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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Did this composition by Oriel poet Peadar Ó Doirnín (1704–1769) have to wait two hundred years to be sung, when Seán Ó Riada supplied the haunting air now so familiar? Hard to believe. It must be the politically most incorrect song of its time, which perhaps explains why it is not generally sung in its entirety. While love-boasting seems to be Ó Doirnín’s trademark, the editor of his work, Breandán Ó Buachalla, suggests that his impudence is an attempt to mask his impotence: ‘Dealraíonn gurb í cuid na cainte amháin den scéal a bhí ag Ó Doirnín. Tá a fhios as an saol gurb iad na muca ciúine a itheann an mhin is tá guth Uí Dhoirnín róghlórach, rómhaíteach i dtaobh a chumas i ngrá chun go gcreidfí é.’ (‘It seems Ó Doirnín’s story was nothing but talk. The world knows it’s the quiet pig that eats the meal and Ó Doirnín’s voice is too loud, too boastful of his ability in love to be believed.’) Ó Buachalla, however, places Ó Doirnín’s lyrical gifts above those of Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin.
As a courtesy to delicate ears two verses are omitted in the opening track; the leagan iomlán is given at the end.
lyrics
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.
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
