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.