even should they stay for a week’s rest,
o dear brother of many friends.
xxvii.
O, my friend and my calf!
Last night, such clouded reveries
appeared to me, come midnight
in Cork as I lay awake late.
Alone, I dreamt
our bright-limed home tumbling,
the Gearagh all withering,
without a growl left of your hounds
nor the sweet chirp of birds,
like when I found you
out on that mountain ground,
gan sagart, gan cléireach,
ach seanbhean aosta
do leath binn dá bréid ort
nuair fuadh den chré thú,
a Airt Uí Laoghaire,
is do chuid fola ’na slaodaibh
i mbrollach do léine.
xxviii.
Mo ghrá is mo rún tú!
’S is breá thíodh súd duit,
stoca chúig dhual duit,
buatais go glúin ort,
Caroilín cúinneach,
is fuip go lúfar
ar ghillín shúgach –
is mó ainnir mhodhúil mhúinte
bhíodh ag féachaint sa chúl ort.
xxix.
Mo ghrá go daingean tú!
’S nuair théitheá sna cathracha
daora, daingeana,
bhíodh mná na gceannaithe
ag umhlú go talamh duit,
with neither priest nor clergy
to keep you company, only the crumpled old lady
who folded her cloak over your body.
That soil clung to you fiercely
dear Art Ó Laoghaire,
as your blood drenched streams
through your shirt so bleakly.
xxviii.
O, my love and my darling!
You looked so striking
in your five-folded stockings,
with your boots, knee-high,
and your hat, the cornered Caroline.
Whenever you flicked your whip,
nimble-quick on a merry gelding,
many modest gentlewomen
found their eyes shyly following.
xxix.
O my belovèd, steadfast and true!
When you strolled
those fine city avenues,
merchants’ wives always
stooped their curtsies low for you.
óir do thuigidís ’na n-aigne
gur bhreá an leath leaba tú,
nó an bhéalóg chapaill tú,
nó an t-athair leanbh tú.
xxx.
Tá fhios ag Íosa Críost
ná beidh caidhp ar bhathas mo chinn,
ná bróg ar thrácht mo bhoinn,
ná trioscán ar fuaid mo thí,
ná srian leis an láir ndoinn,
ná caithfidh mé le dlí,
’s go raghad anonn thar toinn
ag comhrá leis an rí,
’s mara gcuirfidh ionam aon tsuim
go dtiocfad ar ais arís
go bodach na fola duibhe
a bhain díom féin mo mhaoin.
xxxi.
Mo ghrá thú is mo mhúirnín!
Dá dtéadh mo ghlao chun cinn
go Doire Fhíonáin mór laistiar
is go Ceaplaing na n-úll buí,
How well, they could see
what a hearty bed-mate you’d be,
what a man to share a saddle with,
what a man to spark a child with.
xxx.
Jesus knows
I’ll allow no bonnet to crown me
no silk slip to cover me,
no shoe to sole me
not a stitch of home furnishings
not even a rein for the chestnut mare, no,
I’ll spend every cent on law-men instead.
I’ll even go overseas
to confront royalty,
and if the king won’t entertain me,
I’ll turn again wildly
to the black-blooded lout
who thieved my treasure from me.
xxxi.
O my love and my sweetheart!
Should my howl reach as far
as grand Derrynane
and gold-appled Ceaplaing,
is mó marcach éadrom groí
is bean chiarsúra bháin gan teimheal
a bheadh anso gan mhoill
ag gol os cionn do chinn
a Airt Uí Laoghaire an ghrinn.
xxxii.
Cion an chroí seo agamsa
ar mhnáibh geala an mhuilinn
i dtaobh a fheabhas a níd siad sileadh
i ndiaidh mharcaigh na lárach doinne.
xxxiii.
Greadadh croí cruaidh ort
a Sheáin Mhic Uaithne!
Más breab a bhí uaitse
nár tháinig faoim thuairim,
’s go dtabharfainn duit mórchuid:
capall gruagach
’dhéanfadh tú fhuadach
trí sna sluaitibh
lá do chruatain;
nó macha breá ’bhuaibh duit,
nó caoire ag breith uan duit,
nó culaith an duine uasail
idir spor agus buatais –
strong, the slim horsemen
and pale-hankied women
who would thunder in,
and their wails would be boundless
xxxii.
All my heart’s fondness
to the bright little mill-women,
so skilled was their weeping
for the chestnut mare’s horseman.
xxxiii.
Your heart, I wish broken,
John Cooney, you villain!
If it was a bribe you were seeking,
you should have come straight to me,
for I’d have given you plenty:
a horse of thick-mane
to dash you away
from the wild mobs
who await your judgment day;
pastures of cattle
or plump ewes in lamb,
or perhaps even the suit of my own gallant man,
with his own bright spurs and his fine boots too,
cé gur mhór an trua liom
í fheiscint thuas ort,
mar cloisim á luachaint
gur boidichín fuail tú.
xxxiv.
A mharcaigh na mbán-ghlac,
ó leagadh do lámh leat,
éirigh go dtí Baldwin,
an spreallairín gránna,
an fear caol-spágach,
is bain de sásamh
in ionad do lárach
is úsáid do ghrá ghil.
Gan an seisear mar bhláth air!
Gan dochar do Mháire,
agus ní le grá dhi,
ach is í mo mháthair
thug leaba ’na lár di
ar feadh trí ráithe.
xxxv.
Mó ghrá thú agus mo rún!
Tá do stácaí ar a mbonn,
tá do bha buí á gcrú;
although it’d be a wrench
to see you wear them instead,
since you’re a right pissy bodkin,
or so I’ve heard said.
xxxiv.
O my white-grasped horseman,
Since your hand’s been struck down,
why not rise up to Baldwin now,
that shit-talking clown,
that bockety wimp, all mean frowns,
to demand satisfaction
for the loss of your mare
and your beloved’s heartache.
May none of his six children blossom for him!
Only let no harm fall on Mary,
and not for much sisterly love,
but only that my own mother
made her a first bed within her,
where we shared three seasons together.
xxxv.
O, my love and my darling!
Your barley has risen thick and golden,
your fair cows are well-milked,
is ar mo chroí atá do chumha
ná leigheasfadh Cúige Mumhan
ná Gaibhne Oileáin na bhFionn.
Go dtiocfaidh Art Ó Laoghaire chugham
ní scaipfidh ar mo chumha
atá i lár mo chroí á bhrú,
dúnta suas go dlúth
mar a bheadh glas a bheadh ar thrúnc
’s go raghadh an eochair amú.
xxxvi.
A mhná so amach ag gol
stadaidh ar bhur gcois
go nglaofaidh Art Mhac Conchubhair deoch,
agus tuilleadh thar cheann na mbocht,
sula dtéann isteach don scoil –
ní ag foghlaim léinn ná port,
ach ag iompar cré agus cloch.
but such pain grips my heart still
that all of Munster cannot fix me a remedy,
nor even Fair Island’s gifted smithery.
Unless Art Ó Laoghaire returns to me
this grief will never be eased,
it weighs on my heart so brutally,
keeping it sealed so tightly
as a lock clasps a chest
whose golden key has been lost from me.
xxxvi.
Oh, you women who cry outside,
halt your feet a while,
let Conor’s son Art call a drink
and more for the other poor souls,
for soon, they’ll all enter that school together –
in pursuit of neither learnèd song nor verse,
but only to raise cold stone and earth.
acknowledgements
I am grateful to the Lannan Foundation for their extraordinary generosity, which sustained me throughout the completion of this work, and to the Arts Council of Ireland, whose award of a bursary in literature at a crucial early moment allowed me the time to dream this book from seed to seedling. In the years in which I was writing these pages, I was kindly supported by Lorraine Maye and Cork Midsummer Festival, and by the wonderful women who watched my children while I tiptoed away to write: Rose, Michelle, and Marian. My gratitude also to Clíodhna Shaffrey and Michael Hill at Temple Bar Gallery, to Words Ireland, to Clare Arts Office, and to Joanna Walsh for generous encouragement. I have long admired the work of Lisa Coen, Sarah Davis-Goff, and Laura Waddell at Tramp Press, and it was my dream that they would publish this book – thank you. Mo bhuíochas leo siúd a spreag misneach ionam – to those who encouraged me to keep writing about Eibhlín Dubh, particularly when I doubted myself: Cal Doyle, Clara Dupuis-Morency, Anakana Schofield, Patricia Coughlan, Clair Wills, Linda Connolly, and Sarah-Maria Griffin. Mo bhuíochas freisin le Eoin Seartal, John Fitzgerald, Seán Ua Súilleabháin, Seán Cronin, Timmy O’Connor, Tadhg O’Sullivan, Dr Aoife Bhreatnach, agus Maureen Kennelly as ucht a gcuid nodanna. I am indebted to Brendan Barrington at The Dublin Review, who published early versions of two chapters and in doing so offered me exceptional editorial guidance. To Dr Dermot Mahony, in admiration. To Dr Michael Crotty, in gratitude. To Dr Suzanne O’Sullivan, a hero. To all who work for human milk banks and in NICUs. To Paula Meehan, connoisseuse of bees. To the generous librarians of Cork City, who hefted many, many armfuls of books on my behalf. To Sara Baume, whose friendship heartens me every day. To Amy and to Saoirse, who cared for me when I was afraid. To Sinéad Gleeson, for her kindness. To Matthew Turner, for guidance. To my parents: it cannot be easy to bear the embarrassment of a writer in the family, and yet you understand that I must write my own life, a gift for which I will forever be grateful. To my Nana Mae, a woman of great heart and great courage, from whom I have learned so much. All my love to my children, as always, and to Tim, for the snip. Míle buíochas ó chroí libh go léir.
further reading
As basis for my translation I attended closely to the version published by Seán Ó Tuama in his 1961 publication Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire, and I am grateful for his impeccable scholarship. Many additional books, translations, and scholarly works have detailed the era and literature explored in this book. The following publications were of particular interest to me in constructing my own understanding of this subject, and may also be of interest to readers who wish to learn more.
Mrs Morgan John O’Connell (1892) The Last Colonel of the Irish Brigade: Count O’Connell and Old Irish Life at Home and Abroad, 1745–1833
Méadhbh Nic an Airchinnigh (2012) ‘Caointeoireacht na Gaeilge: Béalaireacht agus Literathacht’, PhD thesis, NUIG
Eugene O’Connell (2009) ‘The House of Art O’Leary’, Cork Literary Review Volume 13
Peter O’Leary (1998) ‘The Life and Times of Art Ó Laoghaire’, a talk given on 13 September 1998 to the third O’Leary gathering in Inchigeelagh and subsequently published in the Journal of the Ballingeary & Inchigeela Historical Society
Eavan Boland (2011) A Journey with Two Maps
Peter Levi (1984) The Lamentation of the Dead
Seán Ó Tuama (1995) Repossessions
Angela Bourke (2017) ‘“A Bhean Úd Thall!” Macallaí Idirghaelacha i bhFilíocht Bhéil na mBan’, Scottish Studies Volume 37
Angela Bourke (1993) ‘More in Anger than in Sorrow: Irish Women’s Lament Poetry’ in Feminist Messages: Coding in Women’s Folk Culture
Angela Bourke (2002) The Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing, Volume IV, pp 1372–84
Edward MacLysaght (1944) ‘Survey of Documents in Private Keeping: First Series – Conner Papers’ Analecta Hibernica Volume 15, pp 153, 155–159
James O’Leary (1993) ‘A Dead Man in Carriganorthane’ in A Time that Was in Clondrohid, Macroom, Millstreet, Kilnamartyra and Ballyvourney
John T. Collins, ‘Arthur O’Leary, the Outlaw’ and subsequent supplements in Journal of the Cork Historical and Archaeological Society, Volume 54 (1949), Volume 55 (1950) and Volume 61 (1956)
Copyright
First published in 2020 by Tramp Press
www.tramppress.com
Copyright © Doireann Ní Ghríofa 2020
Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire, edited by Seán Ó Tuama, An Clóchmhar, 1961, reproduced with permission from Cló Iar-Chonnacht.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All rights reserved.
A CIP record for this title is available from the British library.
ISBN: 978–1–9164342–9–5
Set in 12 pt on 16 pt Quixote by Marsha Swan.
Tramp Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Arts Council.
Thank you for supporting independent publishing.