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.