (where they were). Ach níor dhein: do thug sé cosán eile timpeall air…

Does It Matter (I am talking about Irish and Gaelic)

Given all the awful, horrifying things happening in the world, and the apparently never-ending challenges of life, who cares about Irish (and Scots Gaelic, Breton etc.)?

An obscure language, barely-spoken anymore, with no apparent relevance to anything important or even half-important? Sure, maybe as a hobby and a way to pass the time that would otherwise be spent wandering the Web… Yeah, Irish: other people do Indonesian cooking or chess or the history of punk rock or knitting and it’s all cool, if you’re into it. You know: hobbies.

Nothing against knitting or the rest, but I think Irish does matter, and not as a hobby. I think that an involvement in and attention to the language and culture put us right there in the middle of important stuff happening in the world.

It can easily be just a hobby, of course, and a fascinating one, but look a little deeper and you find yourself in the uncomfortable position of somebody who knows a lot about butterflies or the Greenland glaciers or family farms in the U.S.

I don’t mean that Irish is threatened with extinction and we’ve got to fight for it. That is a fact, and I respect Kneecap, An Dream Dearg, etc, but I’m not sure about the “fighting” part. Maybe cultivating it instead? Deeply in our own lives?

Alright, but doesn’t that just bring us back to hobbies, personal growth and so on? Add some nice Irish to your day and you’ll be a finer person?

Knitting can be very satisfying and maybe it’s a path to understanding, but Irish traditionally offered a whole different way of seeing: a way of seeing that’s almost totally at odds with the way our society has been going.

That’s not because of Is and Tá or anything intrinsic to the language. I think it’s because Ireland and Highland Scotland were off on the margins, away in the West there, and didn’t matter much to anybody until, say, the 16^th century. Society on a local level was archaic in the same way that, say, Sami culture was archaic, People kept thinking in old ways and doing things in old ways. It was only when manic, explosive and very determined Tudor English society discovered new ways of making the world better and more controlled and more profitable, that things seriously changed.

*I tried to bring the Youtube video (Lux Prize 2017 "Sami Blod") here but failed._

Irish and Highland (and Breton and Welsh etc. etc.) life was intensively local. The culture connected people to place in many ways: through awareness of the Otherworld (“Fairy Queens” and so on): through awareness of ongoing human/place interaction evidenced everyday by the dense net of ancient and modern place name stories; through the need to respect the land that nourished, and the need to respect the people around you. (What do I mean by that? You couldn’t just dump chemical fertilizer on the fields if you wrecked the soil, or just go shopping. You couldn’t be an asshole and alienate your neighbours, then go get a job in Dublin.)

People lived in place. You could even say they were a place, and part of the weave of life there. Many old stories bear witness to the fact that these people’s greatest terror was exile, even exile after death if they were buried somewhere else. Sure, ambitious kings rode around sometimes doing stuff with swords, but most of the time, you could just look the other way. Life went on.

(Why does place matter? I think it matters because we live in a place, and not just “Ireland” or “America” or “Earth”, and definitely not on the internet. There is a pleasure in being somewhere that’s not just a node in the international distribution system. There is a pleasure in getting to know a place through the seasons and through the years. There is a deep pleasure in getting your hands in the dirt: a pleasure unknown otherwise.)

The old ways became very difficult after the Tudor conquest and ongoing reorganization of Ireland (and the Highlands in the 18^th century) into a system whose purpose was to produce wealth for the wealthy, and massive food exports to England, the armed forces and Caribbean colonies. It was a meat grinder and ongoing social trauma for everybody but the people who staffed and owned the new system which, yes, did include some Irish people. A somewhat stable new English-speaking society of big farmers was in place by, say, 1880, but the effects of trauma lurked beneath the surface.

Change happened slower where profits came harder, and Irish and Highland people often recreated versions of local traditional societies there whenever nobody was looking…until they couldn’t or didn’t want to, because, face it, respect and money and ongoing access to food can be very pleasant.

Today it looks like we are at the very end of the story.

There are people who’ll disagree. “Look at all the people who can speak some Irish!” they say, ad yes, there’s a lot more people who can, compared to the Eighties or whatever.

There’s “speaking” and there’s “speaking”, though. I can translate my Irish or English thoughts into French words if I have to, but I don’t have any feel for French, don’t know much about it or the communities that speak it, and don’t care that much. Do I “speak French”? Depends what you mean by “speak”. Yes, but mostly No.

A lot of the people who “know Irish” today in Ireland are in a similar position.

Maybe that’s not a big deal, but Irish is/was so rich a language that wooden leg Irish (Mac Grianna’s term) is sort of a shame, especially since it may replace real Irish.

Irish-speaking communities had deep deep roots in the earth and in place. They connected speakers to all the generations that came before and to those people’s accumulated humanity, wisdom and humour. The language itself made distinctions in many areas that “Modern” languages do not, thus (I would argue) setting its speakers up to perceive aspects of the sky and weather and ground and emotion and…a lot of things, that Modern language speakers often do not.

Traditional Irish-speakers made poor bureaucrats, administrators and payment managers. It was/is a face-to-face language: a concrete yet suggestive language: an old language.

There is also the fact that it sings to some of us in wonderful and very moving way that English or French do not, and speaks uniquely to the heart. I don’t know if that’s ancestry or what, and I’m entirely willing to agree that Mandan and North Frisian etc. do the same for other people.

Irish and Gaelic are of particular value and relevance because our society has been headed in a particular direction for a long time, and we now seem to be entering into predictably very rough waters. The world itself is being ripped to shreds at macro and micro levels, and the mania for control has developed technologies to fulfill its lust for a society that is completely transparent to the people in charge: a completely regimented society.

More and more, a lot of us are already just a set of eyes and ears – a mind – wandering at large online and offline in a universe of representations, seeking to enact our desires. Other people are present mostly as representations. Things are representations. Animals are. It’s all representations and nothing really exists except my perception, my desire, call it into existance.

In the worst days of Chinese domination of Tibet, you could be imprisoned if an informant saw you moving your lips to say a silent mantra. People were thus driven to the very heart of their religious practice, free of all externals.

Irish and Scots Gaelic etc. etc. are maybe one secret core of humanity, reminding us that a more human, more benevolent, life was once possible. The traditional literature is vast and offers a kind of path to the very center of life. The languages in themselves tell about other ways, other possibilities. They offer deep nourishment, They are fascinating to explore, and are a storehouse of, I don’t know, wit, wisdom and humanity. They are beautiful. I hesitate to call them works of art, but they are. Speaking them well is a creative act more like singing.

I wrote years ago that there are ancient sacred groves in these languages where the corporations will never go. I no longer think that’s true, but exploring and embodying these languages is probably the truest “resistance” available to us today, along with growing food, learning the local plants and animals and what remain of local ways

So, yes, Irish and Scots Gaelic etc. do matter.

They matter.

Elena, a Rion, Elena, Queen,
tabhair duinn do laimhin tais give us your soft hand,
abair nach lomchaite leat tell us our frenetic poems
ar vearsai fraoch. aren't worm or moth-eaten.
Abair nach ideal aoldaite Say it's not some clapped-out ideal
do bheal a phogadh, For us to want to kiss your mouth,
lui led thaobh. lie down beside you.

poem by Michael Davitt, translation by Paul Muldoon.

(Note: Why do I say it’s the end of the road maybe?

In Ireland, probably only on Tory island and maybe in Machaire Rabhartaigh on the mainland opposite, is Irish a common everyday language. In Scotland, there’s only Grimsay island (200 people) and maybe maybe maybe, parts of central South Uist. In Brittany, there’s only Plounevez-Moedac village, and, at a much lower level, Ile de Sein. Wales has all the villages west of Bangor and on through Eifionydd and the Lleyn peninsula in Gwynedd; bits of the mountains in south Denbighshire; Bala and west; around Dolgellau; the top of the Aman valley on the border of Carmarthenshire and Glamorgan; and Cwm Gwaun in Pembrokeshire.

Except for west Gwynedd, the others may not last.

Bleak, really bleak.

No, nothing lasts, but it seems to be lately, that it’s mainly good things don’t last.

Many other old and local languages all over the world are recently extinct or about to die, because society has no place for small or local any more, and, let’s face it, the internet can be very alluring, suggesting there is a magical world of abundance available to anyone who gives themselves to that world: first step, get your hands out of the dirt, move out of your village and forget all the old stuff.