Thirteen traditional songs in Irish with contemporary guitar accompaniment. Complete texts, translations, and notes supplied.
Includes unlimited streaming of Casadh na n-Amhrán / Turning the Song
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about
A popular song with many versions and variations both in text and melody. In his Irish Popular Songs (1845) Edward Walsh tells the story behind the song: ‘A Connaught harper having once put up at the residence of a rich farmer, began to pay such attentions to the young woman of the house, as greatly displeased her mother, who instantly conceived a plan for the summary ejectment of the minstrel. She provided some hay, and requested the harper to twist the rope which she set about making. As the work progressed and the rope lengthened the harper retired backward, till he went beyond the door of the dwelling, when the crafty matron suddenly shut the door in his face, and then threw his harp out at the window.’ Douglas Hyde’s play enacting the incident was performed by the Irish Literary Theatre in October 1901, the first play in Irish to appear on a professional stage.
Seosamh Ó hÉanaí (Joe Heaney) performed two contrasting versions to illustrate how it could be sung as either humourous or sad. I first heard the song as a school boy in Moyrus, near Carna, when I spent three months under the Gael Linn scheme which allowed children from other parts of Ireland to experience Gaeltacht life. There I spent three months with a wonderfully kind couple, Máirtín and Nan Ó Loideáin, whose adult children had emigrated to England and America. Tá siad curtha sa seanreilg cois chladaigh i Maíros, cúpla céim ó uaigh Sheosaimh Uí Éanaí. Go scaipe binneas na bfhlaitheas orthu. I have combined verses from a variety of sources, and chosen the very attractive air made popular by the superb singer Mícheál Ó Domhnaill, sadly no longer with us.
lyrics
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?
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
