Bird is the Word

So I was walking in the woods the other day, and I heard a bird singing this song despondently in Irish. The bird looked rather medieval, or perhaps Early Modern--it was difficult to say because of the mist. At any rate, I wrote down what he was singing as best I could.

I did have a chance to speak to the bird on another occasion when he admitted that this was not an original composition, but a song he had heard recited to the wire-strung harp in an Irish house 'quite a few years ago, I believe.'

'What were you doing in the house?' I asked the bird, but he then became reticent about the matter.

He was an honest-looking bird, and I tend to believe his story, as far as it goes. Here is a translation of what he sang.

A Bhean Atá Lán Dom Fhuath 

A bhean ata lan do'm fhuath,

(A Mhic Duach!) ni chuimhin leat

oiche ro bhamair ar-aon,

taobh ar thaobh, agus tu, a bhean.

Woman, you who hate me so much,

by Saint Mac Duach,

do you remember the night

that we were together you and I, side by side?

Da madh cumhain leatsa, a bhean,

an feadh rug a teas do'n ghrein,

do bhi me, la, agus sibh,

ca beag sin da chur a gceill?

 If you remembered, woman,

 that while the sun went down

 that you and I were once...

 but what need do I have to say more?

Do you remember, oh soft palm,

oh slender foot, oh graceful side,

oh red mouth, oh white breast,

that you put your arms around me?

Do you remember, oh dear shape,

the occasion that you told me that God,

who created heaven, had never made a man

dearer to you than I?

I remember that I once had your love,

as now I have your hate:

though I say it myself, oh skin like a flower--

hate goes as far as love.

Though the whole world were to be convinced 

that there was ever a woman who loved some man, 

(something that was never so and never will be so),

don’t let him believe it himself.

The original bird and I met accidentally on another occasion, as well, on which he did not appear any more chipper than the first time. He sang the following song.

Soraidh Slan

A passionate farewell to last night,

for all that it seems so far away now.

Though I were fated to be hung for it,

alas, that tonight is not its beginning.

 There are two inside here tonight

 whose eyes cannot hide their secret;

 though they are not mouth to mouth,

 their eyes flash a message vehement.

Alas, the gossipers won’t allow a word from my lips,

you with quiet eyes;

Understand then the message of my eyes,

you in the corner over there:

“Hold this night for us,

alas that we cannot be here forever;

do not let the morning inside,

get up and force back the day!

 Oh, Blessed Mary, graceful foster mother,

 since you are patron of every poet,

 come to my aid, take my hand,

--a passionate farewell to last night!”