A Horse Called Spanker (text and recording), Eoghan Ruadh ó Súillebháin, 1769.

The following recording was made after spurning surrounding studio equipment, on a mobile phone in the depths of the night by myself and the stalwart, sly and solid Fintan O'Brien. We had spent the night sating our thirst in the town of Killarney and I gave this recitation a go in the middle of that sultry, soppen night after returning to Trouble or Fortune Studios on High St.

Advertisement for a Horse, attributed to Eoghan Ruadh Ó Súillebháin.

Saturday, the 16th of September, 1769, will be sold or set up for sale, at Skibereen, the robust horse Spanker, property of Thomas O'Donnell, Esq. A strong, staunch, steady, sound, stout, sinewy, safe, serviceable, strapping, supple, swift, smart, sightly, sprightly, spirited, sturdy, shining, sure-footed, sleek, smooth, spunky, well-skinned, sized, and shaped; a sorrel steed of superlative symmetry, styled Spanker, and a snip square-sided, slender-shouldered, smart-sighted, with a small star, and steps singularly stately; free from strain, sprain, spasms, string-halt, stranguary, sciatica, staggers, scaling, solander, surfeit, seams, scouring, strangle, strenuous swelling, soreness, scratches, splint, squint, squirt, scruff, scales, scurp, scars, scabs, scabbed sores, scattering, shuffling, shambling gait or symptoms of sickness of any sort. He is neither stiff-mouthed, shabby-coated, sinew-shrunk, spur-galled, nor saddle-backed, shell-toothed, shaby-coated, surbated, skin-scabbed, short-winded, splay-footed, or shoulder-slipped, and is sound in the sword-point, and stiffle-joint, has neither sick-spleen, sleeping-evil, set-fast, or snaggle-tooth, nor suppression of urine, sand-creaks, swelling-sheath, subcutaneous sores, or shattered hoofs, is not sour, sulky, slow, surly, stubborn, or sullen in temper, neither shy, sly, nor skittish, slow, sluggish, nor stupid. He never slips, stripes, strays, stalks, starts, stops, shakes, swells, snivels, snibbles, snuffles, smarts, stumbles, or stocks in his stall or stable, and scarcely or seldom sweats, has a showy, skittish switch tail or stern, and a safe set of shoes to stride on. He can feed on stubble, sheaf-oats, straw, sedges, and Scotch grass, carries sixteen stone on his stroke with surprising speed over a six-foot sod or stone wall. His sire was the sly, sober Sydus on a sister of Spindle Shanks by Sampson and Sporter, son of Sparkler, who won the Sweepstake and Subscription Plate last season at Sligo. His selling price is sixty-six pounds sixteen shillings and sixpence sterling.

Two Old Poems Found

BINDED IN EARTH

What spell is woven in the bowels of the earth?
What strange dreams does it throw up?
Through time and tendrils crawl and creep,
soar and sun and dark and deep.

Waves and iron eat the shadows,
crested red it rolls in shallows.
A world as old as this is burning,

in you! crashing, blooming, dying,
living, breathing, boom and belching
what crawls forth and spreads its vision?

VESSELS OF ESCAPE

We build vessels of escape
from leafy love banks sublime.
Rescue missions all memories store,
a last remedy while the world crumbles, 

shrinking around our shrine of awakening.
The web spreads, the world falls,
plummets to one side,
a discarded component
of our fiery ascent.

Rodney's Glory & The Plight of Eoghan Ruadh

Rodney's Glory was written by the Irish poet Eoghan Ruadh Ó Súilleabháin, its melody finds its origin in, "The Princess Royal" which was written by the harper Turlough O'Carolan. Eoghan Ruadh used that air for this ballad he wrote in praise of one Admiral George Rodney. The melody, having been first written in the early 18th century, became popular in England after it was coopted by William Shield for his opera "The Arethusa," which had a similar patriotic warlike British theme to Eoghan's song. This is where Eoghan, most likely, found his inspiration for Rodney's Glory. Thanks to Patricio Sullivan (charango), Manuel Momobertoni (bandoneón) and Ezequiel Dutil (double bass) for joining me on this recording.

In 1782, not long after been sequestered and press ganged into the British Navy, Eoghan found himself down in the belly of a whale, that whale being the warship, HMS Formidable. 

"ó teagmhas féin le tréimse i nglasibh céim d'fhúig dearbh dubhach mé"

"by chance a while in bondage, that has left me feeble and bereft"

The English used this practice of press ganging or kidnapping men to fight in their wars throughout the 18th century. This is how Eoghan Rua "An Bhéal Bhinn" (of the sweet mouth) ended up serving against his will in a British naval ship. While in chains, he pours out this song for Rodney, hoping the Admiral will relieve the poor sailor of his sorry post. Down in the belly of the beast Eoghan witnessed first hand the horror and wonder of the Battle of Saintes. 

RODNEY'S GLORY

Give ear ye British hearts of gold 

That e'er disdain to be controlled 

Good news to you I will unfold 

Tis of brave Rodney's glory 

Who always bore a noble heart 

And from his colors ne'er would start 

But always took his country's part 

Against each foe who would to oppose

 Or blast the bloom of England's rose 

So now observe my story. 

'Twas in the year of eighty two 

The Frenchmen know full well 'tis true 

Brave Rodney did their fleet subdue 

Not far from Old Fort Royal 

‘Twas early by the morning’s light 

the proud De Grasse appeared in sight 

And thought brave Rodney to affright 

With colours spread at each mast head 

And pendants too both white and red 

A signal for an engagement. 

Then Rodney he gave the command 

That each man should at his station stand 

And for the sake of old England 

We'd show them British valour 

 we the British flag displayed 

No tortures could our hearts invade 

Both sides began to cannonade 

Their mighty shot we valued not 

we plied our Irish pills so hot 

Which put them in confusion. 

This caused the Frenchmen to combine 

And draw their shipping in a line 

To sink our fleet was their design 

But in this they were far mistaken 

Broadside for broadside we let fly 

‘Til they in hundreds bleeding did lie 

The seas were all of crimson dye 

Full deep we stood in human blood 

Surrounded by a scarlet flood 

still we fought on courageous. 

So loud the cannons that the roar 

echoed round the Indian shore 

Both ships and rigging suffered sore 

We kept such constant firing 

Guns did fire and smoke did rise 

And clouds of sulfur veiled the skies 

Which filled De Grasse with wild surprise 

Both Rodney's guns and Paddy's sons 

Make echos shake where e'er they come 

They fear no French nor Spaniards.

From morning’s dawn to fall of night 

We did maintain this bloody fight 

And being still regardless of their might 

We fought like Irish heroes 

While on the deck did bleeding lie 

Many of our men in agony 

We resolved to conquer or to die 

To gain this glorious victory 

And would sooner suffer to sink or die 

Than offer to surrender. 

So well our quarters we maintained 

Five captured ships we have obtained 

And thousands of their men were slain 

During this hot engagement 

Our British metal flew like hail 

Until at last the French turned tail 

Drew in their colours and set sail 

In deep distress as you may guess 

And when they got in readiness 

They sailed down to Fort Royal. 

So may prosperity attend 

Brave Rodney and his Irishmen 

may he never want a friend 

While he shall reign commander 

Success to our Irish officers 

Seamen bold and jolly tars 

Who like the darling sons of Mars 

Take delight in the fight 

And vindicate old England’s right 

And die for Erin’s Glory.

For me, the interest in this ballad, besides its sweet wordplay, lies in its historical context. Propaganda is central to its heart, it shows the power of song in all its ugly glory. Although Eoghan lived as a vagabond and fought as a lowly sailor, he also spoke and wrote Irish, Greek, English, and Latin. He was an iconic and highly educated poet of Munster, yet for the English he was only fit to fire their guns. 

"Both paddies sons and Rodney's guns

make echoes shake where ere they come,

they fear no French nor Spaniard"

Even in our own day the melody is still quite common for traditional Irish dances, but no one sings its lyrics due to its proudly British bent. In the decades following the battle, the song became quite well-known in England, but every mention of Irish or 'paddies' was quietly removed from its verses. It wasn't enough that the song itself is a piece of British propaganda, there is too a foreboding rumble in this silencing of the Irish voice that would summon a scream in the 1840's and then cloak the country in great silence after. 

I previously delved into the theme of one culture precariously living in another's world in this post "The Irish Ark, Still Afloat." There in, I tried to grapple through the sorry slow demise of Irish culture, at least regarding its expression in Gaelic terms over the past centuries. It really was a downward, every spiraling, tumble right up to the famine of 1845-48. Rodney's Glory is a great example of the overarching power of Britain over Ireland, a bold ballad of propaganda and pomp. Unlike the musing and masterful aisling's Eoghan was known for, Rodney's Glory is a more brash, bloody and straight forward beast, while still being a powerfully well written song. At its heart it echoes the sad state to which these Irish Gaelic poets were reduced to; rhyming in a language not theirs, fighting for kings not theirs, floundering in the vessel of their enemy. For the Irish of Munster, Eoghan Ruadh was an icon, a genius, for the English he was just another sorry sailor for their warships. 

I'm releasing this song on the 2nd of August with a poem of Eoghan Rua's translated into Spanish, "En Inglaterra de los Tesoros" (I Sacscaibh na Séad). Replete with piano and sound effects, the poem was recorded as a sort of radio play by  myself and Argentine storyteller Gabriela Verónica Troiano. I've called the EP "Lejos de mi Patria" (far from my homeland) those being the first lines of that poem. In a few weeks I've a concert coming up for the "Instituto Browniano" in the house of the founder of the Argentine Navy, William Brown, and I've made a little card that those that come to the gig can download this EP from. The idea is to give Spanish speakers a little window onto the tumultuous land of Gaelic Ireland in the late 18th century, a whole culture living precariously inside another's world.

I Sacsaibh na séad i gcéin óm dhúchais, in England of the treasures far from my homeland

fé barra na gcraobh cois céid na stiúr-bhairc in the shade of the masts of the mighty ships

Bleak is the Pampa, Irish folk Song in Argentina

The lyrics to "Bleak is the Pampa" were written by an exiled Irishman in Buenos Aires in 1873. The songs words were published in the corner of a random page of a provincial newspaper in Buenos Aires and then soon forgotten. Unlike many of the other Irish songs scattered among the pages of "El Monitor de la Campaña," Bleak is the Pampa had no obvious melody. That is, the music itself is newly composed. There are illusions to the island of Hy Brasil in its verses, "had he ne'er quitted his own island dwelling, in search of a phantom in lands far away." In 2022 I was approached after a concert at the Universidad del Salvador by Miguel Guarrnochea. Migue had just heard me sing another song from his home town "The Trackless Wild."In the following weeks he furnished me with all the digital archives of the newspaper "El Monitor de la Campaña." Here began a year and a half of going through those pages, lifting out gems like this song.

Last week I did some filming on the pampa wild. I found a beautiful bit of untouched wilderness outside of a little town called "Las Garcitas." Tripping over bones, turkeys, dodging mosquitos and downing rakes of water to keep our motors from combusting, we filmed a sweet three minute video that I hope gives an idea of the vast pampa that is every present in these 19th century Irish Argentine songs of old.

                       

The Pampa's My Home

This is the first single from my coming album "Exile & Adventure, Irish Song of the Pampa and further Afar." I found the words to this song in a newspaper from 1873 called "El Monitor de La Campaña." In amongst prices of cattle and weather predictions appeared this poem, signed by a man that called himself "A Wandering Tip." 

The Pampa's my Home was recorded in Villa Allende in Cordoba, Argentina. Thanks to multi talented luthier Fabrizio Rizotto for helping me with the recording, which was performed on his beautiful 19th century piano. The Pampas are the wide grasslands synonymous with rural regions of Buenos Aires in which Irish settled in the 19th century.  This song will be the closing piece in a new documentary I’ve been working on called “The Trackless Wild.” The film will explore the crossroads between myself and "A Wandering Tip" who penned five songs published in that old Argentine newspaper of the 1870’s. With my resurrection of his lyrics, he time-travels to our timeline as I muse and sing my way into the past.

Steer my bark, steer my bark o’er the wild Pampa main,
O ye winds be more calm there are shoals on the plain,
I’m alone, I’m alone on a rough rolling foam,
My bark is now launched and the pampas my home,

Then farewell oh farewell to that isle in the east
On whose green covered mountains my eyes may ne’er feast,
It was there, it was there a happy gay band,
I first dreamed the dream of the great Pampa land

Then guide her, I’ll guide her for hopes at the prow,
Though the clouds are still black and the thunder peals now,
Ha! She’s struck, my barks struck by that flash from the sky,
She’s immersed and oh God am I doomed now to die?

No not yet oh! Not yet like a bird of the deep,
My good bark comes forth with a youths hopeful leap,
It is past, it is past, the wish farther to roam,
The anchor is cast and the pampas my home.

(El Monitor de la Campaña, June 1873).

Tierra Bendita (The Land of the Blest)

This Spanish translation of Gearld Griffin's 19th century Irish ballad, "The Land of the Blest," was completed by Spanish and Literature professor, Manuelita Palavecino, Marcela Acevedo and myself here in Castelli, Chaco in northern Argentina. I hope to record a live version of "Tierra Bendita" in coming months, heres a link to one in English from a few years ago. I was practicing the song recently along with folk musician Facundo Flores while on my tour of Buenos Aires and environs, though it hasn't had a live debut, yet! Facundo plays the tiple on it, a beautiful resonant Colombian instrument a bit like a twelve string guitar. We wound the song up from its lyrical and wistful sean-nós roots, giving it a definitive rhythm.

En los mares que esculpen tus tierras de sal,
una isla nació, misteriosa, cuentan.
Un oasis de sol, una isla de paz,
tierra bendita, Hy Brasil, sin mal.

Año tras año en aquel horizonte azul,
como espectro brilló lejano en su luz.
Un cielo dorado la cubría bien,
lejos, muy lejos, igual que el Edén.

Un soñador oyó el relato y partió.
Hacia el Oriente, su vela soltó.
Desde Ara, la santa, a Hy Brasil viró.
Aunque Ara era santa, el oeste eligió.

Lo llamaban voces, mas no las oyó.
El rugido del viento lo amenazó.
Su hogar, su gente y certezas dejó.
Un nuevo horizonte, allá lejos buscó.

Mañana de sombras se asomó en el mar.
Mas la distancia lo invitó a soñar.
Al mediodía, el gris con oleajes,
pálida, distante, en aguas, salvaje.

El crepúsculo cruel al viajero abrazó.
Atrás esta Ara con desazón miró.
Lejanía, horizonte, cielo y mar.
La tierra bendita, imposible alcanzar.

Ecos amigos, velas de hogar y sal,
en Ara está la vida y la libertad.
Iluso, por una quimera incierta,
trocaste tu vida de trabajo y paz.

Razón y advertencias silenciadas son.
El regreso a Ara, jamás vislumbró.
Tempestad, alba, un hechizo y un adiós,
y murió en los mares, lejos, muy lejos.

En Inglaterra de los Tesoros (In England of the Treasures)

Note: When quoting the poem, a rough literal English translation is employed (from the book Na h-Aislingí by the Aubane Historical Society) as well as the newly translated Spanish text, leaving out the original Irish for the sake of brevity. The new Spanish translation is the reason for this post, you can find it in full at the end of this introduction. Also, here's a link to the poem in Irish, English and Spanish from a previous post, for reference.  

I Sacsaibh na Séad (In England of the Treasures) is an 18th century Irish poem in the aisling form, with some intriguing divergences from that style. The poem, like all aislingí, is intensely visual. Indeed, the word aisling itself might be best translated as ¨vision¨ or perhaps dream. In that sense it appeals to me, and I often dream of presenting the poem as a film. And now that we have translated it to Spanish I like to play it around in my mind how that imagined film might be presented in a Latin-American context. Perhaps it's not so far out! These ¨vision¨ poems are in a way like acid trips where Ireland appears and converses with poet. What if Ireland were another country? I Sacsaibh na Séad even seems to detail a kind of shimmering halo effect around this spéirbhean or ¨sky woman.¨

The Aisling, most always begins in a pastoral Irish scene, here's a well known example from the Múscraí area of Cork county. So it would be quite a hop placing it in Mexico, for instance. 

Aisling gheal do shlad trím néal mé

Is go rabhas-sa tréithlag seal im luí

Is go rabhas i ngleann cois abhann im aonar

A bright vision had me robbed and in a trace,

terribly tired from my slumber,

In a glen, by a river alone

In these poems the poet awakes drowsily from his dreaming to encounter a vision of a beautiful spéir bhean. This lady is a manifestation of Ireland. They proceed to converse, after the poet extols her virtues and praises her beauty at length!

I Sacsaibh na Séad diverges in how it is set in an urban English scene-down by the docks of an English town. As well as this, the personal history of the poet Eoghan Rua resonates very strongly throughout the poem. This melding of poem and man adds a sad poignancy which is sometimes missing in the incredible, almost baroque like, wordplay that pervades much of Eoghan Rua's verse. For clarity, let’s give a little background on the poet himself…

After spending many years as a wandering laborer around Munster, Eoghan found himself working for the Nagle family in Cork. The story goes, a servant girl was searching to no avail for someone to write a letter for the master of the house. Eoghan (who had been employed by the Nagles for his brawn rather than brain), stepped up and offered his services. The girl was dubious, but provided Eoghan with pen and paper and dictated the contents of the letter. Within no time at all, Eoghan had the letter written in English, Greek, Latin and Irish. From then on the delighted Nagle's employed Eoghan as teacher to the family. Unfortunately, the delight didn’t last long, they hadn’t been told of Eoghan's rakish reputation. Eoghan was soon in bed with the wife of Mr. Nagle and within a few weeks he was turfed out on the road again in search of trouble or fortune. His next misadventure came in the seaside town of Youghal, where he was press-ganged (forced military service) into the British Navy. Not long after our rambling poet found himself as a seaman on the lower decks of HMS Formidable in the most decisive battle of the French and English for control of the Caribbean. 

Eoghan's aislingí long for the return of the old Gaelic order, and like many of those poems, put their hopes in the very real figure of Charles Stuart, ¨the young pretender.¨ Charles, the catholic claimant to the throne of Great Britain, was supported by both Irish and Scottish Gaels. For Eoghan, as darling of the disposed Gaelic people, to be in the services of the British army was quite an unusual situation. This is where I Sacsaibh na Séad comes in. It is the only aisling written set in England. Eoghan, after his time in the Caribbean, was transferred to the infantry in England. Reality and vision, history and hope collide beautifully in this poem. We can imagine Eoghan, perhaps in urban London, imagining this beautiful woman before him and having her speak. Ireland, speaking through him, in conversation with himself, in conversation with his people. This sky woman first derides the poet, thinking he is an English, protestant, miscreant soldier, on account of his dress.

I am none of those you tell of in your lying stories

And I shall not relate a story to a savage such as you,

A scion of the clan of Luther,

A savage in mien, in outlook and in treachery,

A rake and a coxcomb from London,

Who are in arms and armour arrayed, lacerating

The limbs and shelter of my prince.

no compartiré mis narraciones con un callejero como tú,

heredero del clan de Lutero,

con tu feroz aspecto, tu mirada traicionera,

tu aire salvaje, infame y embustero.

Vagabundo arrogante de Londres,

que vistes tu uniforme de guerra, cortas los miembros

de mi príncipe y destruyes su refugio.

Eoghan responds explaining to the ¨skylady¨ how she is mistaken and he is in fact a poet of the old Gaelic order, that was duped into helping those he did not wish to (those being the British Navy).

Te juro ante este libro que no soy de la misma estirpe.

Soy un viajero fatigado que navega eternamente en océanos furiosos.

Fui arrastrado de los pelos hacia estas tierras lejanas,

a prestar ayuda en contra de mi voluntad, en los barcos guerreros del océano espumoso.

Mi fuerza viene de la sangre gaélica que corre por mis venas,

desde Caiseal de los cinco reinos.

Do not insult me, O bright countenanced lady of fair hair,

By this book in my hand, I am not one their blood,

But I am a feeble traveller who goes over the raging ocean,

Who was torn far away by the hair of my head, 

Aiding the person I was not of a mind to,

In the gunships on the foaming ocean,

And my tribe is of the strain of the bloodstream of the Irish

In Caiseal of the provincial kingships.

This seems to please her and from here their conversation starts to flow...

Como eres de la estirpe de los reyes de Caiseal,

por un instante estrecharemos lazos.

As it is true that you are one of the Royal blood of Caiseal

Then for a while I will unite with you

Eoghan continues to detail his suffering….

Cómo escuchar cuando uno está tan oprimido,

en tierras de extranjeros despiadados!

Yo mismo estuve envuelto en cadenas,

que me dejaron sin esperanza

Cuenta mi historia a los poetas de mi patria

y ellos me enviarán versos que curarán mi amargura,

I must keep silent, perforce

In the land of the beast-like foreigners,

Since I happen to be a while in bondage, 

A circumstance that left me truly downcast;

Tell my story to the poets at home,

And they will send a verse to me,

That will scatter my grief, though full of streams

Of tears so that I am blinded senseless.

The poem ends with Eoghan telling ¨Ireland¨ she should return to Sliabh Luachra (a mountainous district outside Killarney, Ireland where Eoghan is from). He implores her to leave the tierra de extranjeros despiadados and go back to those who will care for her, protect her and tell her story. He specifically mentions ¨Séan¨ who must be a fellow poet of Sliabh Luachra.

Junto al río en el páramo está el ave fénix poderoso,

varonil, festivo, alegre, generoso.

Él te ayudará a comprender los textos,

con precisión, prudencia y sabiduría,

y redactará cada verso con profundidad.

No lo olvides, detente en su refugio,

él te cuidará, te hará compañía

y leerá verso a verso cada paso de tu aventura.

De la auténtica estirpe gaélica, él es heredero, el tesoro,

raudo guerrero, genuina perla de su patria,

sangre de poetas y héroes que no se amedrentaban

en arduos combates montados.

Solemne y libre, del linaje de Eocho,

Seán es quien te tomará en sus brazos,

y te servirá más que cualquier otro.

Mi musa, ¡regresa y protege tus joyas!

By the river of the moor is the worthy phoenix,

Manly, festive, feasting, generous, 

A support in clearly analysing texts,

And wise, learned, subtle,

Who would compose every verse without stupidity,

Do not forget to call in his house

And he will protect you kindly in his company while he reads

In verses every step of your adventures.

Of the true-stock of the Irish is the keen, pure scion,

A true pearl of his native land,

who is descended from the blood of the bards and knights who were not cowardly

In conflicts of hard-fought battles,

Noble, sturdy Séan of the root-stock of Eachaidh,

It is he who will take you in his affection

And grant you to himself, above any of my relatives,

My lady without protection for her treasures.

En Inglaterra de los tesoros, lejos de mi patria,
a la sombra de los mástiles, en los muelles de veleros,
pensando en los nobles y héroes ya desaparecidos,
muertos en la tierra de Céin,
por salvajes en un torbellino de conquista.
Indefenso, aunque valiente y aventurero,
lloro abundantes lágrimas de tristeza,
sin felicidad, sin poder, sin placer.
 
Vi una doncella griega, elegante,
deslumbrante, reluciente y muy bella,
femenina y de estirpe, de suaves labios, deliciosa.
Noble, sincera, respetable,
con preciosa figura, hermosa, de bello aspecto, majestuosa,
animada, madura, amistosa.
Rápidamente, a paso ligero,
descendió un momento a mi lado.
 
Su cabello abundante se ondulaba
formando remolinos que acariciando la hierba,
se deslizaban y se sacudían con fuerza.
Sus finas cejas, su mirada gacha, 
su aspecto y su rostro brillantes,
un ascua ardiente en el lirio fresco.
Sus mejillas de color rosa me tentaban.
Cada palabra suya era más dulce
que el rasgar de los dedos en la suave arpa.
 
Sus dientes, blancos cual cisne
en la espuma del mar bravo.
Sus pechos amplios nunca cayeron 
en los engaños arteros, depravados de Cupido.
Sus finas, dóciles manos
dibujaron osos, veleros,
combates de cientos, lobos feroces,
peces y bandadas de plumosos pájaros.
 
Mi dolor creció ante su bello cuerpo esbelto.
Sus finas formas de la coronilla a los pies
me dejaron sin habla, destruido;
quedaron frágiles mis miembros vigorosos.
Ciego quedé ante tanta maravilla,
mas le hablé tímidamente,
y le pregunté su nombre, su historia;
le rogué que me dijera su clan y su tribu.
 
Ardió mi corazón por sus palabras,
sentí humildad al escucharla.
Deseaba su belleza, su alma, su presencia,
sin que esto nos trajera deshonra.
Urgente, firme, cada miembro de mi cuerpo;
al instante quedé destrozado
al comprender que ella se oponía al pecado y la lujuria.
  
Respóndeme, ¿eres tú la dama radiante
que trajo furia y guerra a la Troya inocente?
¿O bien la que causó la miseria y destrucción de los gaélicos
en las tierras de Céin y Lughoine?
¿Eres tú quien heredó su nobleza y sus bardos de aquellos,
y luego huyó con angustia? 
¿O la ninfa que atravesó las aguas del mar,
desde Eamhain con sus héroes y barcos?
 
No soy ninguna de las que mencionas en tus falsas historias,
y no compartiré mis narraciones con un callejero como tú,
heredero del clan de Lutero,
con tu feroz aspecto, tu mirada traicionera,
tu aire salvaje, infame y embustero.
Vagabundo arrogante de Londres,
que vistes tu uniforme de guerra, cortas los miembros
de mi príncipe y destruyes su refugio.
 
No me insultes, resplandeciente dama de fulgurantes cabellos.
Te juro ante este libro que no soy de la misma estirpe.
Soy un viajero fatigado que navega eternamente en océanos furiosos.
Fui arrastrado de los pelos hacia estas tierras lejanas,
a prestar ayuda en contra de mi voluntad,
en los barcos guerreros del océano espumoso.
Mi fuerza viene de la sangre gaélica que corre por mis venas,
desde Caiseal de Los Cinco Reinos. 
 
Como eres de la estirpe de los reyes de Caiseal,
por un instante estrecharemos lazos.
Te contaré las hazañas de mis viajes
y pronunciaré mi verdadero nombre.
Los poetas me llaman Irlanda, la engañosa,
meretriz de arteras maniobras,
que insultó e hirió a su patria
entregándosela a los forasteros.
 
Desde las tierras de Céin y de la valiente Éibhear
por el muelle, amarrada, huí fácilmente,
portando noticias de los clanes irlandeses,
que pronto lograrán una conquista
arrancando de nuestra tierra al coloso enemigo,
mercenario de profundas raíces londinenses.
¡Brindo por la vida de los héroes, por que sea coronado rey
mi guerrero en Dún Luirc!
 
Los bardos profetizan con sus versos y su sabiduría
una llegada aguerrida y arrolladora.
Fuertes, heroicos, valientes,
irán castigando a los buitres intrusos.
La profecía no ofrece duda: les ha llegado la hora,
deberán rendirse,
someterse a la autoridad,
cambiar sus usos, ¡qué ardua tarea!
 
Temo, ¡oh, dama ilustre!
que esta historia que engendras sea falsa.
Los salvajes y sus naves son poderosos en demasía,
no les importa Carlos Estuardo, tu príncipe.
Toda ayuda está ausente.
El pueblo irlandés fue acallado y está sin tierras,
a diferencia de sus sacerdotes,
que vivían libres en la noble Irlanda.
 
¡Cómo escuchar cuando uno está tan oprimido,
en tierras de extranjeros despiadados!
Yo mismo estuve envuelto en cadenas,
que me dejaron sin esperanzas.
Cuenta mi historia a los poetas de mi patria
y ellos me enviarán versos que curarán mi amargura,
 y secarán las abundantes lágrimas,
que me han dejado ciego y en penas.

Junto al río en el páramo está el ave fénix poderoso,
varonil, festivo, alegre, generoso. 
Él te ayudará a comprender los textos,
con precisión, prudencia y sabiduría,
y redactará cada verso con profundidad.
No lo olvides, detente en su refugio,
él te cuidará, te hará compañía
y leerá verso a verso cada paso de tu aventura.
 
De la auténtica estirpe gaélica, él es heredero, el tesoro,
raudo guerrero, genuina perla de su patria,
sangre de poetas y héroes que no se amedrentaban
en arduos combates montados.
Solemne y libre, del linaje de Eocho,
Seán es quien te tomará en sus brazos,
y te servirá más que cualquier otro.
Mi musa, ¡regresa y protege tus joyas!
 

Pussies, Poems and Prudes-In Defence of Sex in Old Ireland

I came across an article "The Island That Wouldn't Get Naked, Even in Bed" in Vice Magazine regarding sexuality on the Island of Inisheer during the 1960's. The piece got me thinking-it seems to me, whenever I read the likes of Vice, The Guardian or The New York Times (not to mind more right leaning media), the visions of Ireland that keep getting trotted out are so often old-fashioned, or even negative. The Anglo-sphere loves an auld article on the wayward, Catholic, violent or superstitious Gael. These stereotypes have been around for manys the century, and they keep getting regurgitated. Like all stereotypes there are elements of truth, but much of it is a manifestation, a fear, yet fascination, of the other and the unknown. There is a welsh proverb from the 18th century that says "an Irishman’s loves are three: violence, deception and poetry.”  Given Irish vernacular poetry was marginalised in the early 20th century, that leaves us with deception and violence, which is nowhere to start a defence of old Éireann! So, forgoing violence and deception, lets return to Irish poetry from days of yore, and try to get to grips with whats wrong with this picture.

Édouard Manet, La Nymphe surprise

The Vice article, written by one Dr. Kate Lister says "The sexual revolution transformed life and culture across the planet in the 1960s - except on the island of Inisheer." The piece comes replete with pictures of green fields, round towers and bibles. As a tonic to this stuffy, prude vision, I'd like to first site Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin's poem Cois Abhann dam im aonar (the last written manuscript version of which was collected a few miles from Inisheer in County Clare in the 1850's). This lyric is a piss-take of the Aisling form for which Eoghan was so well known. Like so many other Aisling's, Ireland appears in female form like a forlorn Helen of Troy, then the poet proceeds to solemnly and extensively extol her virtues. It is at this point though, that the poem diverges wildly from the norm, in crude translation the lady replies, "will you go away with your Helen of Troy, cut the shite, if its pussy you want, its right here." The poet continues "I opened her legs apart, got my lad ready for action-that jewel that Jesus gave me to coax the women." The lyric continues in that lively, boisterous vein. Incidentally, most Irish verse was meant to be sung-new ideas, themes and lyrics were attached to old melodies in a dynamic vibrant tradition.

Ar inse chonnaill aerach is gan aon neach 'nár gcuideachtain

is ea d'fhosclas a géaga ó chéile gan spás

Ansin do chuireas-sa mo chléireach i réim cheart chum imeartha,

's a tseoid do thug Mac Dé dom chum bréagadh na mbáb,

An tráth d'admhuigh a béal dom gur chlaochlaigh a huireasba,

Ach más í an phis a deir tú, tá sí anso.

from Geraldius Cambrensis, Topography of Ireland

In the 19th century travel book "Ireland's welcome to the stranger," the author, Asenath Nicholson, tells us that the people of Kerry had the custom of undressing any stranger that stayed in their home before going to bed. Dr. Lister's article in stark contrast says "Nudity was a source of intense shame and embarrassment to the islanders of Inisheer" in the 1960's. Geraldius Cambrensis, the 12th century Norman chronicler makes numerous mentions to the bare-arsed public nakedness of "the Irishry." The recently published book "Ireland 1517," contains the diary of 16th century Frenchman, Laurent Vital, who was a diplomat of the Hapsburg Court. Vital describes at length the breasts of the lady folk of Kinsale, having seen them on display (much to his delight and surprise) throughout the town. "Generally the men, women and young girls wear their shirts open to the waist. It is as common there to see or touch the breast of a girl or woman, as it is to touch her hand. There I saw all sorts of breast according to age." Vital proceeds to describe all the various breasts he saw in detail. On a side note, I remember reading, I can't recall where, that the pre christian Irish (instead of shaking hands) used to kiss or suck on nipples as a greeting!

I could be wrong, but I think a-lot of this more inward, stifled culture mentioned in the Vice article arose after the famine-when the church really got its hands on the country and our language switched from Irish to English. Both the Irish language and the Catholic Church were long associated with rebellion and contrariness in the British run state, but when the Catholic Church eventually became accepted by the powers that be, it spelled trouble for free love and its expression. To put a date on this assimilation of Catholicism by British Ireland a good line in the sand might be the "Irish Church Act of 1869," which dissolved the primacy of the protestant Church of Ireland as the official church of the country. The Church of Ireland (see the Church of England) had been the official church of the country up until that point, although the vast majority of the country was Catholic. It is around this time too that the English language starts to take primacy as the mode of communication for the majority of the populous.

Another tome of reference in this defence would have to be Brian Merriman's Cúirt An Mhéain Oíche. "The Midnight Court" is a bawdy and brilliant poem from the late 18th century, written just a few miles from the Isle of the Chaste, Inisheer. In this lyric a young Irish women laments to a fairy court (presided over by Aibheal-the Fairy Queen) the sorry state of masculinity in Ireland. Older Irish poetry took delight in describing people or things with as many words as possible in a long litany of description, there are some great examples of this in the poem too. The woman extols her own sexual virtues and wonders why she has failed to find a mate. An old Irish man takes the role of the defence, after he gives her a right lambasting, she replies with such gems as this (below is the rough English translation and below that the original Irish poem)....

Tie you head with a bandage round it!

Careful you don’t leave your senses

With the fear of welcoming, giving women,

That would spend the day catering to the needs of all

And would sate you again even after the ball.

Woe is me! I'd understand such Jealously

In a crafty, cracking, strong and strapping

Panting, pushing, pulsing, preening,

Roistering, romping, rollicking, riproaring,

Roving rogue-a fine tuned seeker,

Who'd give a steadfast stalwart, lively pounding,

Not in an ancient oldie, decrepit and hoary,

A useless idler, without limbs, nor use for them.

Is cengail do cheann le banda timpeall

Seachain I dtráth ná fág do chiall 

Le hEagla mná bheith fáilteach fial;

Dá gcaitheadh sí an lá le cách do riar

Bheadh tuilleadh is do sáith-se ar fail ina ndiadh 

Mo chumha is mo chrá ba bhreá san éad 

lúbaire láidir lánmhear léadmhar 

Shantach sháiteach shásta sheasmhach 

Ramsach ráflach rábach rabairneach,

Lascaire luaimneach, cuardaitheoir cuimseach,

Balcaire buan nó buailteoir bríomhar,

Ach seanduine seanda cranda creimneach, 

Fámaire fann is feam gan féile.

A recently discovered manuscript of The Midnight Court

The poem also deals with a-lot of what "The Island That Refuses to Get Naked" concerns itself with-sexual oppression and prudishness, but unlike the world portrayed in the article (where locals were mortified at a dog licking his balls) it grapples and extensively details solutions to these prudish problems. So going out on a limb for to make steadfast my defence! I'd like to site the 16th century poem Óchón A Mhúire Mhór, which finishes with the lines fóir mé os féidir leat, fóir mé le comhradh do chorp "save me if you can, save me with the conversations of our bodies."

Dr. Lister, in a light hearted way, quotes a poem of Philip Larkin at the beginning of her article "Sexual intercourse began in nineteen sixty-three." I think it can be taken as a given that sex was alive, and the Irish as well thanks to it, long before 1963, though the extent of the control that the powers that be had over it waxed and waned with the tide. Inisheer being Irish speaking, and on top of that an Island, perhaps made it easier to control. Once the Irish language became practically extinct on the mainland it may have pushed Inisheer to more moribund waters, leaving the priests firmly in control. Incidently, Inisheer is where Father Ted's opening sequence was filmed!

Ireland was an important resource for the Catholic Church and British imperialism. Unfortunately, the people, shrinking from the grasp of the colonial cohorts, ran willing into the arms of an enemy every bit as bad. Thanks be to God (whoever that may be) the church's power over the Irish is at the lowest ebb its ever been. Ireland's oppression by others and by itself was such that one of its most precious expressions and salves was lost-its language. Without that to express itself, it was left floundering in a sea of sharks-ripe for the picking, so to speak. I think the countries history of repression makes a-lot more sense if looked at from that perspective-language, colonialism, and religion. Also, prudishness and sexual repression is a problem that surely wasn't just to be found in Ireland, it was, I'd wager, a problem of the times, that corrupted and chastened from Arabia to Aragon and from New York to London. Thankfully those particular days of repression seem well behind us, though new stranger shores are looming ahead. We'd want to just keep vigilant that we don't get suckered again by such oppressive regimes. With the rise of the internet, globalism, and rampant free market capitalism fun times are sure to come!