Ag Úirchill an Chreagáin sea chadail mé ‘réir faoi bhrón
Is le héirí na maidne tháinig ainnir faoi mo dhéin le póg
Bhí gríos-ghrua ghartha aici is loinnir ina ciabh mar ór
Is beidh é íocshláinte an dómhain bheith ag amharc ar an ríon óg
A fhialfhir charthanaigh, ná caitear thusa I néalta bróin
Ach éirigh go tapa agus aistrigh liom siar sa ród
Go tír dheas na meala nach bhfuair Galla inti réim go fóill
Is gheobhair aoibhneas ar hallaí do do mhealladhsa le siansa ceoil
A ríon is deise, an tú Helen faoi ar tréaghdadh sló
Nó aon de naoi mná deasa Pharnassus tú ‘bhí déanta I gcló?
Cá tír sa chruinne inar oileadh thú, a réal gan cheo
Le’r mhian leat mo shamhailse bheith cogarnail leat siar sa ród?
Ná fiafraigh díomsa óir cha chodlaim ar an taobh seo den Bhóinn
Is síogaí beag linbh mé a oooileadh le taobh Ghráinne Óig
I mbruíon cheart na n-Ollún bím go follas ag dúscadh an cheoil
Bím san oich ag Teamhair is ar maidin I lár Thír Eoghain
Is é mo ghéarghoin tinnis gur theastaigh uainn Gaeil Thír Eoghain
Agus oidhrí an Fheá gan seághais faoi léig dár gcóir—
Géaga glandaite Néil Fhrasaigh nach dtréigfeadh an ceol
Is chuifeadh éide faoi Nollaig ar na hollúna ‘bheadh ag géilleadh dóibh
Ó Treaghdadh na treabha ‘bhí in Eachroim is—faraoir!-- faoin Bhóinn
Sliocht Íre, na flatha ‘bhéarfadh fascadh do gach draoi gan ghleo
Nárbh fhearr duitse sna liosa’ agus mise le do thaobh gach nóin
Ná saighde Chlann Bhullaí bheith ‘tolladh trí do chroí go deo?
Cha tréigfinn do chuireadh ar a gcruinníonn na ríthe d’ór
Ach gur claedartha liom scaradh le mo charaid atá sa tír go fóill
An céile úd a mheallas le mo ghealladh tráth ‘bhí sí óg,
dá dtréigfinn anois í nach feasach duit go mbeadh sí I mbrón?
Is é a shílim nach cairde duit a maireann de do ghaolta beo
Táir faofa, gan earra, bocht, bearránach, baoth, gan dóigh
Nárbh fhearr duitse imeacht le hainnir na mbaothchrobh meor
Ná an tír seo bheith ‘fonóid faoi gach rabhán dá ndéan’ tú ‘cheol?
A ríon dheas mhilis, más cinniúint duit mé mar stór
Tabhair leasa is gealladh dom ar maidin sula dtéim sa ród
Má éagaim faoin tSeannainn, I gcríoch Mhanann nó san Éigipt mhór
Gur’ I gCill chumhra an Chreagáin a leagfar mé I gcre faoi fhód
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Cregain Graveyard
In Cregain graveyard I slept last night in despair
With the rising of the morning a woman came to me with a kiss
Bright burning were her cheeks and her hair shone like gold
It would be medicine to the world to behold that young queen
Good generous man, be not consumed in clouds of sorrow
But rise up now and come with me, westward on the road
To a good land of honey, yet untouched by the stranger
There will be pleasant melody in our halls when you play your music
Righteous queen, are you Helen from Troy
Or one of the nine women of Parnassus, taking on this form
What land of the world has raised you, queen without peers
With your wish for the likes of me to conspire with, out on the road?
Do not ask me why I sleep on this side of the Boyne
I am a child of the sidhe, brought up beside Grainne the young
In the true fort of the Ollams, I openly strike up the music
In the night I am in Tara, in the morning in the middle of Tyrone
And it is My sharp-cutting fervor to be wanted by the Gaels of Tyrone
And the joyless scions of the beech, deteriorating in their inheritance
That the clean-colored heirs of Neil Frasaigh would not forsake song
And give clothing at Christmas to the Ollams who are loyal to them
Since the plowing of the tribes in Aughrim and—alas!-- beneath the Boyne
The signs are that the powers will bring pressure to every druid without battle
Would you not rather be in the fairy rath, with me by your side every day
Than have the archers of Clan Volley pierce your heart through and through?
I would not forsake you for all the gold in the world
But it would be cowardly to leave my friends yet in this land
I’ve a wife here that I wooed when she was young
If I abandon her and go with you will she not be in sorrow?
I think that you have no friends left among your living kin
You are bare, without posessions, poor, barren, aimless, without goods
Wouldn’t you rather be off with a hot blooded maiden
Than in this land where there is mocking under every tuft of grass for your songs?
O, righteous queen, you have persuaded me with your treasures
Let us go as you promise me in the morning on the road
If I die below the Shannon, In Mannannan’s land, or in Great Egypt
In fragrant Cregain Graveyard lay me in the clay below the sod
1 comments:
Our man Art lived as a bard in a time when there were no bards, lived by brehon law when there was no one to recognize it. The Gaelic tribes were long since in tatters, with their leaders mostly dead or overseas. No one was looking for a wandering bard, but Art refused to be anything else.
He had few friends, especially after he got himself excommunicated by cursing a priest's sister for refusing him hospitality as a bard. So it came to pass that he claimed his bard-right from the O'Neill kings of old, by sleeping in a cemetery where they lay buried.
This poem is a dialogue between Art (who speaks the odd-numbered stanzas) and a woman of the sidhe (who speaks the Even ones). It makes a great performance piece for two people. We have the sheet music too if you want it.
Note that the phrase "Oidhri na fhea" means "inheritors of the Fews (or beeches), the area where Art lived; but that it could also mean "Inheritors of the six-feet", that is, people in graves.
Also note: Aughrim and the Boyne are the sites of two battles in the war between the forces of James II and William of Orange-- the last pitched warfare between the Gaelic tribes (who sided with James) and the Crown.
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