'SÉ FÁTH MO BHUARTHA ('Tis My Bitter Sorrow). Irish, Air. Below the Irish is an English translation by Listowel (north Kerry) writer Bryan McMahon ( from Cúm: An Anthology of New Writing from Kerry, edited by Moya Cannon):
***
Amhrán Ghrádha
***
Sé fáth mo bhuardhartha nach bhfaghaim faill uaire ort
San gleanntán uaigneach ag a mbíonn mo ghrádh;
Mar bhfuighinn mil ar luachair ann, im agus uachtar
Teacht don fhuacht bíonn na crainn faoi bhláth.
Ní bhíon gaoth adtuaidh ann ná sneachta buan ann,
Tá caladh is cuan ann ag luing is ag bád,
Tá tuilleadh buaidh ann, níl turas cruaiche ann,
Dá dtéigtheá síos le do chailín mná.
***
Ní ar shliabh nó ar chíbleach atá mo mhian-ra,
Acht ar thaltaibh míne, mar a mbíonn meas is bláth;
Bíonn an chuach ag glaodhach ann ar bharra craobh ann,
Tá cruithneach mhaol ann, agus coirce bán;
Bíonn an t-uan 's an laogh ann, 'is na bric 'n-a scaoith ann,
Tá an eala is aoibhne ar an loch ag snámh;
Tá an bheach chómh críonna 's go bhfuil a hárus líonta,
Agus mil dá taomadh ag mo mhuirnín bán.
***
Is aoibhinn Corr Shliabh I dtús an gheimhridh,
Ní bhíonn leac oidhre air, ná sneachta a dtuaidh;
Is ceolmhar traon ann, an chuach, 's a' londubh,
Mbarraidh coillte ins an duilleabhar ruadh.
Is binn guth gadhar ann ag tórnuidheacht eilite,
Is an fiadh 'san am sin ag dul ar siubhal,
'S gur leat a chíntear in gach sruth glan aibhne
Go mbíonn an bradán finn-gheal 's an breac ar lúth.
***
Déanfainn m'éagnach leat-sa, a chéad ghrádh,
Dá mearfainn féin go mbéadh maith dhamh ann,
Mar is tú do réab mo chroídhe ó chéile,
Agus d'fhág na néalta-sa thríd mo cheann.
A mhaighdean bhéasach na malaí chaola,
'S na gcurcán ghlégeal atá fáinneach fionnm
Triall dom' fhéachaint agus mé I n-éagcruas,
'S beidh beannacht Dé dhuit go bráth dá chionn.
***
'TIS MY BITTER SORROW
('Sé Fáth Mo Bhuartha: Traditional)
***
'Tis my bitter sorrow that by tomorrow
I go not out to my true love's bower
Where the stream that's running spills purest honey
And in wintertime see, the branch in flower.
No frost, no snowing; no red wind blowing
By the bright abode of my secret queen
But her body moving with the salmon's beauty
And her hair ashine like the barley green.
***
Oh may God be praised for young women's laughter
Tho' it scald the heart of one grey and cold
And may God be praised for the bitter rapture
That takes my body as in days of old
For Satan has me as a black companion
When I cast my thoughts on what might have been
On her body moving with the salmon's beauty
And her hair ashine like the barley green.
***
Seamus Creagh & Aidan Coffey. FG 9701, Randal Bays - "Out of the Woods."
T:'Sé Fáth Mo Bhuartha
S:Danny O'Donnell
D:The Donegal Fiddler
N:2nd time through 1 octave higher
M:3/4
L:1/8
Z:Transcribed by Juergen Gier
K:C
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c2d3c|(3BGA _B2c>d|cBG2FD|CCHD2GF|\
EDC2HEG|cdc2G2|E4EF|GED2HED|C2C2(C2|C4)|]
SPAILPÍN FÁNAC(H), AN. AKA and see "As Slow Our Ship," "Brighton Camp," "The Girl I Left Behind Me," "The Rambling Labourer," "The Wandering Labourer." Irish, Slow Air (4/4 time). G Major. Standard. One part.
***
AN SPAILPÍN FÁNACH
***
Go deo deo arís ní raghad go Caiseal
ag díol ná ag reic mo shláinte,
Ar mhargadh na saoire im shuí cois balla
nó im scaoinse ar leataoibh sráide;
Bodairí na tíre ag tíocht ar a gcapaill
á fhiafraí an bhfuilim híreáilte;
'Téanam chun siúil, tá an cúrsa fada!'
-seo ar siúl an spailpín fánach.
***
Im spailpín fánach a fágadh mise
ag seasamh ar mo shláinte,
Ag siúl an drúchta go moch ar maidin
ag bailiú galair ráithe;
Ní fheicfear corrán im láimh chun bainte,
súist ná feac beag rámhainne,
Ach colours na bhFrancach os cionn mo leapa
is pike agam chun sáite.
***
Go Callainn nuair théim 's mo hook im ghlac is
mé ansúd i dtosach gearrtha,
Is nuair théim go Dúilinn 's é clú bhíonn acu
'Seo chúibh an spailpín fánach!';
Cruinneoidh mé ciall 's triallfad abhaile
is cloífead seal lem mháithrín,
's go bráth arís ní ghlaofar m'ainm
sa tír seo 'an spailpín fánach'.
***
Mo chúig chéad slán chun dúthaigh m'athar
'gus chun an Oileáin ghrámhair,
's chun buachaillí na Cúlach ós dóibh nár mheasa
in aimsir chasta an gharda ann;
Ach anois ó táimse im thráill bhocht dhealamh
i measc na ndúthaí fáin seo,
Is é mo chumha croí mar fuair mé an ghairm
bheith riamh im spailpín fánach.
***
I gCiarraí an ghrinn do gheofaí an ainnir
go mb'fhonn le fear suí láimh léi,
'na mbeadh lasadh trí lítis 'na gnaoi mar eala,
is a cúl fionn fada fáinneach;
A cruinne-chíocha riamh nár scaipeadh,
's a mala chaol mar shnáthaid,
's mór go mb'fhearr í ná sraoill ó Challainn
'na mbeadh na céadta púnt le fáil léi.
***
'S ró-bhreá is cuimhin liom mo dhaoin' bheith sealad
thiar ag Droichead Gáile,
Faoi bhuaibh, faoi chaoirigh, faoi laoigh beag' geala
agus capaill ann le háireamh;
Ach b'é toil Chríost gur cuireadh sin astu
's go ndeaghamar i leith ár sláinte,
Is gurbh é bhris mo chroí i ngach tír dá rachaim-
'Call here you, spailpín fánach!'
***
Dá dtigeadh an Francach anall thar caladh
is a champa daingean láidir,
'gus Bóic Ó Gráda chúinn abhaile
is Tadhg bocht fial Ó Dálaigh,
Do bheadh barracks an rí go léir á leagadh
agus yeomen 'gainn á gcarnadh,
Clanna Gall gach am á dtreascairt-
sin cabhair ag an spailpín fánach!
***
This is taken from Nua-Dhuanaire, Cuid III. A Connaught version is also
cited, and the following verse quoted:
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Tá na Franncaigh anois istigh i gCill Eala
agus béidhmuid go leathan láidir;
Tá Bonaparte i gCaisleán an Bharraigh
ag iarraidh an dlighe a cheap Sáirséal;
Béidh beairicí an ríogh is gach éan-oidhche thrí lasadh
agus yeomen againn á gcarnadh;
Puiceanna an Bhéarla go síorruidh d'á leagan-
sin cabhair ag an Spailpín Fánach.
***
THE ROVER (George Sigerson)
***
No more, no more in Cashel town
I'll sell my health a-raking,
Nor on days of fairs rove up and down
Nor join the merry making.
There, mounted farmers come in throngs
To seek and hire me over,
But now I'm hired, and my journey's long,
The journey of the Rover.
***
I've found, what rovers often do,
I trod my health down fairly;
And that wand'ring out on morning dew
Will gather fevers early.
No more shall flail swing o'er my head,
Nor my hand a spade-shaft cover,
But the banner of France will float instead,
And the Pike stand by the Rover!
***
When to Callan once, with hook in hand,
I'd go for early shearing,
Or to Dublin town-the news was grand
That the "Rover gay" was nearing.
And soon with good gold home I'd go,
And my mother's field dig over,
But no more-no more this land shall know
My name as the "Merry Rover!"
***
Five hundred farewells to Fatherland!
To my loved and lovely Island!
And to Culach boys-they'd better stand
Her guards by glen and highland.
But now that I am poor and lone,
A wand'rer-not in clover-
My heart it sinks with bitter moan
To have ever lived a Rover.
***
In pleasant Kerry lives a girl,
A girl whom I love dearly;
Her cheek's a rose, her brow's a pearl,
And her blue eyes shine so clearly!
Her long fair locks fall curling down
O'er a breast untouched by lover-
More dear than dames with a hundred poun'
Is she unto the Rover!
***
Ah, well I mind, my own men drove
My cattle in no small way;
With cows, with sheep, with calves, they'd move
With steeds, too, west to Galway.
Heaven willed I'd lose each horse and cow,
And my health but half recover-
It breaks my heart, for her sake, now
That I'm only a sorry Rover.
***
But when once the French come o'er the main,
With stout camps in each valley,
With Buck O'Grady back again,
And poor brave Tadhg Ó Dálaigh-
Oh, The Royal Barracks in dust shall lie,
The yeomen we'll chase over;
And the English clan be forced to fly-
'Tis the sole hope of the Rover!
***
Ó Canainn (Traditional Slow Airs of Ireland), 1995; No. 94, pg. 81. O'Neill (1001 Gems), 1907/1986; No. 972, pg. 167.
T:Spalpeen Fanach, The
T:Spailpín Fánach, An
L:1/8
M:C
R:Set Dance
S:O'Neill - 1001 Gems (972)
K:G
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