1. |
Mná na hÉireann I
04:28
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Mná na hÉireann
Tá bean in Éirinn a bhronnfadh séad dom is mo sháith le n-ól,
Tá bean in Éirinn is ba bhinne léithe mo ráfla ceoil ná seinm téad; Tá bean in Éirinn is níorbh fhearr léi beo,
Mise ag léimnigh nó leagtha i gcré is mo tharr fé fhód.
Tá bean in Éirinn a bheadh ag éad liom mur’ bhfaighfinn ach póg
Ó bhean ar aonach, nach ait an scéala, is mo dháimh féin leo;
Tá bean ab fhearr liom nó cath is céad díobh nach bhfaigheam go deo, Is tá cailín spéiriúil ag fear gan Bhéarla, dubhghránna crón.
Tá bean i Laighnibh is níor mhiste léithe bheith láimh liom ar bord, Is tá bean i bhFearnmhaigh a ghéabhadh bhéarsaí is is sárbhinne glór, Bhí bean ar thaobh cnoic i gCarraig Éamoinn a níodh gáire ag ól,
Is tráth bhí ina maighdin ní mise d’éignigh a dá chois ó chomhar.
Tá bean a leaghfadh, nífeadh is d’fhuaifeadh cáimric is sról,
Is tá bean a dhéanfadh de dh’olainn gréas is thairnfeadh an bhró; Tá bean is b’fhearr léi ag cruinniú déirce nó cráite le cró,
Is tá bean ’na ndéidh uile a luífeadh le fear is a máthair faoi fhód.
Tá bean a dhéanfadh an iomad tréanais is grá Dia mór,
Is tá bean nach mbéarfadh a mionna ar aon mhódh is nach n-ardódh glór; Ach thaispeáin saorbhean a ghlacfadh le fear go cráifeach cóir
Nach mairfeadh a ghléas is nach mbainfeadh léithe i gcás ar domhan.
Tá bean a déarfadh dá siúlfainn léithe go bhfaighinn an t-ór,
Is tá bean ’na léine is is fearr a méin ná na táinte bó,
Tá bean a bhuairfeadh Baile an Mhaoir agus clár Thír Eoghain, Is ní fheicim leigheas ar mo ghalar féin ach scaird a dh’ól.
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The Women of Ireland
There’s a woman in Ireland who’d bestow a jewel on me and my fill of drink; There’s a woman in Ireland who loves my singing more than the music of strings; There’s a woman in Ireland who doesn’t care whether I’m alive and kicking or laid in clay, my belly under the sod.
There’s a woman in Ireland who’d be jealous of me if I had only a kiss
From another woman at a fair – a strange thing that, since I’m fond of them all;
There’s a woman in Ireland I’d prefer to a regiment of them, but whom I’ll never enjoy. And there’s a beautiful young woman yoked to a swarthy brute ignoramus.
There’s a woman in Leinster who wouldn’t mind joining me on board, And a woman in Farney who would toss off verses in a glorious voice; There was a woman in Carrickedmond, who would laugh in drink, And while she was a virgin, it wasn’t I who forced her two legs apart.
There’s a woman who’d cook and wash, and sew cambric and satin, And a woman who’d embroider with wool, and hand-mill flour; There’s a woman who’d prefer to beg for alms or suffer in a hovel; And after all those comes the woman who’d lie with a man
Just after she’s buried her mother.
There’s a woman who’d practise fasting and great love of God,
And there’s a woman who’d swear no oath or raise her voice;
But a free woman, all pious and right, accepting a man would prove That his tackle would slacken and never bother her for any reason at all.
There’s a woman who’d say that if I went with her, I’d gain the gold;
And there’s a woman in her shirt, whose face is worth more than herds of cows, There’s a woman who would bellow in Weirstown and on the plains of Tyrone, And I see no cure for my illness than to take a drink.
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2. |
Casadh an tSúgáin
05:08
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Casadh an tSúgáin
A Rí na bhFeart cad do chas ins a’ dúthaigh seo mé?
Is gur mó cailín deas a gheobhainn im’ dhúthaighín beag féin, Gur casadh mé isteach mar a raibh searc is rún geal mo chléibh, Is chuir an tseanbhean amach mé ag casadh an tsúgáinín féir.
Agus d’imir mise cleas i dtí Mhic Uí Dhónaill aréir, Is an tarna cleas i dteach an ósta lena thaobh,
An tríú cleas níl neart dom áireamh ar mo scéal, Mar is minic a bhain fear slat a bhuailfeadh é féin.
Curfá
Má bhíonn tú liom bí liom, a stóirín mo chroí,
Ma bhíonn tú liom, bí liom os comhair an tsaoil;
Ma bhíonn tú liom, bí liom gach orlach ded’ chroí,
’Sé mo lom go fann nach liom Dé Domhnaigh thú mar mhnaoi.
Ó, thíos i Sligeach a chuir mé eolas ar mo ghrá, Agus thiar i nGaillimh a d’ól mé leí mo sháith. Dar bhrí mo bhasa muna léigfí domsa mar atáim, Ó déanfaidh mise cleas a bhaineas siúl as na mná.
Tá mo cheannsa liath le bliain is ní le críonacht é,
Ní bheathaíonn briathra na bráithre pé sa domhan scéal é;
Is táimse id dhiaidh le bliain is gan fáil agam ort féin,
Is gur geall le fia mé ar sliabh go mbeadh gáir chon ’na dhéidh.
Do threabhfainn, d’fhuirsfinn, chuirfinn síol insa chré,
Agus sheolfainn na gamhna ar an tamhnach is fearr a bhfaighidís féar, Do chuirfinn crú fén each is mire shiúil ariamh ar féar,
Is ná héalódh bean le fear ná déanfadh sin féin.
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The Twisting of the Rope
O King of Power, what brought me into this country
And so many pretty girls I could have found in my own little place?
I landed in to the house of the love and bright secret of my heart
And the old woman put me out with the twisting of the little straw rope.
And I played a trick in McDonnell’s house last night, And a second trick in the alehouse next door;
The third trick I don’t dare include in my tale,
For it’s often a man cut a stick that would beat himself.
Chorus
If you are mine, be mine, little treasure of my heart,
If you are mine, be mine in full view of all the world;
If you are mine, be mine every inch of your heart,
It’s my bitter misfortune not to have you this Sunday for my wife.
Below in Sligo I got to know my love
And back in Galway I drank my fill with her.
I solemnly swear, if I’m not allowed be as I am Oh I’ll play a trick that will make the ladies move.
My head has gone grey this year and not from age;
Fine words feed no-one, no matter how we look at things;
I’m after you for a year with nothing to show for my effort,
And I’m like a deer on a mountain pursued by the cry of hounds.
I would plough, I would harrow, I would put seed in the ground
I’d drive calves to the high meadow where they’ll best find grass;
I would put a shoe on the fastest horse that ever walked grass,
And would a woman not elope with a man who couldn’t do even that?
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3. |
Crucán Na bPáiste
03:58
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Crucán na bPáiste
Is briste mo chroí, is uaigneach mo shlí,
Is mo stóirín in a luí is mé cráite;
Is é deireadh mo shaoil, mo chailín beag rua, Sínte i gCrucán na bPáiste.
Ní fheicfidh sí arís an drúcht ar an bhféar,
Ná an sneachta i ngleannta Mhám Trasna;
Gan ghrian ar a haghaidh, gan ceol binn na n-éan, Ach an chré fhuar i gCrucán na bPáiste.
Curfá
In ainm an Athar is in ainm an Mhic,
Is a Mháithrín atá lán de ghrásta;
In ainm an Spioraid Naoimh ná fág me beo, Is mo mháinlín i gCrucán na bPáiste.
Is buartha na sléibhte is tá mairg ar an Measc,
Is olc mise gan í bheith sábháilte;
Is an fhad a bhéas mé beo ní sheasfaidh mé ar fhód Na hÉireann ná i gCrucán na bPáiste.
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Crucán na bPáiste
Broken my heart, lonely my life,
My darling lying here and me tormented;
It is the end of my world – my little red-haired girl, Stretched out in Crucán na bPáiste.
She will not see again the dew on the grass, Nor the snow in the glens of Maamtrasna;
No sun on her face, no sweet song of the birds, Only the cold clay of Crucán na bPáiste.
Chorus
In the name of the Father and in the name of the Son, And Mother Mary full of grace;
In the name of the Holy Spirit, don’t leave me alive, With my little darling in Crucán na bPáiste.
There is sadness on the mountains, anger on the Mask, But, much worse am I that did not save her;
And, for the time I am alive never more will I stand, In Ireland or in Crucán na bPáiste.
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4. |
Móuda Ní Dhúbhda
04:20
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Móuda Ní Dhúbhda
’Sí Móuda Ní Dhúbhda an planda maiseach, múinte, Is meabhlach a súile ’gus a gáire,
’Sí bláth na n-úlla cumhra í, ’sna gcnó ’tá milis dúinte, Is fada mise i gcumhaidh dá grá-sa.
Mo léan! gan mé is tú amuigh i gCúige Mumhan Na gcoillte dubh dorcha fásaigh,
Sheinnfinnse tiúin duit ar bharr mo fhliút,
Ba bhinne ná na cuacha ar na fálta.
Má théann tú ag iarraidh céile téirigh go Sign na Gréine, Is gheobhaidh tú scéimh gach áille,
Gheo’ tú féirín ó Shúsaí Bhán, Inín Shéamais,
Maighre na gruaige báine,
’Sí finne gile gléigeal ná’n eala ar an Éirne,
A leaca dhearg shéimh ’s a bráid gheal,
Ar an taobh so de mhala shléibhe tá sáith an rí de chéile, Gur cailleadh na céadta dá grá-sa.
Tá Búrcaigh is Brúnaigh, ní áirím clann Mhaolrúanaidh, Muintir Chúige Mumhan ag cur slán leat,
Lucht fearainn is dúiche, iarlaí ’s diúicí,
’San méid sin ag caoi de do ghrá-sa,
Dá bhfaighinnse ó Rí na nDúl cead amhairc ar an gcúilinn, Rachainn ar mo ghlúine g’Droichead Átha,
Is buaidh na gcúig chúige le maise’s le múineadh,
’Sgur ag Móuda Ní Dhúbhda atá sé.
Tá bunadh chóige Laighean ar cuairt fá do dhéinse,
A mhaighdean, go meidhreach amárach,
Mar ’tá Eústásaigh is Mac Murchadha na méith-mhart, ’San méid sin uile i ngrá leat.
Go leor de Mhuintir Chuileannáin ó shléibhte Dhún Dealgan, ’Sní áirím na fir chalma ón Triúchainn, ’S a bhfuil ó Shliabh na Céise go Droichead Lios na nGearaltach, Ag tarraingt ar Mhóuda Ní Dhúbhda.
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Carolan’s Dream
Maud O’Dowd is a pleasant, well-mannered young woman,
Her eyes and her smile are beguiling.
She’s the flower of the fragrant apples and the sweet-shelled nut. And I’m a long time pining for her love.
My grief that you and I are not abroad in Munster Of the dank dark wild woods.
A tune I’d play for you on the tip of my flute,
Far sweeter than the cuckoos on the hedges.
If you’re looking for a wife, go to the Sign of the Sun, And you’ll find the beauty of all beauties;
You’ll get a present from fair Susie, Seamus’s daughter, A fair-haired beauty (of renown).
There’s less fair white brightness on the swan on Lough Erne Than on her rose-red cheeks and white neck.
On this side of the hill there’s a woman fit for a king,
For whose love hundreds have died.
There are Burkes and Brownes, not to mention the Mulrooneys, The people of Munster bidding you farewell,
Landed people, country folk, earls and dukes,
And all of them weeping for love of you.
If the God of Nature let me look upon your beauty,
I’d travel as far as Drogheda on my knees,
For the five provinces’ champion for beauty and deportment Belongs to Maud O’Dowd.
The people of Leinster will be out on your tracks, Young lady, all merriment tomorrow,
For the Eustaces and Murphys, the fat-cattle people, And all that crowd are in love with you.
Hordes of Cullinanes from the Dundalk Mountains Not to mention the warriors from Truagh,
And all from Slievenakesh to Fitzgeralds Bridge Will be closing in on Maud O’Dowd.
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5. |
Éamonn an Chnoic
05:26
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Éamonn an Chnoic
Cé hé sin amuigh a bhfuil faor ar a ghuth, A’ réabadh mo dhorais dúnta?
Mise Éamonn an Chnoic atá báite fuar fliuch O shíor-shiúl sléibhte is gleannta.
A lao ghil’s a chuid, cad a dhéannfainnse duit Mura gcuirfinn ort beinn de m’ ghúna?
’S go bhfuil púdar go tiubh á shíor-shéideadh leat, Is go mbeimis araon múchta.
Is fada mise amuigh faoi shneachta is faoi shioc, Is gan dánacht agam ar éinne,
Mo sheisreach gan scor, mo bhranar gan cur,
Is gan iad agam in aon chor.
Nil cáirde agam, is danaid liom san,
A ghlacfadh mé moch nó déanach,
Is go gcaithfidh mé dul thar farraige soir, Ós ann nach bhfuil aon de m’ghaolta.
A chumann ’s a shearc, rachaimídne seal
Fá choillte na measa cumhra
Mar a bhfaighimid an breac, ’s an lon ar a nead, An fhia ’gus an poc ag búireach,
Na h-éiníní binne ar ghéigíní a’ seinm
Is an cuaichín ar bharr an iúir ghlais,
Is go brách, brách ní thiocfaidh
An bás inár ngaire i lár na coille cumhra.
Beir scéala uaim soir go hainnir chiúin an tsuilt, Gur chailleadar a nid na héanlaith,
Gur aréir do thit an sneachta ar na cnoic, Amach ar fud na hÉireann.
Dá mairfeadh liom rith go seachtain ó inniu,
Do rachainnse ar mire ad’ fhéachaint,
Is go mb’fhearr liom anois a bheith báite sa mhuir, Ná a rá go mbeifeá réidh liom.
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Ned of the Hill
Who is that outside with an edge to his voice,
Who is battering my bolted door?
I am Ned of the Hill and I’m drowned, cold and wet, From ceaselessly walking mountains and glens.
Oh my darling, my love, what could I do for you,
But wrap a piece of my gown around you?
But there’s thick gunpowder forever being shot at you, And we’d both end up smothered.
I’m a long time outside under snow and frost,
And with nobody to trust;
My plough-team are untied, my fallow field unsown, And I’m not going near them at all.
I haven’t any friends, and I grieve over that,
Who would shelter me early or late,
So I’ll have to sail east over the sea,
For it’s there I’ll find none of my people.
My darling, my love, let us go for a while
To the woods with their fragrant berries and nuts; Where we’ll find the trout, and the blackbird in its nest, The stag and the buck-goat calling;
The little birds sweetly singing in the branches,
And the cuckoo on top of the yew-tree.
And never, ever, ever, will death approach us
In the middle of the fragrant wood.
Bring news from me east to the gentle happy girl, That the birds have lost their nests;
That last night the snow fell on the hills
And over the whole of Ireland.
If I could manage to run for a week from today I’d hasten madly to see you,
And I would prefer now to be drowned in the sea Than to say that you’ve cast me aside.
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6. |
Mo Ghile Mear
04:47
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Mo Ghile Mear
Seal dá rabhas im’ mhaighdean shéimh, ’S anois im’ bhaintreach caite tréith,
Mo chéile ag treabhadh na dtonn go tréan De bharr na gcnoc san imigéin.
Bímse buan ar buairt gach ló,
Ag caoi go crua ’s ag tuar na ndeor, Mar scaoileadh uainn an buachaill beo, Is ná ríomhtar tuairisc uaidh, mo bhrón.
Curfá
’Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear,
’Sé mo Chaesar, togha na bhfear, Ní bhfuaras féin aon suan ar séan Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear.
Ní haoibhinn cuach ba shuairc ar neoin, Táid fíorchoin uaisle ar uatha spóirt, Táid saoithe is sua i mbuairt ’s i mbrón, Ó scaoileadh uainn an buachaill beo.
Níl séis go suairc ar chruachruit cheoil,
Tá an éigse i ngruaim ’s gan uaim na mbeól,
Táid béithe buan ar buairt gach ló Ó díbreadh uainn an buachaill beo.
Marcach uasal uaibhreach óg,
Croí gan ghruaim is suairce snó,
Glac is luaimneach luath i ngleo
Ag teascadh an tslua ’s ag tuargain treón.
Níor labhair an chuach go suairc um nóin
’S ní binn guth gadhair a gcoilltibh cnó,
Ar maidin shamhraidh i ngleanntaibh ceóidh Ó d’imthigh uainn an buachaill beo.
Acht seinntear stáir ar chláirsigh cheóil Is líontar táinte cáirt ar bord
Le hintinn ard gan cháim gan cheo, Chum saol is sláinte d’fháil dom’ leon.
’Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear,
’Sé mo Chaesar, gile mear,
Mo chruadhtan féin a lua tré léan Mar chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear.
Ní mhaífead féin cé hé mo stór,
Beidh innsint scéil ’na dhéidh go leor,
Ach guidhim chun Aoin-Mhic Dé na gcumhacht, Go bhfillidh mo laoch gan baol beo.
’Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear,
’Sé cúis mo léin mo ghile mear
Mo nuar go h-éag ’s mo ruathar léin, Mar do ruaigeadh a gcéin mo ghile mear!
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My Shining Hero
Once I was a gentle maid,
Now I’m a widow, wasted, weak;
My mate is strongly ploughing the waves, Over the hills and far away.
I spend every day in sorrow, Weeping heavily and shedding tears For my lively boy was sent away And there’s no report of him, alas.
He is my hero, my lively brightness, He is my Caesar, choice of men; I’ve found no sleep in peace
Since my lively hero went away.
No cuckoo-song brings joy at noon,
The nobles’ hounds are deprived of sport; Wise men and scholars are sad and sorrowful, Since they sent away the lovely boy.
There’s no joyful music from wirestrung harp, The singers are silent, no sound in their mouths; Young women are in lasting sorrow every day Since our lively boy was banished from us.
Young arrogant noble horseman,
An un-sad heart, a cheerful mien,
A nimble lively grip in battle,
Slashing the crowd, battering strong enemies.
The cuckoo doesn’t sing cheerfully at noon,
And the hounds’ yelp doesn’t sound in the nut-woods, On summer mornings in misty glens,
Since he left us, the lively boy.
But let the harps sound loud with music, And let tables groan under drinks for all With spirits high without blemish or block, To win life and health for my lion-heart.
He is my hero, my lively light,
He is my Caesar, lively light;
It’s for sorrow I mention my own hardship, Because my lively light has gone away.
I will not boast who is my love;
That story will be told in good time;
But I pray to the powerful God’s One Son That my hero will return out of danger, alive.
He’s my hero, my lively light,
The cause of my grief is my lively light My bitter grief, my rush of sorrow,
That they banished my lively light away.
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7. |
Slán le Máigh
04:33
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Slán le Máigh
Ó slán is céad ón dtaobh so uaim,
Cois Máighe na gcaor, na gcraobh, na gcruach, Na stád, na séad, na saor, na slua,
Na ndán, na ndréacht, na dtréan gan ghruaim!
Curfá
Is och, ochón, is breoite mise,
Gan chuid, gan chóir, gan chóip, gan chiste, Gan sult, gan seód, gan spórt, gan spionna, Ó seoladh mé chun uaignis.
Slán go héag dá saorfhir suairc,
Dá dáimh, dá cléir, dá héigs’, dá sua,
Do m’ chairde cléibh, gan chlaon, gan chluain, Gan cháim, gan chaon, gan chraos, gan chruas.
Is fánach faon mé, is fraochmhar fuar, Is támh-lag tréith, ’s is taomach trua, I mbarr an tsléibhe gan aon monuar. Im pháirt ach fraoch is gaoth aduaidh.
Ó dháil an chléir dom céile nua,
Cois Máighe go h-éag ní h-é mo chuairt, Go brách lem’ ré táim réidh lem’ chuach, Is le’ mná an tsaoil chuir mé ar buairt.
Is och, ochón, mo bhrón, mo mhilleadh, Iomarca an óil is póga bruinneall
Chuir mise lem’ laethe gan fód gan fothain, Ó seoladh mé chun uaignis.
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Farewell to the Maigue
Oh, farewell, farewell from me in this place,
By the Maigue of the berries, the branches, the peaks, The beauties, the jewels, the craftworkers, the crowds, The poems, the melodies, the strong people, unbowed!
Chorus
And oh, alas, it’s I who am sick,
Without food or justice or company or fortune, Without joy or jewel or sport or energy,
Since I was banished to solitude.
Farewell till death to her happy noblemen,
To her bards, her writers, her wise ones, her scholars, To my friends, free from dishonesty and deceit, Devoid of blemish, subterfuge, greed and hardness.
I’m aimless, prostrate, outraged, cold,
I’m weak, worn out, weepy, pitiful,
On top of the mountain alone, my woe,
Nothing with me but heather and the northeast wind.
Since the clergy assigned me a new companion, From now till death I won’t visit the Maigue;
For as long as I live I’m done with my native slopes And the worldly women who caused my downfall.
And oh, alas, my sorrow, my ruin;
Too much drink and kissing women
Have landed me now without shelter or support, Since I was banished to solitude.
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8. |
An Dochtúir Séan Ó hAirt
02:50
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An Dochtúir Séan Ó hAirt
Rachaidh mise suas an uair seo gan bhréig, Mar bhfuil sagart geanúil d’uaislibh ard Gael. Fear breá íogair tapaí,
Fear lé’ scaoiltear gasraí,
Is ar Sheán Ó hAirt go ceart a labhraim féin.
Fear den aicme scaipfeadh fíon go réidh,
Agus líonfadh thart go fras do mhac an cheoil is léinn. Dá mbeinn sa Róimh mar b’ait liom,
Is bíodh mo bhóta ionghlactha,
Is fíor go ndéanfainn easpag mór dhíot féin.
Leigheas de phreab ar aicíd glórthaí a bhéil,
Go mba buan é i bhfad, is clú don Ord é go léir.
Níl fear, níl bean ná leanbh
Bheith ar easpa teagaisc
Nach ndéanfadh seisean seanmóir mhór dóibh le céill. Stíobhard ceart do Mhac na Glóire é féin,
An préalóid deas de mhórfhuil Uí Néill.
Níl sin uair ná tráth,
Dá bhfaighinnse uain ar chách,
Nach n-ólfainn suas gan spás a shláinte bhreá shéimh.
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Dr John Hart
I will surely soon pay a visit
To a grand Gaelic priest of high birth;
A fine subtle quickwitted man
With the power to set captives free.
It’s of Doctor John Hart that I speak;
As free a hand as ever poured wine,
For makers of verses and tunes.
If I could go to Rome, as I’d like to,
And if I’d permission to vote
I’d bring you home a fine bishop’s mitre.
His voice quickly heals every ailment; May he live long, to honour the cloth. There’s no man, woman or child
In need of a teacher or guide
But would profit from his well-chosen words A steward loyal to God’s glorious Son,
Worthy prelate of O’Neill’s royal blood. There’s no time or occasion
I’d need any permission
To drink to his robust good health.
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9. |
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Ar Éirinn Ní Neosfainn cé hÍ
Aréir is mé ag téarnamh um neoin
Ar an dtaobh thall den teora ina mbím,
’Sea do thaobhaigh an spéirbhean im’ chomhair D’fhág taomanach breoite lag sinn.
Do ghéilleas dá méin is dá cló,
Dá bréithre ’s dá beol tanaí binn. Do léimeas fá dhéin dul ’na comhair Is ar Éirinn ní neosfainn cé hí.
Dá ngéillfeadh an spéirbhean dom’ ghlór, Agus ráite mo bheoil a bheith fíor;
Go deimhin duit go ndéanfainn do ghnó, Do léirchur i gcóir is i gcríoch.
Do léifinn go léir stair dom’ stór
’S ba mhéin liom í phógadh óm’ chroí; Do bhéarfainn an chraobh di gan ghó, Is ar Éirinn ní neosfainn cé hí.
Tá spéirbhruinneall mhaorga deas óg Ar an dtaobh thall den teora ’na mbím; Tá féile ’gus daonnacht ina snó
Is deise ’gus meon ins an mhnaoi.
Tá folt aici ar lasadh mar ór,
Go cócánach ómarach buí;
Tá lasadh ’na leacain mar rós
Is ar Éirinn ní neosfainn cé hí.
A shár-fhir, bí páirteach liom féin,
’S mé áireamh dá mb’fhéidir liom scríobh, Bheinn grámhar le bánchnis na gcraobh Dá bhfaghainn áirithe ó éinne cé hí,
Táir cáinte ’s níl cás orm é,
Gur le dánacht do théim leat dá suíomh, Ní foláir go bhfuil cáim ar a scéimh,
Go bhfuil náire ort a léigheadh dúinn cé hí. Is ar Éirinn ní neosfainn cé hí.
---------
For Ireland I’ll Not Tell Her Name
As I strolled last evening
Beyond my boundary fence,
A beautiful woman approached me And left me feeling ill and weak.
I yielded to her features and form,
Her words and her shapely sweet lips; I longed to fly straigth to her side, And for Ireland I’d not tell her name.
If this beauty pays heed to my voice As I utter these words full of truth Be certain I’ll serve you right well, Fulfilling each task to the last;
I’ll please you with story and song,
And with kisses that spring from the heart, Then I’ll make her the love of my life,
But for Ireland I’ll not tell her name.
There’s a beautiful stately young dame The far side of my boundary fence; There is kindness and love in her look She’s an elegant woman of sense.
Her hair falls in waves of gold flame, Her curls are all amber and light
Her cheeks glow like roses in dew, And for Ireland I’ll not tell her name.
My good man, show me some affection, Treat me as one of some account;
I would worship the fair-skinned lady
If someone would reveal who she is. People speak badly of you, but I don’t care; I’d go boldly with you to her domain. There must be a blot on her looks
Since for shame you won’t tell us her name.
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10. |
Jimmy mo Mhíle Stór
04:25
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Jimmy mo Mhíle Stór
Bliain an taca seo d’imigh uaim rún mo chléibh,
Ní thiocfaidh sé abhaile go dtabharfaidh sé cúrsa an tsaoil. Nuair a chífead é rithfead le fuinneamh ró-ard ina chomhair, Agus clúdód le mil é, ’sé Jimmy mo mhíle stór.
Bíonn mo mháthair is m’athair ag bearradh is ag bruíon liom féin. Táim giobaithe, piocaithe, ciapaithe, cráite i mo shaol;
Thugas taitneamh don duine úd dob fhinne ’s ab áille snó,
Ach chuaigh sé ar bord loinge, is é Jimmy mo mhíle stór.
A chailíní deasa, déanaigí brón díbh féin,
Mar go bhfuilimse fuirsithe, stracaithe, cráite ón saol. Thugas cumann don duine ba bhinne is ba bhreátha snó Do chuaigh ar bord loinge uaim, ’sé Jimmy mo mhíle stór.
Raghadsa chun coille ’gus caithfead ann críoch mo shaoil,
San áit ná beidh éinne, ag éisteacht le ceol na n-éan,
Ag bun an chrainn chaorthainn, mar a bhfásann ann féar go leor, Ag tabhairt taitneamh don duine úd, ’sé Jimmy mo mhíle stór.
-------
Jimmy My Thousand Treasures
It’s about a year now since I lost the love of my life
And he won’t be coming home till he’s done the rounds of the world; When I see him, I’ll charge so hard that I might knock him down And I’ll drown him in honey, he’s Jimmy my thousand treasures.
My mother and father are forever annoying and bothering me, I’m pecked and pestered and plagued and tormented in life
I gave love to the lad of the fairest and loveliest looks,
But he went on board ship, he’s Jimmy my thousand treasures.
All ye girls who have hearts, join in with my cries and my tears For I’m harrowed and harrassed and torn and tortured by life
I gave love to the lad with the sweet talk and loveliest looks,
But a ship took him from me, he’s Jimmy my thousand treasures. I’ll go to a wood and spend there the last of my days,
In a place without people, only listening to the song of the birds. At the foot of the rowan tree, where plenty of grass does grow, I’ll be loving that young lad, he’s Jimmy my thousand treasures.
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11. |
Bruach na Carraige Báine
05:38
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Bruach na Carraige Báine
Siar cois abhainn gan bhréag gan dabht, Tá an ainnir chiúin tais mhánla;
Is gur gile ar a com í ná an eala ar an dtonn Ó bhaithis go bonn a bróige.
’Sí an stáidbhean í a chráigh mo chroí,
Is d’fhág sí m’intinn brónach,
Is leigheas le fáil níl agam go brách
Ó dhiúltaigh mo ghrá geal domsa.
Do b’fhearr liom fhéin ná Éire mhóir Ná saibhreas Rí na Spáinne,
Go mbéinnse ’gus tusa i lúb na finne
I gcoillte i bhfad ónár gcáirde
Ó mise ’gus tusa bheith pósta a ghrá, Le haon-toil athar is máthar,
A mhaighdean óg is milse póg,
Ós tú grian na Carraige Báine.
Is treabhadóir mise, do threabhfainn is d’fhuirsfinn ’S na comharsain go bhfeicid mo thréithe;
’S níl aon tsórt nithe ar mo bhéim ná tuigim,
Is treabhaim gan tuirse go héascaidh;
An fómhar nuair a thigeann mo chuid eorna bhainim Is cuirim go seascair im’ sheomra,
An lár do scriosfainn, do bhuailfinn tuille
Ar thaoibh na Carraige Báine.
A stuaire an chinn chailce, más dual go mbeir agam, Beidh cóir ort a thaithneodh led’ cháirde,
Idir shíoda ’gus hata ó bhonn go baitheas
Is gach ní insa chathair dá áilleacht;
Beidh do bhólacht á gcasadh gach nóin chun baile, Is ceol binn ag do bheacha ar do bhánta,
Beidh ór ar do ghlacadh is cóiste ad tharraingt
Go bruach na Carraige Báine.
-------
The Bank of the White Rock
Oh, west by the river, without lie or doubt, Lives the quiet kind gentle girl;
Her skin is brighter than the swan on the wave, From her head to the sole of her shoe.
She’s the stately woman who tormented my heart, And left my mind in sadness,
And no hope of a cure can I hope to have,
Since my bright love has denied me.
Oh, I would prefer to the whole of Ireland, Or the riches of the King of Spain, That you and I would be in some quiet place,
In the woods, far from our friends.
Oh, I wish you and I could be married, my love, With the consent of father and mother,
Oh, young girl of the sweetest kiss, For you are the sun of the White Rock.
A ploughboy am I, I can plough, I can harrow, And my neighbours can see my attainments,
I understand everything about my implements, And I plough easily without tiring;
When harvest comes I reap my barley
And store it cosy in my barn,
I could wreck the threshing floor, and then flail more, On the side of the White Rock.
O handsome fair girl, if fate gives you to me, You’ll be treated as your friends would like,
With silks and a hat for your limbs and your head, And everything fine from the city.
Your cows will come home every evening,
Your bees will make music in the fields;
You’ll have gold on your fingers and a coach to convey you To the banks of the White Rock.
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12. |
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Cailín Deas Crúite na mBó
Tá bliain nó níos mó ’gam ag éisteacht
Le cogar doilíosach mo mheoin,
Ó casadh liom grá geal mo chléibhe, Tráthnóna breá gréine san fhómhar.
Bhí an bhó bhainne chumhra ag géimneach, ’S na héanlaith go meidhreach ag ceol,
Is ar bhruach an tsrutháin ar leathaobh díom, Bhí cailín deas crúite na mbó.
Tá a súile mar lonradh na gréine, Ag scaipeadh trí spéartha gan cheo, ’S is deirge a grua ná na caortha, Ar lasadh i measc craobha na gcnó; Tá a béilín níos milse ná sméara, ’S is gile ná leamhnacht a snó;
Níl ógbhean níos deise sa saol seo Ná cailín deas crúite na mbó.
Dá bhfaighinnse ardtiarnas na hÉireann, Agus éadaí den síoda is den sról,
Dá bhfaighinnse an bhanríon is airde Dá bhfuil ar an dtalamh seo beo.
Dá bhfaighinnse céad loingeas mar spré dom, Píolótaí, caisleáin agus ór,
Ó b’fhearr liom bheith bocht ar dhroim sléibhe Le cailín deas crúite na mbó.
Mura bhfuil sé i ndán dom bheith in éineacht Leis an spéirbhean ródhílis úd fós,
Is daoirseach dhobhrónach mo shaolsa,
Gan suairceas, gan éifeacht, gan treo.
Ní bheidh sólás im’ chroí ná i m’intinn,
Ná suaimhneas orm oíche ná ló,
Nó go bhfeicfead lem’ thaobh liom óna muintir Mo chailín deas crúite na mbó.
---------
The Pretty Girl Milking Her Cow
For the past year or more I am listening
To the melancholy whisper of my mind,
Since I first met the bright love of my heart
On a fine sunny evening in autumn.
The fragrant milk-cow was lowing
And the birds were merrily singing,
And on the bank of the stream close behind me Was the pretty girl milking her cow.
Her eyes have the radiance of sunshine Spreading through skies without mist;
And her cheeks are redder than the rowan berries That flame among nut-bearing branches;
Her little mouth is sweeter than berries,
And her skin whiter than fresh milk,
There’s no nicer young woman in the world Than the pretty maid milking her cow.
If I were given the lordship of Ireland, And clothes made of silk and satin,
If I got the highest-born queen
Who exists in the whole world;
If I got a hundred ships for a dowry With pilots and castles and gold
Oh, I’d rather be poor on a hilltop With the pretty girl milking her cow.
If it’s not my fate to share my life
With that beautiful, faithful woman at some stage, My life will be bitter and sad,
Without joy or meaning or purpose,
There will be no light in my heart or my mind, No repose for me night or day,
Till I see her given to me by her people,
My pretty girl milking her cow.
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13. |
Úirchill an Chreagáin
04:54
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Úirchill an Chreagáin
Ag Úirchill an Chreagáin sea chodail mise aréir faoi bhrón, Is le héirí na maidne tháinig ainnir fá mo dhéin le póg;
Bhí gríosghrua garth’ aici is loinnir ina céibh mar ór,
’S b’é íocshláinte an domhain bheith ag amharc ar an ríon óg.
A fhial-fhir charthanaigh ná caitear thusa i néalta bróin
Ach éirigh go tapaidh agus aistrigh liom siar sa ród,
Go tír dheas na meala nach bhfuair Galla intí réim go fóill,
’S gheobhair aoibhneas ar hallaí do mo mhealladh-sa le siansa ceoil.
A ríon is deise, an tú Hélen faoi’r treaghdadh sló,
Nó ’n de na naoi mná deasa Pharnassus thú bhí déanta i gcló?
Cén tír insa chruinne inar oileadh thú, a réalt gan cheo,
Le’r mhian leat mo shamhailse bheith ag cogarnaigh leat siar sa ród?
Ná fiafraigh an cheist sin óir ní chodlaím ar an taobh seo den Bhóinn; Is síogaí beag linbh mé a oileadh le taobh Ghráinne Óig’;
I mbruíon cheart na n-ollún bím go follas ag dúscadh an cheoil,
Bím san óiche i dTeamhair is ar maidin i lár Thír Eoghain.
A ríon dheas mhilis, más cinniúint dom tú féin mar stór,
Tabhair léasa is gealladh dom ar maidin sula dtéim sa ród;
Is má éagaim faoin tSionainn i gcríoch Mhanann nó san Éigipt mhór Gurb i gCill chumhra an Chreagáin a leagfar mé i gcré faoi fhód.
-------
The Churchyard at Creggan
In the churchyard at Creggan I slept, sad as sad, last night,
till a young girl came to me with a kiss at first light;
what with her blush-bright cheek and her hair’s golden sheen, it did my heart good to gaze on that lovely young queen.
‘O kind young gentleman, throw off your great sorrow-load and get up and follow me down the road
to one sweet country the English don’t as yet hold in thrall, where music will lull you from hall to pleasure-hall.’
‘O beautiful queen, are you Helen for whom slews were slain or one of the nine Muses of the Parnassian strain?
In what land were you reared, O unclouded star,
that the likes of myself might consort with your avatar?’
‘Don’t ask me that question, for to this side of the Boyne I’m unreconciled, what with having been reared near Grainneog as a fairy child,
I who elicited in their bard-halls the bards’ most lucid tones
of an evening in Tara and by morning in deepest Tyrone.’
‘O beautiful young queen, though falling for you’s been my fate, I won’t go down that road unless you stipulate
that, be it on the Shannon, the Isle of Man, or in Egypt I die,
it’s in my own sweet-smelling churchyard at Creggan I’ll lie.’
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14. |
Mná na hÉireann Ⅱ
06:05
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Mná na hÉireann
Tá bean in Éirinn a bhronnfadh séad dom is mo sháith le n-ól,
Tá bean in Éirinn is ba bhinne léithe mo ráfla ceoil ná seinm téad; Tá bean in Éirinn is níorbh fhearr léi beo,
Mise ag léimnigh nó leagtha i gcré is mo tharr fé fhód.
Tá bean in Éirinn a bheadh ag éad liom mur’ bhfaighfinn ach póg
Ó bhean ar aonach, nach ait an scéala, is mo dháimh féin leo;
Tá bean ab fhearr liom nó cath is céad díobh nach bhfaigheam go deo, Is tá cailín spéiriúil ag fear gan Bhéarla, dubhghránna crón.
Tá bean i Laighnibh is níor mhiste léithe bheith láimh liom ar bord, Is tá bean i bhFearnmhaigh a ghéabhadh bhéarsaí is is sárbhinne glór, Bhí bean ar thaobh cnoic i gCarraig Éamoinn a níodh gáire ag ól,
Is tráth bhí ina maighdin ní mise d’éignigh a dá chois ó chomhar.
Tá bean a leaghfadh, nífeadh is d’fhuaifeadh cáimric is sról,
Is tá bean a dhéanfadh de dh’olainn gréas is thairnfeadh an bhró; Tá bean is b’fhearr léi ag cruinniú déirce nó cráite le cró,
Is tá bean ’na ndéidh uile a luífeadh le fear is a máthair faoi fhód.
Tá bean a dhéanfadh an iomad tréanais is grá Dia mór,
Is tá bean nach mbéarfadh a mionna ar aon mhódh is nach n-ardódh glór; Ach thaispeáin saorbhean a ghlacfadh le fear go cráifeach cóir
Nach mairfeadh a ghléas is nach mbainfeadh léithe i gcás ar domhan.
Tá bean a déarfadh dá siúlfainn léithe go bhfaighinn an t-ór,
Is tá bean ’na léine is is fearr a méin ná na táinte bó,
Tá bean a bhuairfeadh Baile an Mhaoir agus clár Thír Eoghain, Is ní fheicim leigheas ar mo ghalar féin ach scaird a dh’ól.
--------
The Women of Ireland
There’s a woman in Ireland who’d bestow a jewel on me and my fill of drink; There’s a woman in Ireland who loves my singing more than the music of strings; There’s a woman in Ireland who doesn’t care whether I’m alive and kicking or laid in clay, my belly under the sod.
There’s a woman in Ireland who’d be jealous of me if I had only a kiss
From another woman at a fair – a strange thing that, since I’m fond of them all;
There’s a woman in Ireland I’d prefer to a regiment of them, but whom I’ll never enjoy. And there’s a beautiful young woman yoked to a swarthy brute ignoramus.
There’s a woman in Leinster who wouldn’t mind joining me on board, And a woman in Farney who would toss off verses in a glorious voice; There was a woman in Carrickedmond, who would laugh in drink, And while she was a virgin, it wasn’t I who forced her two legs apart.
There’s a woman who’d cook and wash, and sew cambric and satin, And a woman who’d embroider with wool, and hand-mill flour; There’s a woman who’d prefer to beg for alms or suffer in a hovel; And after all those comes the woman who’d lie with a man
Just after she’s buried her mother.
There’s a woman who’d practise fasting and great love of God,
And there’s a woman who’d swear no oath or raise her voice;
But a free woman, all pious and right, accepting a man would prove That his tackle would slacken and never bother her for any reason at all.
There’s a woman who’d say that if I went with her, I’d gain the gold;
And there’s a woman in her shirt, whose face is worth more than herds of cows, There’s a woman who would bellow in Weirstown and on the plains of Tyrone, And I see no cure for my illness than to take a drink.
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O'Rourke-Feeley Dublin, Ireland
Fran O’Rourke is emeritus professor of philosophy. With John Feeley he has given recitals of Irish traditional songs
associated with James Joyce from San Diego to Shanghai.
John is Ireland’s leading classical guitarist. He has performed concerts around the world and recorded many CDs, most recently Bach’s Cello Suites 1-3.
... more
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