The Battleship Sinn Féin

le Johnny Tom Gleeson (cumadóir ‘The Bould Thady Quill’)

Sung to the tune of ‘The Wearing of the Green’

Whilst strolling round my Atlantic home in the merry month of May
A sailor boy I chanced to meet on the shore of Quincy Bay.
I thought he was a mariner from the fleets of France or Spain
Till I saw on his breast an emerald crest te Gaelic words Sinn Féin

With a joyful heart I welcomed him and grasped him by the hand.
Said, “My boy, what brought you here into Columbia Strand?
Has Gráinne Mhaol thrown off her yoke in mountain glen or plain
What means this crest on your manly breast this magic word Sinn Féin?”

Quoth he, “I am an envoy from Our Mother Rosaleen.
I seek my exiled brethern, be they orange, white or green.
I am an ancient Irish Irelander; I am Diarmuid Óg Ó Rinn,
A loyal tar on the man of war, The Battleship Sinn Féin.”

Says I, “My little sailor boy, I’m anxious; tell me pray,
Where is the favourite Anchorage wherein your good ship lay?
I am longing to behold the guns that will end the tyrants reign
I’d climb the bars and kiss the tars in the Battleship Sinn Féin.”

Says he, “The ship whose name I bear is not in the Ocean Crest.
It throbs with the pulsations of each Irish patriot’s breast.
Our motto ‘self reliance’ being, from anchor, rope or chain,
Our Gaelic Creed giving power and speed to the Battleship Sinn Féin.”

“God bless, you little sailor boy,” I murmured through my tears.
“You brought the only ray of hope I’ve had these forty years.”
“I’ll go aboard your gallant ship; until death I will remain.
I’m a loyal tar on the Man of War, the Battleship Sinn Féin.”

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Im Long Mé Measaim

le Dónal Ó Liatháin

Im long mé measaim,
fé last fé sheol
Is gan caladhfort romham

Im leabhar mé scríofa
i dteanga ón spéir
Is níl aon ní a thuigfeadh é

Im lampa lásta istigh i gcupúrd
Is gach dóras dúnta
fé ghlas go dlúth

An bhfanfadsa lásta
mar long i mbuidéal
Go n-éalóidh mar chogar
an chuid eile dem shaol?

An Poc ar Buile

Síle Bn. Uí Ríordáin, Doirín Álainn, Baile Mhúirne, 7 Meán Fómhair 1940

Is deas an cailín Siobhán Óg,
Gúna mó’ uirthi aníos ón siopa,
Is deas í a méar fí fháinníbh óir
Is í ‘ dul a’ pósadh an Poc ar Buile.

Ailliliú, puilliliú, ailliliú ‘sé an poc ar buile é!
Ailliliú, puilliliú, ailliliú ‘sé an poc ar buile é!

Do gheall mo dhaidí spré mhaith dhómhsa,
Brístín crón is bheistín cluthar,
Dhá cheann déag de chearcaibh óga,
Is coilichín cóir chun a bheith á gcluicheadh.

Ailliliú, puilliliú, ailliliú ‘sé an poc ar buile é!
Ailliliú, puilliliú, ailliliú ‘sé an poc ar buile é!

Níl ‘na Lá

Amhrán isea é seo go bhfuil leaganacha timpeall na tíre go léir agus in Albain leis. Leagan Dhiarmuidín Maidhcí atá anseo a thaifead Jimmy Crowley i 1985. Bhailigh A.M. Freeman leagan de ó Chonny Coughlan siar ag tús an 20ú céad atá le fáil anseo.

Tá na caoirigh ag ithe an gheamhair
Tá na gamhna ag ól an bhainne
Prátaí síos gan díolachán
‘S a dhuine gan mheabhair ná raghfá abhaile?

Níl ‘na lá, tá ‘na lá
Níl ‘na lá, ná ‘na mhaidin
Níl ‘na lá, tá ‘na lá
Bean dá rá ‘gus í mar mhagadh

Is deas an bhean í Siobhán óg
Gúna nua uirthi aníos ón siopa
Is breathnaím ar mo ghiní óir
‘S í ag rince ar bord leis an bpoc ar buile

Curfá

Don’t send me out into the dark
The night is cold and I’ll be perished
Come to bed with me awhile
We’ll have a roll around the blankets

Curfá

Buailim suas, buailim síos
Buailim cleamhan ar bhean a’ leanna
Cuirim giní buí ar bord
Is bím ag ól as seo go maidin

Curfá

Tá mo bhróa i dtigh an óil
Tá mo stocaí i dtigh a’ leanna
Tá na coiligh go léir ag glaoch
‘S b’éigean domhsa dul abhaile

Curfá

 

Taidhgín Ó Cuíll

Dhein Tomás Tóibín aistriú ar an amhrán clúiteach seo ó Bhaile na Groí. B’é Tom Gleeson a scríobh ar dtúis é agus tá sé, comh maith le bunleagan an amhráin agus a stair anseo. Seán Ó Síocháin a chuir i mbéal an phobail é ar chláracha raidió ar nós ‘Ireland is Singing agus ‘The Balladmakers Saturday Night’

A cháirde ‘s a chomharsain más áil libh-se spórtaíocht
Seo scéal agus comhairle daoibh, aosta ‘gus óg
Gluaisíg in bhúr sluaite chun páirceanna lúthchleas
Is chífidh sibh iontas ná faca sibh fós
Beidh rince ‘gus rás ann, is peil is iománaíocht
Ceolta go hálainn ann, geallaimse daoibh,
Is i dteannta na sárfhear a bheidh ar an láthair,
Beidh gaiscíoch na háite seo, Taidhgín Ó Cuíll

Le scéalaíocht is spórtaíocht, le plé le mná óga,
Nó líonadh na scórnach le piúntanaibh dí
Níl mac sa pharóiste, sa tír ná san Eoraip
A sheasódh comórtas le Taidhgín Ó Cuíll

I gceartlár na hÉireann bhí iníon ráinséar,
Go raibh aici spré milliún púnt agus bó
Ach ní raibh aici an tsláinte úd is fearr ná na táinte
Is dochtúirí dá bharr san ag fáil failí go leor
“Ach a mháithrín” ar sí chuige “diabhal le pillíní
Níl luibh ann ná leigheas in aghaigh ghalair an chroí
Ní dhíbreoidh frídíní na dearg aicíd sin
Ach aeríocht aon oíche le Taidhgín Ó Cuíll”.

Curfá

I gcluiche Craobh Éireann bhí Corcaigh á dtraochadh
Ón ngríosadh ‘s ón mbéicigh iománaithe ar chlaí
‘S ar eagla go léasfaí ár mbuachaillí féinigh
Do chuireamar scéala go Baile na Groí
Seo Taidhgín ár bhfaoiseamh is chuaigh sé sa chaoi ‘s gur
Dhein éacht leis an sliotar ná feicfear arís
Bhí trácht ar pháipéirí ‘s ó Raidió Éireann
Ar ghaiscíocht mhór éachtacha Thaidhgín Ó Cuíll

Curfá

Bhí ard-spiorad na saoirse go láidir ‘na chroí ‘stigh
Is chaith sé seal míosa san Cork County Gaol
Mar daoradh sa chúirt é as ocht a dhroch iompair
Beartú revolution is léasadh piléar
“Ach a chlaidhre” ar sé “tugaim fós mo dhúshlán chugaibh
Ní raibh ná ní bheidh agam meas ar bhúr ndlí
Agus Corker nó Cason nó Crochall an téagaibh
Ní bhuafaidh ar Éireann ná ar Thaidhgín Ó Cuíll”

Curfá

Liam O’Connell’s Hat

This song is from the late Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin of Cúil Aodha. He reckoned that the incident happened at a dance in the school in Cúil Aodha and that the Liam O’Connell in question was working for the landlord and therefore not well liked in the area. Crowley, the tailor, composed the song.

There is a long tradition in this area of comic songs in both Irish and English, which depend for their effect on outrageous exaggeration. The description of Liam’s hat follows the traditional pattern. We find that it was worn by many famous people including Louis of France, Maher, Mitchel, Brian Boru, Sarsfield, Emmet, Alfred the Great, Henry the Eighth and others no less famous. There must have been great wearing in the old material – far better than the modern synthetics! (Tomás Ó Canainn)

Oh neighbours come listen your attention I crave
and the truth I will state without falter
I have seen it explicitely put in detail
that the fruits of my case are a caution:
On the twenty ninth instant I turned out gay
A fantastic figure I quickly displayed:
On a dancing expidition I went up to Coolea
and I’ll tell how the same followed after

The hall when I entered the minutes to take
I instantly gazed on the charmers:
They greeted me kindly and fixed me a seat,
Insisting I stay until morning.
The ballroom commendably put in repair,
The audience I witnessed in splendid array:
It was largely attended by country swain
Both dumpy and stately in form.

The pipers and fiddlers in concert did play:
Their strings were prepared and their chanters.
Their instruments tuned to similar air,
And the vocalisation was charming
Some youths they were nimbly jigging away,
Till my hat sure I missed at the end of the game
And you’ll pity my pate in the morning.

Long life to Tom Sullivan he quickly explained –
It’s an ignorant case of disorder.
Whoever is guilty of such a mistake
If he’ll give back the hat he’ll be pardoned.
But the man who invented this critical scheme,
By order of Spenser we’ll send him to jail,
And the laws of the kingdom will little avail
That the villianous rake of a blackguard.

If this hat had a tongue it could tell a long tale:
It was worn by ancient commanders.
‘Twas a notable gem by the prince of each state,
Since Elizabeth ruled over Gráinne.
‘Twas worn by Louis the Frenchman of fame
By Maher and Mitchel, true sons of the Gael,
And by scores of women and men I won’t name:
McQuade had it on in adorning.

Brian wore it a helmet to conquer the Danes:
From then sure its fame is exalted.
It came by descent with that eminent race –
‘Twas in some engagement by Sarsfield.
‘Twas worn by Emmet in the year ninety-eight;
‘Twas worn in England by Alfred the Great;
‘Twas worn by William, the son of King James
And by Henry the Eighth as an armour.

Now my case it won’t end till I make a long trail
Over hills and low dales and each corner:
Through towns and through cities through islands and glades
Each inlet and each harbour.
I’ll travel from Dingle and then to Kenmare,
Beare Island and Whiddy and Bantry Bay,
The bare rocks of Skellig won’t set me astray,
For I’m quite well aware of its harbour.

I roamed to Valentia, the banks of the Maine,
Muckross, Loch Leane and Killarney,
Where the countries are limited up at Trá Réidh
And I straight made my way to Drenalumna.
Down to the Mills and to the cascade
The bowers of the Beochaill and Mahoney’s Lane.
From that to the village, a suspicious place,
And we drank a few trates there at Arthur’s.

In the courses I travelled my vigilance failed,
So I took a walk eastwards towards Blarney:
Down to Cork City and on to Kinsale
Wherein I took earnest precaution.
A discoursable hag in the extremes of old age,
Endowed with a witchcraft, she whispered me there:
Go back where you came from – ’tis sunk in the lake
Agus fágfaimis siúd mar atá sé.

Inchigeela Lass

Harold Delaney a chuma n t-amhrán seo, seana-Fhínín ab ea é, agus do bhí sé ar a theitheadh. Do tharla dho bheith ar Aifreann in Inse Geimhleach nuair a thimpeallaigh saighduirí agus Yeomen an séipéal chun é a ghabháil. Do bhí cara mór leis, óg-bhean darb ainm Máire Ní Raghallaigh sa t-séipéal, do thó sí síos go dtí bun an t-séipéil é, agus do mhalartaíodar a gcuid éadaigh. D’imigh Delaney amach, é gléasta mar bhean, agus níor aithníodh é. Níor stad sé agus níor staon sé gur shroich sé Cóbh Chorcaí, agus do bhordaigh sé long go Meiriceá. Is mar bhuíochas ar an gcailín seo, Máire Ní Raghallaigh, a scríobh sé an t-amhrán seo thall, á moladh de bharr é shaoradh ó ghabháil, ó phríosún, agus b’fhéidir ó bhás ag an namhaid sa t-séipéal in Inse Geimhleach. Chanadh Peáití Thadhg Pheig an t-amhrán seo agus tá sé ar an nDD a d’eisigh Peadar Ó Riada i 2011. Chuir a nia Seán Ó Liatháin ar a thaifead féin, ‘An Crúiscín Lán’, sa bhliain 2017.

I greet you proud Iveleary’s sons and daughters fair and true
Assembled at the south-end club, old friendships to renew,
This annual opportunity I’m loth to let it pass
Ere I recite a tale to-night of my Inchigeela Lass.

Iveleary ah, how sweet your name rings in an exile’s ear
Though I’ve not seen those heath clad hills those five and twenty years,
T’was there I met my heart’s delight one Sunday morn at Mass
As I knelt in prayer in the chapel there with my Inchigeela Lass.

She was modest as the cooing dove and gentle as the fawn
That roam o’er Desmond’s storied heights, those highlands o’er Gougane
No goddess fair in Grecian days in beauty could surpass
My winsome rogue, my Máirín Óg, my Inchigeela Lass.

Like all the boys along the Lee I joined a rebel band
And pledged myself to freedom’s cause for dear old motherland
An outlaw, I was chased from Cork to Keimaneigh’s famed Pass
And forced to flee from Erin’s Lee and my Inchigeela Lass.

Before I from my native land for ever would depart
I slipped beyond the soldier’s lines to the darling of my heart
Her pictures on the moonlit lake that mirrored as in glass
The pattern queen of sweet Keimeen, my Inchigeela Lass.

Over Muskerry’s heights and Shehy slopes a waning moon shone pale
As I clasped her to my heart that night in Céimín’s emerald vale
And when inside her cottage door her nimble form did pass
T’was the last I saw of my Cailín Breá, my Inchigeela Lass.

I sped through Inniscarra’s groves before the dawn of day
To a passage in a Yankee ship that in Queenstown Harbour lay
The Captain being a Fenian bold my safety to compass
And the ship set sail from Gráinne Mhaol and my Inchigeela Lass.

Oh, what became of Máirín Óg, Iveleary’s fairest flower
She drooped as drops the May bloomed leaves, belated Winter showers
The Autumn trees had shed their leaves as they laid her’neath the grass
My promised bride, Iveleary’s pride, my Inchigeela Lass.

Were I beside the Lee to-night I’d quickly find the spot
Where Máirín smile brought sunshine to her widowed mother’s cot
The smile that lit the eyes of my sweet Cailín deas
Still cheers my way, I will always pray for my Inchigeela Lass.

Iveleary, ah Iveleary, far away across the wave
You own what I prize most on earth, my Máirín’s moss-grown grave
My present habitation is in Broadway, Boston, Mass.
And the Buachaill Rua is always true to his Inchigeela Lass.