Cearbhall (Carroll) Ỏ Dálaigh was a late fourteenth century poet in north Clare and also the hero of a well-known tale composed probably in the fifteenth century, and also a poet in mid- seventeenth century Wexford, and also maybe a poet in late seventeenth century Armagh and also maybe your mother-in-law (but probably not).
The Ỏ Dálaigh learned family had spread to many areas by the
sixteenth century so there were a lot of Ỏ Dálaighs out there, including
logically a number of Cearbhalls. The family originated in Westmeath and may
have had links to monastic learning there, but like most medieval learned
families, no one really knows. (The best discussion of the origins of the
medieval learned families is Proinsias MacCana’s Rise of the Later Schools of Fileadheacht
published in Eriu) By, say, 1400, if an Irishman or woman heard “Ỏ Dálaigh”, he
or she probably thought “poetry and learning,” though by then the various
branches had only tenuous links with one another.
The late fourteenth century Cearbhall became famous as
someone with many skills beyond just
learning, and also as a lover. There is no information as to whether
the reputation was justified and how it was earned, but the well-known tale mentioned above has
him in love with Farbhlaidh, the (ahistorical) daughter of the King of Scotland.
Her father insists she marry someone more important, so Cearbhall is always
having to use his wits to get to see her. Luckily for her, Farbhlaidh has a friend,
Dubhghil, who is “glic i gceardaibh draoidheachta” (clever in druidic skills:
“ceard” is in the dative plural), and “A bhuime bhúidhe, (Farbhlaidh says to
Duibhghil) ó atá gach uile ní for do chumas (because you can do anything), beir
meise anocht go neamhfhailleach d’fhéachain an fhir (to see that man who has
troubled me so much) sin rom bhuaidhir mé de bhunadh.” (The tale is in Early
Modern Irish, but like most such, sometimes uses archaic forms.)
The two of them go there as magical birds, but Cearbhall only
sees two sweet-singing musical birds and puts them in a cage. After a while, they speak to him and ask to be
freed.
“Créad an logh do-ghéabhsa as bhur léagain uaim?” ar
Cearbhall. (What ransom will I get for letting you go?)
“Do bhreith féin doit gan díth dúinne,” as iadsan. (Your own choice
as long as it doesn’t harm us)
“Éirghidh I bhur gcruthaibh féin im fhiadhnaise,” ol sé.
(Take on your own forms before me)
Chomh luath as ro-chonnaircsamh Farbhlaodh, sáithis rinn a
deirce ‘na deilbh agus tángadar datha éagsamhla
de agus teabarsain beag for a theangadh , agus níor labhair cách díbh
fria ar oile. (As soon as he saw F, he stared at her and different colors came
on his face…Nerither of them spoke to the other)
(This is actually his first time seeing her. She saw him in a dream and is pursuing him, as it were.)
“An ar mo shonsa atá an sost mór sion oraibh?” ar Duibhghil.
(Is it because of (seeing) me you’re so silent?)
It is a great classical love story shot through with humor
and was most recently edited by Síobhán Ní Laoire in 1986 as Bás Cearbhaill
agus Farbhlaidhe, published by An Clóchomhar. The earliest text is from about
1610 and was written by Briain Mag Niallghuis in Flanders, but there are many
later manuscripts from Ulster and Munster.
The Wexford Cearbhall features in a folk tale that was still
very common when tales began to be collected methodically in the 1920s/1930s
and it too is a love story and one with more definite historical basis. This
Cearbhall fell in love with Eleanor, the daughter of Murchadh Caomhánach, an
important lord. Her father also opposed the match for reasons not known to us.
Almost nothing is known about what actually happened there
in 17th century north Wexford/Carlow, and the various folktales
mostly recount Cearbhall’s clever attempts to win Eleanor. Some tales have a
happy ending: others do not. All are more or less “contaminated” by folktale
motifs that originally had nothing to do with this story, but are thought to have been attracted to it because Cearbhall was a proverbial learned, clever,
tragic hero.
Seachrán Chearbhaill is one version, anda crosántacht, a literary form that blends poetry and prose in a
particular way. It starts off with poetry as though it is being spoken by the
composer, but this is interrupted regularly by wry prose patter that comments
on the poem and expands on it by retelling incidents from traditional tales. It
was originally an oral performance in ritual contexts and is probably best seen
in such pieces as Dáibhí Ỏ Bruadair’s Iomdha Sgéimh ar Chur na Cluana,
performed at the wedding of Una de Búrca in mid-seventeenth century in county Limerick. (See The Wedding Poems of
Dáibhí Ỏ Bruadair, Margo Griffin-Wilson, Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies,
2010).
Seachráin Chearbhaill (seachrán in literary contexts is an
Otherworld-inspired wandering) first occurs in a manuscript of the late
eighteenth century, but also survives in oral versions collected in early
twentieth century west Cork and east and west Conamara. (Joe Heany recorded it
on a record.) I have never seen the manuscript version, but here is a bit of
one Cork version from Amhlaoibh Ỏ Luínse.
Do thugas-sa sealed ag amharc na ríogan-mhná (gazing at the queenly woman: “bean in genitive)
Agus b’í siúd
annir déid-chailce a’s na mbuí-chocán.
(that was/maiden of chalk-white teeth and yellow tresses)
Níorbh fhada
liom sealad ag amharc a buí-chocán (I wouldn’t think it tedious to be…)
Ná a bheith a
mealla go maidean, cé gur bhaoth a rá, (than to be courting her…morning, though
it is foolish to say so)
Agus cá baoithe domh-sa féinig
sin a rá ná do Fhionn Mac Cumhaill uí Muair uí Bhaois teacht ar tulaig, ar
talaig, ar taitneamh agus ar Chraoibh Rua, ag eisteach le guth gadhairt agus le
glas coileán, le gníomh na bhfear sbéimeannach agus le baois na bhfear mbeag,
nó le hAogan mhác Aogain, an chéad laoch dá dtáinig go hEirinn ariam ag
tabhairt trí léim na Brice Blaighe i
gcontúirt a bháite agus a bhascaithe le grá mná sa Dohan Toir.
Páirt de’m
mhearaí, ní aithním an oíche ón lá
(raving)
Ní mór go
bhfeadar cadé an rud capall seachas cuíora bhán
(Almost I don’t know…sheep)
Etc. (This is not what's in the video.)
(And how is that crazier of me…coming onto little hills,
listening to voices of hounds and young dogs, to the deeds of the strong men
and the little men, or to Aogan, the first hero who ever came to Ireland to
make the leap of B B, in danger of being drowned and crushed, for the love of a
woman of the Eastern World.)
(For more information on Crosántacht, see An Chrosántacht by
Alan Harrison, An Clóchomhar, 1979.)
Love poems said to have been composed by Cearbhall survive.
Seán Ỏ Súilleabháin, a Munster writer of the Dublin Ỏ Neachtain circle, left
the earliest copy of one in a manuscript of 1701 that’s now in Trinity College
Library as H 4 26. I was going to quote a bit but it is getting late and I have
a lot of work to do still. There are several other poems, but it’s not at all
certain that Cearbhall composed them.
We do have a poem definitely from the Wexford Cearbhall himself
commenting on his reputation and claiming it is entirely undeserved. Páidrigín
Haicéad, a well-known Tipperary poet had written to him, asking if he was the
many-skilled Cearbhall Ỏ Dálaigh people said. Cearbhall replied, also in a poem,
denying everything, but other people must have thought differently and, like I
said, tales were still told of his courtship of Eleanor in the 20th
century.
The point of the two poems here was probably that both men
knew tales of the Clare Cearbhall, and Páidrigín was asking, somewhat
facetiously, “Hey, are you trying to be that other guy or something?” He would
not have asked though, if he wasn’t hearing things about the Wexford Cearbhall.
(He was maybe likely to hear things because Eleanor’s mother was the daughter
of an important Tipperary lord, Lord Mountgarret, who fought the English, a
crowd of whom Páidrigín was not that fond.)
The song “Eibhlín, a ruin” was associated with Cearbhall’s
courtship of Eleanor, but no one knows how far back the association goes. It’s
been said that it’s a scholar’s mistake from the early 19th century,
but, on the other hand, some folk tales maintain the link, and storytellers
from Cork, Kerry and Galway are unlikely all to have read Gratten Flood’s
writings. Who knows? Anyway, here is the song.
He didn’t, but you can see why people thought he was an
appropriate author: both Mac na Míchomhairle and Seachrán Chearbhaill are desperately flippant tragicomic tales of mostly
unhappy love.
Here is a version of An Caiseadach Bán sung by a great Carna
singer. An Caiseadach Bán (fair-haired Cassidy) is Tomás Ỏ Caiside of
Roscommon, another real-life lyrical, fast-talking, tragicomic eighteenth
century hero.
So what does Cearbhall Ỏ Dálaigh have to do with anything and why am I writing about him?
I will tell you. I was looking at Thomas O’Rahilly’s Irish
Poets, Historians, and Judges in English Documents, 1538-1615, Proceedings of
the Royal Irish Academy, 1922-4 (Vol 36)
for mentions of Dáibhí Ỏ Duibhgheannain for last week’s post and noticed
O’Rahily’s discussion of the Wexford Ỏ Dálaigh poets and of Cearbhall
(Cearbhall shows up in contemporary English government documents, though not as
a lover.) That got me thinking, and here we are.
The other thing is this: modern Irish literature (say, 1400
- 1850) is vast and wonderful: the voice
of 2500 years of human experience. The literature is peculiarly Irish and I
really don’t know of anything like it, except in the Highlands, of course. It is
also not well-known. Texts have been published, of course, and discussed, but
outside University College, Cork, there has been little informed, intelligent
consideration of the literature in context or as literature. Sure, it’s harder
to read than Nós, but challenges are what make life.
(I’m not making any claims for this post, by the way. It may
be challenging, but that’s only because it was written in between days at my work and time spent shoveling snow, splitting firewood and feeding animals.)
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