Cor an Aghaidh an Chaim

 

Píosa beag togtha as “Cor in Aghaidh an Chaim agus Cam in Aghaidh an Choir,” drama le Piaras de Hindeberg, character mór na hAithbheóchana um 1900, agus sagart leis: sagart a chodail amuigh. (Níl sin ceart, really. Sagart ceart ab ea é, ach ní raibh bluire de’n bhréag-uaisleacht a bhain le furmhór na sagart sa treimhse sin ann.). B’as Portlaw, Co Waterford dó, agus Gaeilge bhreá chruinn mhuintir na nDéise agus South Tipperary aige. B’fhiú a bheathaisnais a léamh ar Ainm.ie.

Tá rí Shean-Shasana (agus ní rí Sasana Nua (New England/America) anseo ag lorg uirlis saoire (mason) ar an mbean seo in Éirinn: uirlis a ndúirt a fear chéile féin leis an rí go raibh gá leis chun críoch a chur ar chaisleán a thógadar don rí... agus fios ag an saor go gcuirfidh an rí chun báis é chomh luath a’s atá críoch ar an gcaisleán. Sean sgéal i dtaobh an Gobbán Saor é seo, ar ndóigh.

Litriú faoi mar a fuaras (fuair mé) romham.

 An Rí isteach an doras chuici:

Bean: Dia a’s Muire dhuit a’s Pádraig. Nach iongantacht an brothall atá ann, buíochas le  Dia.

Rí: Is iongantach sin, an té (go) mb’éigean dó siúl do chois faoi.

B: Is fíor dhuit. A mb’fhada tháinig tú, mar sin?

R: Is fada sin, thar teorainn anoir dom.

B: Do bhí a fhios agam cuma éigin gur choigríoch tu. Agus cadé an sgeul é anoir?

R: Dré sgeul. Ca’l fear an tighe?

B: Tá sé as baile. Mise bean an tighe seo.

R: Ar mhiste leat fios a anma agus a shloinneadh d’fiarfaighe dhíot?

B: Ní miste go deimhin. Maidhc mac an Gobbáin aimn m’fhir-se agus an Gobbán féin fear an tighe. Thall sa tír sin ar b’as duit-se dóibh. Ag tógháil chaisleáin do rí Shean-Shasna atáid. Badh chóir go mbeidís réidh leis anois, nó mara bhfuilid, táid siad lán leis. Beid said abhaile anois chugham gan stad.

R: Sidé áit díreach do bhí mé do lorg. Dar ndóigh, mise rí Shean-Sasna.

B: Mhaiseadh an eadh? Agus cionnus atá Maidhc agus athair mo Chéile?

R Táid said marthaineach.

B: Feach sin anois agus eagla ormsa go mbeadh droch-bhail orra, nó mí-ádh eigin insan áit fhiadhain sin thall...Agus cionnus atáid na prataidhe agaibh i mbliadhna?

R: Ia mhaiseadh, níor bhfiú leat a bhaint iad...

B: Ia mhaiseadh, is mar sin átáid again féin...Agus tusa an rí, a deir tú liom.

R: Is mé a mbasa.

B: Nach deas duit é sin anois. Agus cionnus átá do chéird-se ag dul chun cinn?

R: O mhaiseadh cuibhseach. Cadé an mhath dham a bheith ag gearán?

B: Dár ndóigh is fíor dhuit. Sceim a’s sceón i gcomhnaidhe orainn go léir, cabhair ó Dhia chughainn. Agus a mbíonn mórán ort, mar sin?

R: Ia bíonn, a bhean.

B: Cadé an sort oibre ar aon chor é?

R: Riaghluadh agus smachtughadh daoine,

B: O, cionnus a riaghluigheann tú iad?

R: An bhfuil turnip agat, nó práta? Seadh, taisbeáin dom an cnócar sin. Seo anois, bíonn m’ubhall ríogh ar láimh liom agus mo shlat rioghadha, reachta agus rachmuis sa láimh eile. Mar seo a ghabhaim ansin. Sin riaghlughadh dhuit.

Ia! Massa, is ait an cleas agat é. Do thiocfainn féin cortha dhe. Agus cionnus dhéineann tú a smachtughadh?

R: Sé sin, creachadh ropaire agus bithbheanacha, agus cur droch-bhan ar a leas.

B: Maiste mhaiseadh, ní fuiris duit é sin do dheanamh.

R: Ní fuiris, ach do dheanainn é.

B: Droch-bhean do chur ar a leas!

R: Seadh a mhaiste.

B: Agus cionnus do dhéanhá é?

R: Ar mh’anam, níl aoinne is fearr d’inneósadh duit é ná an té ná fuair a fhoghlaim gan mhúineadh: sé sin mise. Dar ndóigh, do bhí carn ban agam féin agus do chuirinn ar a leas diaidh ar dhiaidh iad. ...Is amhlaidh b’éigean dom a leasaughadh  ansin, crochadh beag do bhaint asta ar dtúis agus a gceann do scrios díobh ‘ina dhiaidh sin le claidheamh.

B: O bho. Dia linn!

R: Ia, a bhean a chroidhe, do bhainfeadh sé fáscadh as na haeibh (na heanna) agat sceula mo bhan-sa agus ar ghabhas tríd acu.

B: (leí féin: Seun agus rian na croise ceusta eadram agus é. Alpaire gan taise gan truagh ar nós cránach muice. Scríosamhnach (scríosúnach) an bháis d’imirt ar dhaoinidh bochta gan suím gan cuimhneamh. Mhaiseadh, go bhfóire Dia ar mo mhuintir bhoicht-se atá ag pléidhe leis thall. Ach ní fheadar faoi’n donas cadé an fuadar atá faoi anois. Mhaiseadh, nach agam-sa atá an lad ann.) Seadh, b’uathbhásach an sceul é , is dócha.

R: O, ná bí ag caint, a bhean. Do bhrisfeadh sé do chroidhe, gan ach iad do chomhaireamh thart, agus na bliadhanta fiara fuara, agus foighneamh gan foighne agus saoghal gan strus. Do bheadh sé ró dhian ort, a bhean an tighe, innsint mo chreach agus fad-tuirse mo scéil go léir duit. Ach gur bh’éigeann dom mór-sheisear díobh do chur díom le claidheamh. Agus is baoghal liom go gcaithfe mé an ceann atá aois agam do leasughadh aríst...Fuspar, a bhean an tighe,  Má bheidh túsa i’d bhaintreabhaich choidhche, is aithnid dam buachaill deas macánta thiomchioll mo shaghas-sa d’fhear, slighe mhaireachtana aige agus ní hí maireachtain an chnocadóra í.

B: (Leí féin: Massa, ní hail liom bean gan cheann ar mo chineadh, ach mo leun! Ca bhfíos dam nach baintreabhach cheana mé?) Seadh anois, a rí caithfead-sa dul ar lorg an aisil atá ar sceachrán siar an bóthar uaim.

R: ...b’é mo dhearmhad nár chuimhnigheas go dtí anois air. Seadh, a bhean an tighe, is é a thug i leith mé ach ar theachtaireacht ó’t fhear-sa agus ó athair do chéile agus faoi dhéin na húirlise si a dtugtar “cor in aghaidh an chaim agus cam in aghaidh an choir” uirthi...

 

Tuigeann sí conas tá an scéal: go ndúirt a fear féin leis an rí dul ar lorg an ruda sin (bréag-uirlis) chun go chuirfeadh sí an rí faoi ghlas. A r ndóigh, mhealleann sí isteach i gcófra chun breith ar an rud atá uaidh é, agus dúnann an clár (doras) air, sa tslí gur ghiall é féin nó go scaoiltear amach as priosiún an rí a fear féin agus athair a chéile.

Jewel and Pulse

 

Jewel  and Pulse

First, the jewel…

Another great and essential book is Osborn Bergin’s Irish Bardic Poetry, published by the Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies in 1970. The poems and translations were originally published between 1918 and 1926 in Studies, and the great long essay on Bardic poetry was given in 1912. There are 66 poems, including 11 attributed to the tenth-century queen Gormlaith.

Bergin (Ó hAimhirgin) was another interesting fellow, and knew the poetry better than any one, back when it was just being rediscovered and still today. He was known to have a “pathological fear of making a mistake” and so published very little when he was alive, at least after he became a serious scholar. He did publish a book of poetry in Irish in 1918, Maidean i mBéarra, in which he includes a poem, if I remember correctly, in amhrán metre whose metrical pattern satirizes a Dubliner’s mispronunciations of Irish. So he wasn’t always dry and serious, at least not about everything.

The selection of poems in the book is very good and enjoyable, and the translations help explicate the sometimes convoluted language.

I’ll draw attention to one poem entitled The Dead Wife by Bergin, and attributed to Muireadhach Albannach (ÓDàlaigh), an Irish poet who led an adventurous life and ended up fleeing to Scotland where he established the very important Mac Mhuirich bardic family. The poem survives in only one manuscrtipt, the 16^th century Book of the Dean of Lismore, written in the Perthshire Highlands. Perthshire is on the very border of Highlands and Lowlands. Whether that has anything to do with the fact that the Dean and his brother didn’t know how to write Irish and used an adaptation of Lowland English written language no one knows. It is very likely he wrote from oral dictation, though, because, well, look at this:

 

Marrwn di scarre rwmsy a ryir,

Callin zlan di bynnsy sin noye…

 

M’anam do sgar riom-sa a-raoir,

Calann ghlan dob ionnsa i n-uaigh:

 

Many of the poems in the manuscript are by poets from Ireland, written in Ireland about Irish people, which demonstrates once more that Ireland and the Highlands were one cultural area, one people, until say, the 16th century.

So there is an excuse to take an interest in Scottish Gaelic literature etc. It offers further insight into Irish culture and literature, and it is often great.

Anyway, here is my translation of some of the poem in question.

 

My soul left me last night,

a fair dear body is in the grave;

a sweet gentle bosom was taken from us

with a single linen sheet around it.

 

 

M' anam do sgar riomsa a-raoir,

calann ghlan dob ionnsa i n-uaigh;

rugadh bruínne maordha min

is aonbhla lin uime uainn.

 

            A beautiful fine flower was taken

            away from the weak fragile stem:

            my heart’s treasure has bent down;

            the fruitful branch of that house yonder.

 

            I am alone tonight, oh God;

            this is an evil crooked world I see;

            lovely was the weight of the young body

            that was here last night, oh King.

 

            I mourn for that bed over there,

            my pallet  (unclear in manuscript)

            I saw a glorious and noble form

            with coiling hair lying on you, oh bed.

 

            I shared my bed, half and half,

            with a woman whose eyes were serene;

            there was no likeness, except the flower of the hazel,

            to the brown haired, womanly, melodious shadow.

 

            Maol Mheadha of brown eyebrows,

            was my vessel of mead here with me;

            the shadow that parted from me was my very heart;

            a jewel-like flower, exhausted, has bent down.

 

My body has gone from my control,

            and now belongs to her:

            I am a body divided in two parts now

            since the departure of the serene lovely fair one.

 

            She’s half my feet, half my side;

            oh face like the white thorn flower,   

            no one was truer to her than I;

            she’s half my eyes, half my hand.      

 

            The maiden like a candle is half my body;

            your judgment is bitter to me, oh King;

            I am weak in longing for her voice--

            she was the true other half of my soul….

 

(There are many more stanzas.)

 I was going to also discuss Alexander Carmichael and Carmina Gadelica, but that’s something that deserves a post of its own, and I plan to do that next Saturday.

 Meanwhile, the pulse.

One thing that distinguishes older Scottish Gaelic singers who learned their music in the community; distinguishes them from most younger singers, is a characteristic and I hesitate to say, organic “pulse” rhythm that is distinctive and fascinating. (There is a pulse in Irish sean-nòs singing too, of course, but it’s very different and less interesting in my opinion.) I’m a terrible musician, so I won’t try to make out what is actually going on, but something is going on.

There are different facets:

 This is a well-known song made by a woman married to a blacksmith in Strath Glass (east coast) who was killed in the 1745 uprising.

Another from Flora MacNeill: a snippet of another well know lament.

Ishbel MacAskil is also unfortunately dead, but was a fantastic singer from Lewis. I don't know what "it" is exactly, but she has it.

It's also a question of voice production. Listen to the difference between traditional singers and then some people singing a waulking song with modern voices. What is great becomes banal.

And now, to finish, for something completely different:

If there are mispellings or simple stupidity in this post, I will correct them tomorrow.

Treasure

 

          

         Not to discount the “treasure” status of the old birch and ash out front and the stream out back, but I want to mention a book that I have found particularly rewarding and interesting.

There are novels I have fallen in love with: crown jewels of story. Many have fallen by the wayside as years have passed, mostly because I grew more experienced with the world and developed better critical sense as well. I could count on the fingers of one hand the novels whose appeal has lasted.

           There are other books – mostly collections of Irish and Scottish Gaelic literature of various sorts – that remain cauldrons of plenty and delight, no matter how many times I look into them.

One is not actually a book, or wasn’t until recently.

Frances Tolmie was born in the MacLeod country in Skye in 1840 into a family of the indigenous Gaelic “middle class” of the period. These “tacksmen” were often the former minor clan nobility and sept leaders, become slightly prosperous large tenants in the new economic system. (Ordinary people often held land from them, in turn.)

Her father was a merchant who died when she was four, and the family mostly lived after that with her mother’s brother in Skye or with Frances’ older brothers when they married, in Strontian and Ross-shire. Frances belonged to the last “tacksman” generation  that spoke Gaelic as their everyday language, and though she was educated by a private tutor in English, she taught herself to read Gaelic.

Why does any of this matter? From childhood, she took a strong interest in Gaelic song and poetry, and beginning with her mother’s lullabies etc., picked up the songs she heard around her and wrote them down. She kept on learning songs all her life, most notably with two old women  who accompanied her on walking journeys supervising a MacLeod-sponsored knitting project in Skye from 1861.

    One of them, Oighrig Ros,  was “rather feeble-minded in practical life, but with a poetical soul...A kind creature, but wild-looking, and apt to turn crazy if unduly provoked.”  Frances learned a number of informal “women’s” songs from her: one about the Gruagach, and another Slán gu’n Tig Aonachan, as well as a waulking song etc.

Another important source was Janet Anderson from Srath and later and very importantly, Máirí Ránuill (Mary Ross) of the Trotternish (MacDonald) district, born about 1848, who had learned old Ossianic ballads from her father and waulking songs from older women.

As an old woman herself, Frances was persuaded to publish some of her songs in The (English) Journal of the Folk-Song Society, Volume IV, 1914. The collection is pretty unique in that it focuses on Songs of Occupation”  (ie. cradle songs, nurse’s songs, Puirt a Beul, waulking songs, reaping, rowing and milking), rather than on more formal songs.  Many of these were learned in the first half of the nineteenth century from women who lerned them in the 18th century, and the songs are mostly much older than that. Most of these are, as I mentioned, “women’s songs, ” and there are 105 of them. Music is included in staff notation.

There is a later collection that includes similar songs (Margaret Fay Shaw’s Folksongs and Folklore of South Uist) but the old stuff was fast disappearing in the intervening century, and Frances’ collection is much much fuller, and derives from an insider, not a collector. It really is a window into the old culture, and the songs are the sorts of the things you’ll find nowhere else. Nothing comparable exists in Irish.

Why? Irish civilization was wrecked, even at the community level, much earlier. There was also no Irish-speaking nineteenth century “middle class” (except in Kilkenny where they spoke Irish, but took no interest in the culture). Ascent into big farmer status and security by definition implied English language and revulsion toward Irish.

(There was an Irish-speaking middle class, also remnants of minor nobility, in a few areas in the first half of the 18th century, and it was those areas that the Irish manuscript tradition/Irish literature/historical lore etc, were reestablished after the wreck of the 17th century

Frances died in 1926 and didn’t publish anything else. The Folk Song Society collection stayed fairly obscure, and, as far as I can see, was not much drawn on by younger singers. It has recently been republished as a book Gun Sireadh, Gun Iarraidh (Without Seeking, Without Trying/Looking) available from the Scottish Gaelic Books Council. I haven’t seen it, but I presume it’s actually mostly in English, like the original.

There is a 1977 biography by Ethal Bassin (The Old Songs of Skye: Routledge) that preserves a lot of information about Frances and gives examples of songs and classifies them by source and date of collection, but it’s really only of interest (in my opinion) to people who care about those things.

Anyway, the collection itself is treasure.

            There is almost no point in giving samples of the songs. They are simple, for the most part, and their power does not lie in words alone. Unlike many of the old “big” songs, there is no complex development of story and emotion. They are vignettes.

            Their power derives rather from harmony of words and music: so much so that it is almost inaccurate to speak about harmony. For there to be harmony, there must be two or more things in relation, and these songs, as Somhairle MacGilleain wrote (Ris a’ Bhruthaich, Acair, 1985: p 120: Some Thoughts About Gaelic Poetry,) “...the tunes themselves are great, very great, or simply ineffable...they seem like exhalations from the words, as if the very words created the tunes. "

            He’s talking about the “big” songs of the 16^th, 17^th and 18^th centuries, but it is equally true of these hearthside songs. I wish I could point you toward YouTube recordings, but I haven’t been able to find any of these songs there. I haven’t looked in the Tobar a' Dualchais online archive of folklore collection recordings, and maybe I should...

             I am including the Alan Stivell version of Tha Mi Sgith (a fairy song and maybe the best known today of the songs in the collection), despite the fact his Gaelic gets a little strange, and despite the guitar solos, because the other versions are stuffy Mod-type parlor music, and at least Stivell’s doesn’t smother the tune.

            Here are the words: There are two “verses.”

Tha mi sgith, s mi leam fhín, chuile lá a buain na rainnich. Tha mi sgith, s mi leam fhín chuile lá im ónar...chuile lá daonnan.

 Tha mí sgith, etc., Cúl an tomáin, bráigh an tomáin, cúl an tomáin bhóidheach...

 I am sad and weary  alone, every day cutting bracken: I am sad and weary alone, every day alone...Every day forever.

I am weary etc. back behind the knoll, up on the knoll, behind the beautiful knoll...

(Don’t say I didn’t warn you!)

Here’s hoping some of these things survives the years to come.

Dark Ages

 

Ceistireacht Eoghain Baiste (Rann cosanta)

 

Ceistireacht Eoghain Baiste,                                        Catechism

Eilisibheat Naomhtha ‘ ghrinn,                                   pleasant

Mathair Eoghain Baiste béal binn,

Go saoraidh tú sinn

Ar cheistni, ar ghoin, ar chrochadh,                            problems

Ar losgadh, ar bhath, ar phláigh,

Ar fhiabhras agus ar gach aicíd.

Ar chomharaí na gceithre gcrann dúinn:                    sign

Crann fola, crann feóla,

Crann do cheasadh Críost,                                          was crucified

Crann go dtáinig sé beó.                                             On which he

Ar chomharaí na gceithre meádh dhúinn                   scales?

tré cheotharnach, tré cheó.

Píosa a chuir Muire tíompall a hAon-mhic,

Píosa go dtáinig sé beó.                                              Because of which he

Críos na catharach fé’ m bhráid.                                Of the Cathair on my chest

Nár dheargaid mo charaid ná mo namhaid,               wound

Ach fé’m  chorporacht soillse geala.                          Body? Power?

Aingeal dilís Dé go dur’thacht,                                  durachtach

Sabháil sprid m’anam

Ar an-chomhachta ‘n Diabhail.                                   Evil powers

Pádraig ‘a a bhacaill,

Mártan ‘as a chochall,

Muire ‘s a mac,

Brighde ‘s a brat.

Ag gabháil tre Choill Muire dom,

Hat’ iarrainn ar mo cheann,

Lutarach iarrainn fé’m chom,                         breastplate around

Bróg iarrainn fé’m bhonn.                               under

Ceó Muire, ceó Críost,

Ceó ceó ceathair Críost,

Ceó sonais agus ceó séimh

I(n)’s gach áit dá ngeobhfar linn,                    that we happen in

I(n)’s gach cluais dá n-éistfidh linn

Ar dhíon agus ar thearmaid   (tearmainn)

Na Tríonóide Naomtha, Amen.

 “Ó’m mathair do chuala é, agus aon duine déarfadh é, níor bhaoghal do aon chinneamhaint (cinniúnt)  I rith a’ lae, deireadh sí. Sin mar a chloisinn-se í á reá, ach go háraithe. Deireadh sí féin gach lá é – na’h (gach) aom mhaidean dá n-éirigheadh sí. Deirim féin é ga’h aom mhaidean. (Timpeall 1834 a rugadh í.) Níor fhág sí Lios Deargáin riamh: is ann a saoghluigheadh (rugadh)í agus phós sí. Ní eolach dom an phaidir sin ag aon duine eile anois...”

 Domhnall Ó Ruairc (aois 58 in 1934), Lios Deargáin d’innis.

Béalodeas, uimhir ??,  d 342

 

Bhí an saghas seo paidir coitianta i measc na ndaoine, tráth dá raibh. Tuilleadh eolais in Orthaí Cosanta sa Chráifeacht Cheiltreach, le Seán Ó Duinn, an Sagart, 1990.

(Níl aon Ghaoluinn i Lios Deargáin le fada an lá anois. I bparoiste Lios Póil atá, ó’n Daingean soir.)

Deirtear uaireannta ná raibh tuiscint do rudaí “deasa” nó “maithe” ag an dream a tháinig romhainn-se, a’s gur Heloise a’s Abelard a bhúnaigh “romantic love”, a’s sinne a bhúnaigh nach mór gach aon rud fiúntach eile.

Seo blúirín ó Ireland’s Welcome to the Stranger le Asanath Nicholson, ban-Mheiriceánach  a’s Quaker a shiúil Ėire in 1844-45. (The Lilliput Press, 2002). Laistiar do’n Daingean a bhí an lá so... (D 276)

 

“When returning, we met a peasant girl, with her dress turned over her head (Baisteach a bhí ann) who in the most earnest manner spoke in Irish and beckoned us to go further. We declined, and she changed her laughing look for one of pitiful  endearing disappointment, which prevailed with me, and I said “We will go.” She exultingly bounded away, leading us forward, looking back to encourage us for the way was precipitous and somewhat difficultly, until she placed us upon an awfully grand precipice.  Here she stopped, and in the most animated manner pointed us down, then to a mountain across  the channel, then to the golden stripes of the sun upon the water, then to the seagulls , then to the eastern sky which was extremely beautiful ; and when she saw we understood and were pleased, she was delighted. ...She was pretty in look and graceful in manner, and when we parted and saw her entering a mud-walled cabin...”

Sian a chuir Moire air (a) Mac ort:                  ("Charm")

Sian Ro(imh) marbhadh, sian ro(imh) lot ort: (as protection against)

Sian  eadar a' chioch 's' a ghlun;

Sian eadar a' ghlun s' a broit;                           (Breast)

Sian nan Tri ann an aon ort                              (san aon)

O mhullach do chinn go bonn do chois ort:

Sian seachd paidir a h-aon ort:

Sian seachd paidor a dha ort:

Sian seachd paidir a tri ort:

Sean seachd paidir a cheithis ort:

Sean seachd paidir a coig ort:

Sian seachd paidir a sia ort.

Sian seachd paidir nan seachd paidir dol deisil ri (le) deagh uarach (uair) ort  

da do ghleidheadh (coimead) bho (o) bheud 's bho mhi-thapadh (accident).

Clogaid na slainte mu'd cheann,                    (timpeall do)

Cearcall a' chumhnaint mu'd amhaich           (covenant: muineal)

Uchd-eididh an tsagairt mu'd bhroilleach:

Ma's  ruaig bho'n taobh-chuil,

Brogan na h-Oigh ga'd ghiulan go luath         (do do)

Sian nan Tri an aon ort

Bho mhullach do chinn gu bonn do shail,

Agus sian paidir nan seachd paidir

Dol tuatheal is deiseil is tuathail,

Gu'd ghleidheadh  bho'd chul                           (do do)

Bho luaidh 's bho chlaidheamh,                        

Bho lot 's bho mharbhadh,

Gu uair is am do bhais.

Gaelic Incantations, William MacKenzie,  Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Inverness, Volume VII, 1890-91

A Few Books

 

Why would someone take an interest in Irish and Scots Gaelic?

Well, as I wrote some time ago, "Irish literature is uniquely interesting,  the oldest surviving European literature after Greek and Latin. It is very different from them--a voice from ancient Europe, a voice from beyond the town walls, vessel of at least 2500 years of human experience in the island of Ireland (and in the Highlands)."

"Yeah, there are a lot of translations these days, but even the best are chloroformed butterflies. Much of the ‘meaning’ of a piece of literature is embedded in language itself and its patterns. English can’t ‘do’ some of the things Irish does, so what you get in translations from Irish is English language literature inspired by Irish.  Some butterflies look impressive in a glass case, but a live one flying past in the garden is a different experience."

"Irish is a complex, apparently unnecessary language. It’s a language in which there are deep groves of silent trees still, places into which explorers from Google and Apple Corp will never come. It’s a language formed by seasons and weather, by the human mind in face-to-face community, by the necessities of physical existence.  It is part of the Wild."

There is quite a bit of wooden leg Irish in the world today, though, It’s not always easy to find the good shit. I thought I’d mention a few books that might help.

Early Irish Lyrics, Eighth to Twelfth Century, edited and translated by Gerard Murphy, Oxford, 1956 (315 pages)  is wonderful. Why? It provides texts of 58 poems, 33 of them religious, the rest not. The secular poems are lyrics drawn from miscellaneous sources and they are great. When the contemporary scene is just too unbelievably insane, they are an oasis.

Murphy’s translations are very very good, not only in themselves, but in bringing out aspects of the Irish that, I expect would have been obvious to contemporary Irish people, but are not obvious at all to us. There are good textual notes and discussions of the sources. There is a full vocabulary that is in itself a lesson in Old and Middle Irish language.

Nua-Dhuanaire, Cuid I, ed. De Brún, P, Breanndán Ó Buachalla and Tomás Ó Concheanainn, (Institiúd Ardléinn Bhaile Atha Cliath, 1975,) is good too, though I would choose Murphy if I was stuck on a desert island. It gives 66 poems of the 17^th century and then 20 probably later folk songs. There’s a full vocabulary and some linguistic notes, though no translations.

The choice of 17^th century poetry is good, reflecting two of the editors knowledgeable eclectic tastes, though there is no Ó Rathaille. It’s important to note that the syntax of Bardic and 17^th century poetry does not plod along according to the instruction manuals, and a variety of forms and spellings are admitted. This means it can be a puzzle initially, if one is used to contemporary language, but there is a particular peculiar exhilaration in the poetry and in exploring its wave length.

Cuid II and III were respectively, folksongs of Ulster, and Connacht/Munster, and are good, though maybe without the 17^th century fireworks

An Duanaire 1600-1900: Poems of the Dispossessed, ed. Seán Ó Tuama, translations by Thomas Kinsella, Dolmen Press (and later University of Pennsylvania?) 1981 is a good complement to An Duanaire. It gives lots of Ó Rathaille (Ó Tuama wrote a study of his poetry) and other interesting poems, and a good selection of folk songs and prayers. The translations are solid (Kinsella was a very important Anglo-Irish poet of the 1960s and 1970s), and though, as he himself says, they don’t even try to carry over the word music etc of the original, they find a good middle way between literalism and good English poetry.

(It is not easy to translate Irish, for this reason. Micheal Hartnett did a book of translations of Haicéad that despite his own love of the poetry and his own great English and Irish poetry is literal but horrible. Partly this is because Kinsella was a literate urbane man, a middle class Dubliner, and Hartnett was a west Limerick farm boy who took as his model here the Anglo-Irish folk songs he knew growing up.

An Duanaire was intended as a “modern” presentation of Irish poetry and was a big deal in it’s day.

Catalogue of Irish Manuscripts in the British Library, Vol I, ed. Standish Hayes O’ Grady, 1926 and 1995, 707 pages: Vol II, ed Robin Flower, 1926 and 1995 (634 pages)

There are many catalogs of Irish manuscripts, ranging from the absolutely execrable (Trinity)  to the good (some of the Royal Irish academy depending on the editor: some National Library: Cambridge: Oxford) to the non-existant (University College, Dublin: Belfast: Galway), These two volumes are splendid, unique treasures. No one has even tried to do what they did here.

O’Grady was a fascinating man: son of an old noble family in far east Limerick who learned Irish with the last traditional country poets of that area in the 1830s and 1840s, went to Rugby School, became a civil engineer, ran a coastal steamer in California, and then in the 1880s, reappeared as an Irish scholar. His work (like Eugene O’Curry’s of Clare and John O'Daly of Waterford) is an indispensable link between traditional Irish learning and modern scholarship. His knowledge of Irish was, as they say, unrivaled and ran rings around the big gun pedantic scholars of the day. He knew traditional Irish culture in his bones, had common sense and a sense of humor.

(He is not Standish James O'Grady, his cousin, who though he wrote on Irish topics, knew no Irish and almost nothing about Irish tradition.)

His volume is great because he gives long extracts and translations of a lot of the poems in the manuscripts he did, and provides remarkable insight into them. It is, as someone said, a master class in Bardic poetry. Unfortunately, O’Grady’s portion of the Catalog was mostly Law and Bardic poetry manuscripts, so the range is limited. He does also give long extracts from relevant 16^th and 17^th century English historical documents, explaining people and events mentioned in the manuscripts.

A bit at random:

Mòr còir cháich ar chríoch Laighen...

“Great are the charges that all others have against the land of Leinster: precinct fair that was never reduced to straits: Never do any indulge expectations (to have aught) of her, though every man have a charge to bring against her. Charges against her all Ireland’s nobles have : that beneath the salmon-abounding Leinster country’s soil –region of foamy rivers foamy-waved – there is many a grave of their kings and their heirs apparent.  (ie because other provinces attacked Leinster and lost battles there.)

(From a poem to Fiacha Mac Aodha Ó Broin, taken from his own duanaire (poem book).

Well, this is actually a very boring extract – please take my word for it – but there is an enormous jade plant sitting in the window between me and the light of the sun and I have things to do outside and I don’t want to delete this above and go back and choose an more interesting extract not at random.

Volume II is great for another reason. Flower was an Englishman who spent long periods on the Great Blasket and learned Irish there. He was originally a scholar of Medieval Latin and English, and his enormous learning in Irish literature comes through wonderfully here. He puts the tales and poetry he is cataloging in context, discusses sources and variants and gives information on authors. He writes well and clearly, and his direct enthusiasm (dare I say love?) for the material comes through in a way that is unfortunately rare since. His portion of the Catalog is generally later poetry and tales.  For myself, I love this stuff, but the book is an education in later Irish literature, even if you don’t.  He does not do extracts.

I should also mention Silva Gadelica, two volumes of texts and translations of medieval Irish tales that O’Grady did around 1900 – 1910. The selection is specific (mostly from the Book of Lismore/Mac Carthaigh Riach's Book) so it is not a cross section, but they are great. 

(It appears to be available as a pdf on Internet Archive.) 

His translations are uniquely “Irish” and entertaining, and are the closest thing to traditional Irish in English. I suspect James Stephens modeled his later versions and much of his writing on O’Grady's English, and Ó Cadhain  later commented that Stephens’ writings (in English) are “more Irish than the Irish language itself.”

As is the song below.

Dazzled by the sun through the jade plant, I forgot to mention some others such as Watson's edition of Mac na Michomhairle  (An Clochomhair, 1979) (Irish only): J.L Campbell's volumes of Hebridean Folksongs (Oxford, 1977 etc): Ris a' Bhruthaich: The Criticism and Prose Writings of Sorley MacLean, Acair, 1985: and the volumes of Carmicheal's Carmina Gadelica (Scottish Academic Press), if you keep in mind that the prose is probably mostly composed by him and the longer poems also are partly his own. 

Matter for another day.

Dancing with Pigs (17th Century Version)

 

There was a specific Irish (Gaelic) voice characteristic of the older society, and it was dominant in the literature produced both by the traditional learned families and in the monasteries. It characterizes “folk” song as well. The voice is clear-eyed, precise, and lyrical,  and though totally unsentimental, often communicates great passion.

Sounds very serious, doesn’t it? At least dry and uninteresting. Tedious.

Depends on one’s perspective, I suppose. 

The voice is not as easily accessible as all the things in print and online today designed to draw in anyone who wanders by with a Euro/dollar to spend, but then very few worthwhile things are immediately accessible. Worthwhile things require you pay attention. They require you to be quiet enough in yourself to be able to actually hear/see/feel. They require that you care about things outside yourself.

This literature makes demands on readers/listeners, but even greater demands on its practitioners.No one simply finds a set of uillean pipes or a viola, picks it up and starts to play. They need to learn the instrument in order to be able to express themselves through its voice, and learning takes passion, time and discipline…But what a voice! The people who composed this literature often put in a long apprenticeship mastering technical skills and traditional learning: learning the instrument, as it were. 

They also absorbing an understanding of the world that still speaks to some of us.

What I'm on about today is another of the group who received something of a traditional "bardic" education, but were never bards. Ceitinn, O Bruadair, O Raithile, and Haicead are best known examples. They produced poetry with all the compressed tensile strength and depth of the tradition of traditional "bardic" poetry, but since Irish society was being torn to pieces in the 17th century, their poems deal with  new issues more accessible to us today...Though not accessible if you are moving at contemporary speeds and accustomed to immediate gratification.

Tadhg Rua Ớ Conchobhair is a not-very-well known Irish poet who was probably related to the old royal family of north Ciarraí.  It’s thought he died in the 1690s or maybe in the 1670, The first possibility is based on something in an O Longáin manuscript (I think), and their information about place and time is often inaccurate. “1670s”  is based on the fact that a Cork poet who answered one of Tadhg’s poems was alive in 1675. So no one really knows anything.

Tadhg Rua may have lived near Castleisland. 

The index to the manuscripts in the Royal Irish Academy (often a good rough guide to the extent of the literature) lists about ten poems attributed to him known. Only two of them have ever been printed, as far as I know.

The (I think) O Longáin manuscript says Tadhg was dancing once, noticed that the harper was making fun of him, and composed a poem in response. Whether that’s true or not, he really didn’t think much of the musician, who was an Ulsterman, by the way.

 

Saoi le searbhas Eóin mac Eóin,                                               Eoin mac Eoin is a master of sour discord

Daoi le’r dearbhadh cóir ‘na locht:                                           a clod whose cloddishness is well proved

Mar chráin ag crónán dá cluinn                                                like a sow grunting to her brood

Fuinn a lámh, dordán a dhocht.                                                The tunes from his hands, the hum of his                                                                                                      ornamentation

 

Is mó do-gheibhtear i nguaillibh Eóin                                      You’ll find more musical pleasure in Eoin’s

Do shult ceóil ná i luas a lámh:                                                 shoulders than in his hands’ agility

Alpa a dhá amhchrobh ina bhfeidhm                                        His two hunks of paws produce                                                                                                                    sounds              

Mar chreim dá chlamchon ar chnámh.                                      Like a mangy dog chewing on a bone.

 

Mar bhíos céis ag coin ar chluais                                              Like a young pig whose ear a dog’s got                                                                                                          hold of,        

I nguais ag ceisneamh a cáis,                                                    in terror and outrage broadcasting his                                                                                                           situation,

Ó n-a chlos is céasta cluas,                                                        Hearing (Eoin), the ear is tormented:

Crobh gan luas ag pléasgadh  práis.                                           A turgid claw bursting brass (strings)

 

Ní aithneann aon a phort féin,                                                  No one recognizes the tune he composed

An tan théid i gcaschrobh Eóin;                                               after Eoin’s  crooked hands get hold of it

Tuar tuirse tafann a lámh.                                                         A foreboding of sorrow, the outcry of his                                                                                                      hands:                      

Blas na gcrann gafann ‘na ngeóin…                                        the musical equivalent of the taste of                                                                                                              henbane.                                     

(There are five more verses.)

Well, reading the translation, it sounds like a man well gone in drink being tossed out of a late night session.

There are three reasons this is not so:

1) My translation was done in two minutes at work and doesn't even try to be good. It is intended merely as a crib.

2) My translation does not attempt to communicate the form or style of the original. Someone once said the unfailing sign of a great soul is a sense of style. Not "sense of fashion", but an unfailing sense for the appropriate/right way to do (in this case, say) things that, in itself, expresses depth of understanding. Tadhg Rua has it, but you really do have to read Irish to get three-quarters of what's going on in these poems.

3) The poem, in word choice, metre, imagery etc refers out to other things in the literature and draws power and resonance from these references and echoes that are, for one who knows the literature, almost unconscious. Such things cannot make it through into English. (And neither can they from Flemish, Urdu or what have you.)

Or so it seems to me. In Irish, at any rate, it is a very funny, pleasing piece. 

Muiris Mac Dáibhí Dubh Mac Gearailt, a slightly earlier poet (died 1630s??) from the same (Mac Gearailt) cultural area (Dingle to be specific) composed a poem, Mór idir na haimsearaibh, that’s fairly common in later manuscripts. In it, he calls out the Irish as gullible idiots for borrowing money for festivities and all from the newly arrived English merchants and landowners who somehow always seemed to end up owning the Irishmen’s land when the Irish couldn’t repay the loan. (In the new post-Conquest society, you needed money a lot more than you used to…)

 

Mór idir na haimseraraibh,                                         The times have changed greatly

Más fíor dá dtáinig romhainn:                                    according to those who came before us.

Barr óilc agus aimhgliocais                                         A crop of evil and stupidity

Ag fás gach aonlá orainn.                                            Growing up among us stronger every day.

Tadhg Rua also suffered from the destruction of Irish society, and found out that a man without money is invisible. (It’s worth mentioning that traditionally, kin were kin, in sickness and in health and all that, even if they’re poor.)

 

‘S do chleasaibh an tsaoghail tslim                           From the tricks of this fair world

D’fhear saibhir nách baoghal táir                              the rich man need fear no insult

Más doibhir, atá gan chéill,--                                     but the poor man is but a fool

Fáth nách téid an ceart ‘na chair.                               And so justice never approaches him(or he is never                                                                                       right)

 

Damhsa do fíoradh an sgéal:                                      My own case proves the tale true

An tan do b’aoibhinn mo sheól,                                 When things were going great for me

Ba mhór mo chairdeas ‘as mo ghaol:                         Everyone was my friend or relative

Ós bocht, ní thig aon do’m choir.                               Now I am poor, no one comes near me

 

Cé chím iad, ní fhacaid mé,                                        Though they see me, they don’t see me

‘s má chíd mé, ní fhaicid mé:                                      And if they do see me, they don’t.

Saoilid said, ar ndul dom spréidh,                               They think, now my goods are gone

Ciodh mise mé, nach mé mé.                                      Though I am me, this “Me” is not “me.”

 

…

Isé meas an tsaoghail mhóir                                         Respectable people think                                           

Ó bhraithis mo stór go gann,                                        now that they see my goods are scarce

Dá dtagrainn an ceart ‘s an choir,                                that though I was to speak what is right and true

Nách fuil acht glóir amaide ann.                                 It’s nothing but an idiot speaking.

(Four more verses)

(I took these from O’Rahilly’s Measgra Dánta, Cuid 1, Cork University Press, 1927/Longman’s. Browne ands Nolan, 1969). The second poem is also in Nua-Dhuainare, Cuid 1, eag P. De Brún,  1975. “Is Mór” is from Dánta Mhuiris Mhic Dháibhí Dhuibh Mhic Gearailt, eag N. Williams, 1979.

 

Why bother with any of this when there's TikTok?

An open question, I suppose, though one I think we all need to consider as we continue our slide into dystopia.