Some say that the Cork poet and scholar Peadar o Longain composed the song, but there's no certainty to the story. There's no doubt, however, that the song has almost no connection to the nineteenth century patriotic song, Slievenamon, made by Kickham and still sung at Tipperary sporting events. The difference between the two songs is striking. The earlier--as I hope to show here--is sharply and effectively imagistic, concise, and the product of a rigorous intellect. Kickham's song is sentimental, mushy, imprecise and diffuse.
To understand the older song, one needs to remember that the native Irish ("Gaels") in this period were in a situation similar to that of, say, the black South Africans thirty years ago. Yes, Corkery's Hidden Ireland was actually a lot more complicated in terms of social structure than he thought, and a hidden Catholic gentry did indeed exist in the form of middlemen renting estates from the mostly English landlords. Yet by this period, many of these middlemen had been absorbed into the colonial culture and were not only discarding "Gaelic" culture, but doing everything they could to differentiate themselves from the mass of peasants who were competing desperately with one another for access to rented land; those, that is,who had not already sunk into into big rural slums by the roadsides or on bogs.
As De Tocqueville, the French traveler, noted, there was not a command a landlord could come up with that the Irish would not obey. They did not obey out of love for their landlord, but because he was part of a system that had power of life and death over them. If a tenant displeased a landlord, the tenant would be evicted and likely be forced to join the mass of other evicted former farmers competing for the few available jobs as farm laborers. Or the landlord, as likely local justice of the peace, could charge the tenant with a crime and then condemn him at the next sitting of court.
Yet there was another Hidden Ireland, one invisible to the landlords and to official society and to Corkery and Kickham. A lot had already doubtless been forgotten by 1798, but in the many areas where Irish was still spoken, people still kept a knowledge of what had been before 1601 and the wars of the 17th century. They knew who were the current representatives of the old royal and noble families, and who had lived where. They knew their local history; the name of every rock and hill told of the ancestors and things they had done. They knew the supernatural realities of their place--the fairy queens and so forth. They knew the traditional history of Ireland. Poets and scholars kept a national or at least regional consciousness alive.
So the gentle cone-shaped mountain of Sliabh na mBan that stands like a throne over the southeast Tipperary plain had its ancient traditions and symbolic importance. It is, after all, Sliabh na mBan Bhfionn: Mountain of the Fairhaired Women, most likely otherworld women, (and not the Mountain of Fionn's Women, though there is a story about him and them.) The otherworld dwelling of Sid ar Femen is here. (Femen is the old name of the plain.) Fionn Mac Cumhaill obtains magical insight when his thumb is caught in the door of the otherworld dwelling, as he protects the human world from theft of the land's fertility. The otherworld lord Bodhbh Dearg dwells there, and he is the father of Sadhbh, mother of Fionn's son Oisin (Little Deer) who embodies a union of wild and human.
The mountain thus enters this song here not as an agglomeration of rock and dirt, but as a well-known element in local history and traditional consciousness; a witness of what had been and what still should have been, in the view of the Irish, once the evil times were over and the world had righted itself.
Mossy Scanlan, a singer from near Feothanach in the west of the Dingle peninsula, sings the song.
The Verses.
The song focuses on the image of the mountain and always returns to it for a stanza's final image and line, but the events dealt with are those of the Rising as a whole. The skirmish on the mountain was actually a very minor unimportant one.The song begins with a common motif used to express the fact that the world has been shoved out of harmony by a tragic event. The blackbird's beautiful song, common backdrop to Irish country life, is silent, and the fertility of the land has ended. The otherworld woman laments, as for a death, stating that usual life has ended, that there is no rest. A group of enemies has come together and controls the land, and we will be battered to pieces by them here on the slopes of the mountain.
In the second verse, a defeat is mentioned, and the enemies with their power of horses and swords and muskets jeer at country weapons like pikes (the common military weapon of the late 16th century) and farm implements. The Irish have not come together; they moved here and then there on the mountain, uncertain like a herd of cows with no direction.
The Irish acted without forethought, and were defeated because they did so. If they had only waited until others had joined them, and had God's help, they would have been victorious on the slopes of the mountain.
Then we see the "Gaels" smashed to pieces by English cannon at the battle of New Ross, hiding behind any shelter they can find. The power of the conqueror and of his technology overwhelms the people of the place, and by implication, the mountain, the Otherworld; Eire. But we will pick up our country weapons again, and some day, we will make them shake in their boots on the slopes of the mountain.
But this is only the beginning. Out on the sea, French fleets are gathering and help is coming. We will not go along with the oppressive machinery of the colonial economy, and there will be light and joy on the mountain--the world will return to its own natural way.
The French are ready to act; the masts of their ships pierce the sky, and they are coming here to place those who have suffered back in their own places again, to reestablish the way of things. If I was sure of it, I would be merry as the blackbird in the tree. One day soon, horns will sound celebration on the sunny mountain.
(A lot about Ireland is explained by the fact that, as we know, help never did come, and life continued to drain out of traditional Ireland until today it is barely alive, even in memory.)
Well, you know what? Set out like that, the song sounds feeble and stereotyped--just another patriotic come-all-ye. That it is not, is due to the succession of images as performed, and music of the words. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts.
The Song
It's amhran, so watch out for the pattern of vowels in the accented syllables.
Here's what I get for the first verse:
i a e o ea
i a e o ea
i i e o e
i e i ae a
(Most every i, e and o are long, but his keyboard won't allow me to add a fada.)
Second verse:
a ao a e
ao i e u e
u w i a e
u ao i ia a
The pattern is roughly the same all through, though no verse is exactly the same as another. Some of the lack of continuity in vowels is more apparent than real, given Deisi and general Munster pronunciation. The translation is very quick and makes absolutely no pretension to quality.
I'm using Nioclas Toibin's text (died 1966; not the well-known singer) from Duanaire Deiseach, Sairseal agus Dill, 1978. He learned the song at the beginning of the 20th century from Padraig O Faolain from Cill na bhFraochan near Dungarvan.
I omit one verse--what would have been the second-to-last, concerning prisoners freed--by accident.
Sorry too about the lack of fadas. Yes, it is a travesty of the Irish, but I still cannot get the program to permit them.
Ni airim vearsa o lon no o cheirseach
a's ni fhasann fear insna coilltibh ceart;
Nil suim ag an speirbhean i sport no i bleisiur,
ach i ag gol a's ag beicigh a's ag reababh bas,
a ra gan faothaomh, ni bhfhaigheadh na seimh-fhear
aon oiche in Eirinn na uain chun reast
ag an trup so meirligh a's iad ag teacht le cheile,
a's go mbuailfear caoch sinn ar Shliabh na mBan
I hear no music from the blackbird or his mate,
and the grass grows no longer under forest trees;
the sky woman finds no joy or pleasure,
she weeps, screeching and striking palms together;
saying again and again that the strong men cannot find
even one place to lay their heads or to sleep the night,
on the run from these bastards who've gathered together,
and that we'll be beaten blind on the slopes of Sliabh na mBan.
A's is oth lion feining bualadh an lae ud
do dhul ar Ghaeil bhocht a's na ceadta a slad,
mar ta na meirligh ag deanamh geim dinn
a's ag ra nach aoinne leo pice no slea.
Nior thainig ar Major i ndtus an lae chuinn
a's ni rabhamar feinig i gcoir na i gceart,
ach mar a sheolfai treada de bha gan aire
ar thaobh na greine de Shliabh na mBan.
It is my sorrow and regret, the beating that day
inflicted on the Gaels, and hundreds wounded or hurt;
the bastards are jeering, laughing at us poor fools
saying they're not afraid of things like pitchforks and shovels.
Our commander never came to us as day began
and we ourselves were only confused and without order
like a herd of cows wandering with no herdsman
on the slopes where the sun rises on Sliabh na mBan.
Mo lean leir ar an dream gan eifeacht,
nar fhan le eirim istoiche no stad
go mbeadh duiche Deiseach a's an tir ar fad
ag teacht lena cheile o'n tir aneas;
bheadh cunamh De linn a's an tir ar fad,
a's ni dhiolfadh meirleach darbh ainm Neil sinn,
a's bhuafai an reim linn ar Shliabh na mBan.
Sorrowful fools, you are a crowd without sense or strength
who did not wait until night to rise up, or wait
until the Deisi country and whole land together
had gathered united here from lands to the south:
until our camps were laid out, with strong forces:
We'd have had God's help, and from all the land,
and no bastard named Neill could betray us for pay:
the field would have been ours where the sun rises on Sliabh na mBan.
Is e Ros do bhreoigh a's do chloigh ge deo sinn,
mar ar fagadh morchuid dinn sinte lag,
leanai oga ina smaola doite
a's an meid a fhan beo dhiobh cois clai no scairt;
ach geallaim fein dhaoibh, an te a dhein an foghla,
go mbeamna i gcoir do le pic a's le slea,
a's go gcuirfeam Yeoman ar crith ina mbroga,
ag diol a gcomhair leo ar Shliabh na mBan.
It is in New Ross that we were battered and thrown down,
there where so many were stretched out, wounded or dead;
young children made into burnt black meat,
and any still alive sheltering behind walls and bushes.
But I promise you, you ones who did that slaughter,
that we'll be ready for you with pitchforks and shovels,
We'll make the militias shake in their boots,
paying them back for what's owed them on Sliabh na mBan.
Ta na cobhlaigh mhora ag iarraidh eolais,
ta'n aimsir og a's an chabhair ag teacht.
An Te a mhill na gnotha, is e a leigheasfadh fos iad,
a's ni dhiolfam feoirling leo, cios no slea;
piosa coroineach an chuid ba mho dhe,
luach eiric bo no teaghlach deas.
Beidh rinnce ar bhoithre a's soillse a ndo againn,
beidh meidhir a's mortas ar Shliabh na mBan.
Big fleets of warships are seeking passage and way,
the day is still young and help will come to us soon.
God who set our plans all awry, he will put them right again.
We won't pay them anything in rents or for ?? (seems like a mistake in the Irish. "slea'" is to cut turf.)
to redeem cattle they confiscated from us or for fine houses;
A bit of a crown piece at the very most, we'll pay.
There will be dances on the roads; we'll light torches and bonfires;
joy and delight together will be on Sliabh na mBan.
A's ta an Francach faobhrach a's a loingeas gleasta,
le ranna geara acu ar muir le seal;
'S e an sior-sgeal go bhfuil a dtriall ar Eirinn,
a's go gcuirfid Gaeil bhocht aris ina gceart;
Da mba doigh liom feining go mb'fhior an sgeal,
bheadh mo chroi chomh eadtrom le lon ar sceach;
go mbeidh lot ar mheirligh a's an adharc a seideadh
ar thaobh na greine de Shliabh na mBan.
The French tremble with eagerness and their ships are ready.
The ship masts are sharp and strong there on the sea waiting;
Everyone is saying that Ireland is their goal now;
that they'll place those who've suffered in their right place again.
If I myself knew that that news was true news,
my heart would be merry as the blackbird in the thorn tree;
that the bastards would be beaten, and cow-horns sounding,
on the slope where the sun rises on Sliabh na mBan.
Slievenamon by Kickham (1828-1882)
Kickham was son of a prosperous household north of Sliabh na mBan, in a prosperous fertile part of Tipperary in which his own generation was probably the first to be ignorant of Irish. He later became a prominent member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, but his "nationalism", like theirs, was an abstract thing based on allegiance to a generalized Irish nation. It was often utterly ignorant of the reality of people, place and tradition, its own Irishness merely the mirror-image of the English view of the Irish.This song is rooted in popular sentimental English Victorian poetry, by way of one of the main strands of Anglo-Irish poetry and song; "The Emigrant Regrets."
Yes, there are a few images to begin, but then we are lost in a vapid mist of sentiment that is as foreign to original Irish (Gaelic) tradition, as it is to emotion and clarity.
Alone all alone by the wave-washed strand
And alone in a crowded hall
The hall it is gay and the waves they are grand
But but my heart is not here at all
It lies far away by night and by day
To the times and the joys that are gone
But I never will forget the sweet maiden I met
In the valley near Slievenamon
Oh it was not the grace of her queenly air
Nor her cheeks of roses glow
Nor her soft black eyes nor her flowing hair
Nor was it her lily white brow
'Twas the soul of truth and of melting ruth
And the smile like a summer's dawn
that stole my heart away one soft summer's day
In the valley near Slievenamon.
In the festive hall by the star watched shore
Oh ever my restless spirit cries
My love oh my love will 1 ne'er see you more
And my land will you never up-rise
By night and by day I ever ever pray
While lonely my life flows on
To see our flag unrolled
And my true love to enfold
In the valley near Slievenamon.
So much lost, along with the Irish language....
(I reserve all rights to this essay, and to the translations) ©Jay
Callahan 2021
(And by the way, has some other site recommended this post in particular? There are crowds of people each week trampling in. Let me know, if you would. Thanks!)
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