Thirteen traditional songs in Irish with contemporary guitar accompaniment. Complete texts, translations, and notes supplied.
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This eighteenth-century song, composed by Corkman Seán Clárach Mac Domhnaill (1691– 1754) has enjoyed renewed popularity in recent decades, due to the influence of Seán Ó Riada and Cór Chúil Aodha. ‘Mo Ghile Mear’ referred to Bonny Prince Charles Edward Stuart, in whom dozens of Munster poets placed their hopes for the restoration of Irish freedom from England, even long after such hope was futile. Charles was seen as the rightful heir to the throne, succeeding all the kings who had espoused Éire (Banba, Fodhla), the personified land of Ireland, from the start of the Gaelic tradition. So ingrained in the poetic psyche was this idea of Charles Stuart as saviour of Ireland that songs in the form of entreaty and prophesy continued for decades after he had lost all political power and was living as a broken-down refugee in Rome.
The present song – uttered by Éire, the abandoned queen – laments Charles’ banishment, along with the dreadful collapse of nature and culture, but combines this with a stubborn assertion of the inevitability of rebirth. The first verse is taken from another song by Seán Clárach, ‘De Bharr na gCnoc san Imigéin’, ‘Over the Hills and Far Away’.
lyrics
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!
------
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.
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
