|
| I | I |
| B’fhéidir gur aithris Eibhlín na dréachtaí seo os cionn an choirp i gCarraig an Ime. | The extracts in this section appear to have been uttered by EibhIín over her husband’s body in Carriginima. |
| Mo ghrá go daingean tu! | My steadfast love! |
| Lá dá bhfaca thu | When I saw you one day |
| ag ceann tí an mhargaidh, | by the market-house gable |
| thug mo shúil aire dhuit, | my eye gave a look |
| thug mo chroí taitnearnh duit, | my heart shone out |
| d’éalaíos óm charaid leat | I fled with you far |
| i bhfad ó bhaile leat. | from friends and home. |
|
| Is domhsa nárbh aithreach: | And never was sorry: |
| Chuiris parlús á ghealadh dhom, | you had parlours painted |
| rúrnanna á mbreacadh dhom, | rooms decked out |
| bácús á dheargadh dhom, | the oven reddened |
| brící á gceapadh dhom, | and loaves made up |
| rósta ar bhearaibh dom, | roasts on spits |
| mairt á leagadh dhom; | and cattle slaughtered; |
| codladh i gclúmh lachan dom | I slept in duck-down |
| go dtíodh an t-eadartha | till noontime came |
| nó thairis dá dtaitneadh liorn. | or later if I liked. |
|
| Mo chara go daingean tu! | My steadfast friend! |
| is cuimhin lem aigne | it comes to my mind |
| an lá breá earraigh úd, | that fine Spring day |
| gur bhreá thiodh hata dhuit | how well your hat looked |
| faoi bhanda óir tarraingthe; | with the drawn gold band, |
| claíomh cinn airgid, | the sword silver-hilted |
| lámh dheas chalma, | your fine brave hand |
| rompsáil bhagarthach – | and menacing prance, |
| fír-chritheagla | and the fearful tremble |
| ar námhaid chealgach – | of treacherous enemies. |
| tú i gcóir chun falaracht | You were set to ride |
| is each caol ceannann fút. | your slim white-faced steed |
| D’umhlaídís Sasanaigh | and Saxons saluted |
| síos go talamh duit, | down to the ground, |
| is ní ar mhaithe leat | not from good will |
| ach le haon-chorp eagla, | but by dint of fear |
| cé gur leo a cailleadh tu, | – though you died at their hands, |
| a mhuirnín mh’anama…. | my soul’s beloved…. |
|
| Mo chara thu go daingean! | My steadfast friend! |
| is nuair thiocfaidh chúgham abhaile | And when they come home, |
| Conchúr beag an cheana | our little pet Conchúr |
| is Fear Ó Laoghaire, an leanbh, | and baby Fear Ó Laoghaire, |
| fiafróid díom go tapaidh | they will ask at once |
| cár fhágas féin a n-athair. | where I left their father. |
| ‘Neosad dóibh faoi mhairg | I will tell them in woe |
| gur fhágas i gCill na Martar. | he is left in Cill na Martar, |
| Glaofaid siad ar a n-athair, | and they’ll call for their father |
| is ní bheidh sé acu le freagairt…. | and get no answer…. |
|
| Mo chara thu go daingean! | My steadfast friend! |
| is níor chreideas riamh dod mharbh | I didn’t credit your death |
| gur tháinig chúgham do chapall | till your horse came home |
| is a srianta léi go talamh, | and her reins on the ground, |
| is fuil do chroí ar a leacain | your heart’s blood on her back |
| siar go t’iallait ghreanta | to the polished saddle |
| mar a mbítheá id shuí ‘s id sheasarnh. | where you sat – where you stood…. |
| Thugas léim go tairsigh, | I gave a leap to the door, |
| an dara léim go geata, | a second leap to the gate |
| an triú léim ar do chapall. | and a third on your horse. |
|
| Do bhuaileas go luath mo bhasa | I clapped my hands quickly |
| is do bhaineas as na reathaibh | and started mad running |
| chomh maith is bhí séagam, | as hard as I could, |
| go bhfuaras romham tu marbh | to find you there dead |
| Cois toirín ísil aitinn, | by a low furze-bush |
| gan Pápa gan easpag, | with no Pope or bishop |
| gan cléireach gan sagart | or clergy or priest |
| do léifeadh ort an tsailm, | to read a psalm over you |
| ach seanbhean chríonna chaite | but a spent old woman |
| do leath ort binn dá fallaing — | who spread her cloak corner |
| do chuid fola leat ‘na sraithibh; | where your blood streamed from you, |
| is níor fhanas le hí ghlanadh | and I didn’t stop to clean it |
| ach í ól suas lem basaibh. | but drank it from my palms. |
|
| Mo ghrá thu go daingean! | My steadfast love! |
| is érigh suas id sheasamh | Arise, stand up |
| is tar liom féin abhaile, | and come with myself |
| go gcuirfeam mairt á leagadh, | and I’ll have cattle slaughtered |
| go nglaofam ar chóisir fhairsing, | and call fine company |
| go mbeidh againn ceol á spreagadh, | and hurry up the music |
| go gcóireod duitse leaba | and make you up a bed |
| faoi bhairlíní geala, | with bright sheets upon it |
| faoi chuilteanna breátha breaca, | and fine speckled quilts |
| a bhainfidh asat alias | to bring you out in a sweat |
| in ionad an fhuachta a ghlacais. | where the cold has caught you. |
|
| II | II |
| Nuair a shroich deirfiúr Airt (ó Chorcaigh) teach an tórraimh in aice Mhaigh Chromtha, fuair sí, de réir an tseanchais, Eibhlín roimpi sa leaba. Seo roinnt den bhriatharchath a bhí eatarthu. | Tradition has it that Art’s sister found Eibhlín in bed when she arrived from Cork City for the wake in the Ó Laoghaire home. Her rebuke to Eibhlín led to a sharp verbal contest. |
|
| Deirfiúr Airt: | Art’s sister: |
| Mo chara is mo stór tú | My friend and my treasure! |
| is mó bean chumtha chórach | Many fine-made women |
| ó Chorcaigh na. seolta | from Cork of the sails |
| go Droichead na Tóime, | to Droichead na Tóime |
|
| do tabharfadh macha mór bó dhuit | would bring you great herds |
| agus dorn buí-óir duit, | and a yellow gold handful, |
| ná raghadh a chodladh ‘na seomra | and not sleep in their room |
| oíche do thórraimh. | on the night of your wake. |
|
| Eibhlín Dhubh: | Eibhlín Dhubh: |
| Mo chara is m’ uan tú! | My friend and my lamb! |
| is ná creid sin uathu, | Don’t you believe them |
| ná an cogar a fuarais, | nor the scandal you heard |
| ná an scéal fir fuatha, | nor the jealous man’s gossip |
| gur a chodladh a chuas-sa. | that it’s sleeping I went. |
| Níor throm suan dom: | It was no heavy slumber |
| ach bhí do linbh ró-bhuartha, | but your babies so troubled |
| ‘s do theastaigh sé uathu | and all of them needing |
| iad a chur chun suaimhnis. | to be settled in peace. |
|
| A dhaoine na n-ae istigh, | People of my heart, |
| ‘bhfuil aon bhean in Éirinn, | what woman in Ireland |
| ó luí na gréine, | from setting of sun |
| a shínfeadh a taobh leis, | could stretch out beside him |
| do bhéarfadh trí lao dho, | and bear him three sucklings |
| ná raghadh le craobhacha | and not run wild |
| i ndiaidh Airt Uí Laoghaire | losing Art Ó Laoghaire |
| atá anso traochta | who lies here vanquished |
| ó mhaidin inné agam?… | since yesterday morning?… |
|
| M’fhada-chreach léan-ghoirt | Long loss, bitter grief |
| ná rabhas-sa taobh leat | I was not by your side |
| nuair lámhadh an piléar leat, | when the bullet was fired |
| go ngeobhainn é im thaobh dheas | so my right side could take it |
| nó i mbinn mo léine, | or the edge of my shift |
| is go léigfinn cead slé’ leat | till I freed you to the hills, |
| a mharcaigh na ré-ghlac | my fine-handed horseman! |
|
| Deirfiúr Airt: | Art’s sister: |
| Mo chreach ghéarchúiseach | My sharp bitter loss |
| ná rabhas ar do chúlaibh | I was not at your back |
| nuair lámhadh an púdar, | when the powder was fired |
| go ngeobhainn é im chom dheas | so my fine waist could take it |
| nó i mbinn mo ghúna, | or the edge of my dress, |
| is go léigfinn cead siúil leat | till I let you go free, |
| a mharcaigh na súl nglas, | My grey-eyed rider, |
| ós tú b’fhearr léigean chucu. | ablest for them all. |
|
| III | III |
| Cuireann Eibhlín a mórtas as a fear céile in iúl go lánphoiblí sna dréachtaí seo. B’fhéidir gur aithris si an méid seo tar éis don chorp a bheith rétithe le haghaidh an adhlactha. | These lines, with their public adulation of Art, were probably uttered by Eibhlín after her husband’s body had been prepared for burial. |
|
| Eibhlín Dhubh: | Eibhlín Dhubh: |
| Mo chara thu is mo, shearc-mhaoin! | My friend and my treasure trove! |
| Is gránna an cháir a chur ar ghaiscíoch | An ugly outfit for a warrior: |
| comhra agus caipín, | a coffin and a cap |
| ar mharcach an dea-chroí | on that great-hearted horseman |
| a bhiodh ag iascaireacht ar ghlaisíbh | who fished in the rivers |
| agus ag ól ar hallaíbh | and drank in the halls |
| i bhfarradh mná na ngeal-chíoch. | with white-breasted women. |
| Mo mhíle mearaí | My thousand confusions |
| mar a chailleas do thaithí. | I have lost the use of you. |
|
| Greadadh chúghat is díth | Ruin and bad cess to you, |
| á Mhorris ghránna an fhill! | ugly traitor Morris, |
| á bhain díom fear mo thí, | who took the man of my house |
| athair mo, leanbh gan aois: | and father of my young ones |
| dís acu ag siúl an tí, | – a pair walking the house |
| ‘s an tríú duine acu istigh im chlí, | and the third in my womb, |
| agus is dócha ná cuirfead diom. | and I doubt that I’ll bear it. |
|
| Mo chara thu is mo thaitneamh! | My friend and beloved! |
| Nuair ghabhais amach an geata | When you left through the gate |
| d’fhillis ar ais go tapaidh, | you came in again quickly, |
| do phógais do dhís leanbh, | you kissed both your children, |
| do phógais mise ar bharra baise. | kissed the tips of my fingers. |
| Dúraís, ‘A Eibhlín, éirigh id sheasamh | You said: ” Eibhlín, stand up |
| agus cuir do ghnó chun taisce | and finish with your work |
| go luaimneach is go tapaidh. | lively and swiftly: |
| Táimse ag fágáil an bhaile, | I am leaving our home |
| is ní móide go deo go gcasfainn.’ | and may never return.” |
| Níor dheineas dá chaint ach magadh, | I made nothing of his talk |
| mar bhíodh á rá liom go minic cheana. | for he spoke often so. |
|
| Mo chara thu is mo chuid! | My friend and my share! |
| A mharcaigh an chlaímh ghil, | O bright-sworded rider |
| éirigh suas anois, | rise up now, |
| cuir ort do chulaith | put on your immaculate |
| éadaigh uasail ghlain, | fine suit of clothes, |
| cuir ort do bhéabhar dubh, | put on your black beaver |
| tarraing do lámhainní umat. | and pull on your gloves. |
| Siúd í in airde t’fbuip; | There above is your whip |
| sin i do láir amuigh. | and your mare is outside. |
| Buail-se an bóthar caol úd soir | Take the narrow road Eastward |
| mar a maolóidh romhat na toir, | where the bushes bend before you |
| mar a gcaolóidh romhat an sruth, | and the stream will narrow for you |
| mar a n-umhlóidh romhat mná is fir, | and men and women will bow |
| má tá a mbéasa féin acu – | if they have their proper manners |
| ‘s is baolach liomsa ná fuil anois…. | – as I doubt they have at present…. |
|
| Mo ghrá thu is mo chumann! | My love, and my beloved! |
| ‘s ní hé a bhfuair bás dem chine, | Not my people who have died |
| ni bás mo thriúr clainne; | – not my three dead children |
| ná Dónall Mór Ó Conaill, | nor big Dónall Ó Conaill |
| ná Conall a bháigh an tuile, | nor Conall drowned on the sea |
| ná bean na sé mblian ‘s fiche | nor the girl of twenty-six |
| do chuaigh anonn thar uisce | who went across the ocean |
| ‘déanamh cairdeasaí le rithe – | alliancing with kings |
| ní hiad go lér atá agam dá ngairm, | – not all these do I summon |
| ach Art a bhaint aréir dá bhonnaibh | but Art, reaped from his feet last night |
| ar inse Charraig an Ime! | on the inch of Carriginima. |
| marcach na lárach doinne | The brown mare’s rider |
| atá agam féin anso go singil — | deserted here beside me, |
| gan éinne beo ‘na ghoire | no living being near him |
| ach mná beaga dubha an mhuilinn, | but the little black mill-women |
| is mar bharr ar mo mhíle tubaist | – and to top my thousand troubles |
| gan a súiile féin ag sileadh. | their eyes not even streaming. |
|
| Mo chara is mo lao thu! | My friend and my calf! |
| A Airt Uí Laoghaire | O Art Ó Laoghaire |
| Mhic Conchúir, Mhic Céadaigh, | son of Conchúr son of Céadach |
| Mhic Laoisigh Uí Laoghaire, | son of Laoiseach Ó Laoghaire: |
| aniar ón nGaortha | West from the Gaortha |
| is anoir ón gCaolchnoc, | and East from the Caolchnoc |
| mar a bhfásaid caora | where the berries grow, |
| is cnó bui ar ghéagaibh | yellow nuts on the branches |
| is úlla ‘na slaodaibh | and masses of apples |
| na n-am féinig. | in their proper season |
| Cárbh ionadh le héinne | – need anyone wonder |
| dá lasadh Uíbh Laoghaire | if Uibh Laoghaire were alight |
| agus Béal Atha an Ghaorthaigh | and Béal Atha an Ghaorthaígh |
| is an Uigdn naofa | and Gúgán the holy |
| i ndiaidh mharcaigh na ré-ghlac | or the fine-handed rider |
| a níodh an fiach a thraochadh | who used tire out the hunt |
| ón nGreanaigh ar saothar | as they panted from Greanach |
| nuair stadaidís caol-choin! | and the slim hounds gave up? |
| Is a mharcaigh na gclaon-rosc — | Alluring-eyed rider, |
| nó cad d’imigh aréir ort? | o what ailed you last night? |
| Óir do shíleas féinig | For I thought myself |
| ni maródh an saol tu | when I bought your uniform |
| nuair cheannaíos duit éide. | the world couldn’t kill you! |
|
| IV | IV |
| Déanann deirfiúr Airt a caoineadh féin anseo. Nuair a luann sí, na mná óga a bhí mór le Art, spriúchann Eibhlín. | Art’s sister makes her own formal contribution here to the keen. Her reference to Art’s women-friends brings a spirited reply from Eibhlín. |
|
| Deirfiúr Airt: | Art’s sister: |
| Mo ghrá is mo rún tu! | My love and my darling! |
| ‘s mo ghra mo cholúr geal! | My love, my bright dove! |
| Cé ná tánag-sa chúghat-sa | Though I couldn’t be with you |
| is nár thugas mo thrúip liom, | nor bring you my people |
| nior chúis náire siúd liom | that’s no cause for reproach, |
| mar bhíodar i gcúngrach | for hard pressed were they all |
| i seomraí dúnta | in shuttered rooms |
| is i gcomhraí cúnga, | and narrow coffins |
| is i gcodladh gan mhúscailt. | in a sleep with no waking. |
|
| Mura mbeadh an bholgach | Were it not for the smallpox |
| is an bás dorcha | and the black death |
| is an fiabhras spotaitheach, | and the spotted fever |
| bheadh an marc-shlua borb san | those rough horse-riders |
| is a srianta á gcroitheadh acu | would be rattling their reins |
| ag déanamh fothraim | and making a tumult |
| ag teacht dod shochraid | on the way to your funeral, |
| a Airt an bhrollaigh ghil…. | Art of the bright breast…. |
|
| Mo chara is mo lao thu! | My friend and my calf! |
| Is aisling tri néallaibh | A vision in dream |
| do deineadh aréir dom | was vouchsafed me last night |
| i gCorcaigh go déanach | in Cork, a late hour, |
| ar leaba im aonar: | in bed by myself: |
| gur thit ár gcúirt aolda, | our white mansion had fallen, |
| cur chríon an Gaortha, | the Gaortha had withered, |
| nár fhan friotal id chaol-choin | our slim hounds were silent |
| ná binneas ag éanaibh, | and no sweet birds, |
| nuair fuaradh tu traochta | when you were found spent |
| ar lár an tslé’ arnuigh, | out in midst of the mountain |
| gan sagart, gan cléireach, | with no priest or cleric |
| ach seanbhean aosta | but an ancient old woman |
| do leath binn dá bréid ort | to spread the edge of her cloak, |
| nuair fuadh den chré thu, | and you stitched to the earth, |
| a Airt Uí Laoghaire, | Art Ó Laoghaire, |
| is do chuid fola ‘na slaodaibh | and streams of your blood |
| i mbrollach do léine. | on the breast of your shirt. |
|
| Mo ghrá is mo rún tu! | My love and my darling! |
| ‘s is breá thiodh súd duit, | It is well they became you |
| stoca chúig dhual duit, | your stocking, five-ply, |
| buatais go glúin ort, | riding -boots to the knee, |
| Caroilin cúinneach, | cornered Caroline hat |
| is fuip go lúifar | and a lively whip |
| ar ghillín shúgach – | on a spirited gelding, |
| is mó ainnir mhodhúil mhúinte | many modest mild maidens |
| bhíodh ag féachaint sa chúl ort. | admiring behind you. |
|
| Eibhlín Dhubh: | Eibhlín Dhubh: |
| Mo ghrá go daingean tu! | My steadfast love! |
| ‘s nuair théitheá sna cathracha | When you walked through the servile |
| daora, daingeana, | strong-built towns, |
| biodh mná na gceannaithe | the merchants’ wives |
| ag umhlú go talamh duit, | would salute to the ground |
| óir do thuigidís ‘na n-aigne | knowing well in their hearts |
| gur bhreá an leath leaba tu, | a fine bed-mate you were |
| nó an bhéalóg chapaill tu, | a great front-rider |
| nó an t-athair leanbh tu. | and father of children. |
|
| Tá fhios ag losa Criost | Jesus Christ well knows |
| ná beidh caidhp ar bhaitheas mo chinn, | there’s no cap upon my skull |
| ná léine chnis lem thaoibh, | nor shift next to my body |
| ná bróg ar thrácht mo bhoinn, | nor shoe upon my foot-sole |
| ná trioscán ar fuaid mo thí, | nor furniture in my house |
| ná srian leis an láir ndoinn, | nor reins on the brown mare |
| ná caithfidh mé le dlí, | but I’ll spend it on the law; |
| ‘s go raghad anonn thar toinn | that I’ll go across the ocean |
| ag comhrá leis an rá, | to argue with the King, |
| ‘s mura gcuirfidh ionam aon tsuim | and if he won’t pay attention |
| go dtiocfad ar ais arís | that I’ll come back again |
| go bodach na fola duibhe | to the black-blooded savage |
| a bhain diom féin mo mhaoin. | that took my treasure. |
|
| V | V |
| De bharr constaicí dlí, dealraionn sé nár cuireadh Art i reilig a shinsear. Cuireadh an corp go sealadach; agus cúpla mí ina dhiaidh sin, ní foldáir, aistríodh i go mainistir Chill Cré, Co. Chorcaí. B’fhéidir gur chuir Eibhlín na dréachtaí seo a leanas lena, caoineadh ar ócáid an dara adhlacadh. | Due to some legal obstruction, the body of Art Ó Laoghaire was not buried in the ancestral graveyard, and temporary burial arrangements had to be made. It was possibly some months later that the body was transferred to the monastery of Kilcrea, Co. Cork. Eibhlín appears to have uttered the following passage of her lament on the occasion of the second burial. |
|
| Eibhlín Dhubh: | Eibhlín Dhubh: |
| Mó ghrá thu agus mo rún! | My love and my beloved! |
| Tá do stácaí ar a mbonn, | Your corn-stacks are standing, |
| tá do bha buí á gcrú; | your yellow cows milking. |
| is ar mo chroí atá do chumha | Your grief upon my heart |
| ná leigheasfadh Cúige Mumhan | all Munster couldn’t cure, |
| ná Gaibhne Oileáin na bhFionn. | nor the smiths of Oiledn na bhFionn. |
|
| Go dtiocfaidh Art Ó Laoghaire chúgham | Till Art Ó Laoghaire comes |
| ní scaipfidh ar mo chumha | my grief will not disperse |
| atá i lár mo chroí á bhrú, | but cram my heart’s core, |
| dúnta suas go dlúth | shut firmly in |
| mar a bheadh glas a bheadh ar thrúnc | like a trunk locked up |
| ‘s go raghadh an eochair amú. | when the key is lost. |
|
| A mhná so amach ag gol | Women there weeping, |
| stadaidh ar bhur gcois | stay there where you are, |
| go nglaofaidh Art Mhac Conchúir deoch, | till Art Mac Conchúir summons drink |
| agus tuilleadh thar cheann na mbocht, | with some extra for the poor |
| sula dtéann isteach don scoil — | – ere he enter that school |
| ní ag foghlaim léinn ná port, | not for study or for music |
| ach ag iompar cré agus cloch. | but to bear clay and stones. |
