1.Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich, buain na rainich,
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich daonnan
‘S tric a bha mi fhìn ‘s mo leannan,
Anns a’ ghleannan cheòthar,
‘G èisteachd còisir bhinn an doire,
Seinn sa choille dhòmhail
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich, buain na rainich,
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich daonnan
O nam faicinn thu a’ tighinn,
Ruithinn dhol nad chòdhail,
Ach mur tig thu ‘n seo gam shireadh,
Ciamar thilleas dòchas?
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich, buain na rainich,
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich daonnan
2.Cùl an tomain, bràigh an tomain,
Cùl an tomain bhòidheach,
Cùl an tomain, bràigh an tomain,
H-uile là nam ònar
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich, buain na rainich,
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich daonnan
Anns an t-sìthean, o, gur sgìth mi,
‘S tric mo chridhe ga leònadh,
Nuair bhios càch a’ seinn nan luinneag,
Cha dèan mis’ ach crònan
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich, buain na rainich,
Tha mi sgìth ‘s mi leam fhìn,
Buain na rainich daonnan
I am tired and I am alone,
Cutting the bracken, cutting the bracken,
I am tired and I am alone,
Forever cutting the bracken
Often, my love and I,
Were in the misty glens,
Listening to the sweet choir of the grove,
Singing in the corpulent forest
I am tired and I am alone,
Cutting the bracken, cutting the bracken,
I am tired and I am alone,
Forever cutting the bracken
If I saw you coming,
I would run to meet you, but
if you don’t come here to search for me
How can hope return?
I am tired and I am alone,
Cutting the bracken, cutting the bracken,
I am tired and I am alone,
Forever cutting the bracken
Behind the knoll, the top of the knoll,
Behind the lovely knoll,
Behind the knoll, the top of the knoll,
Every day, alone
I am tired and I am alone,
Cutting the bracken, cutting the bracken,
I am tired and I am alone,
Forever cutting the bracken
In the fairy hill (or knoll, but I like fairy hill), oh I will be tired,
And often my heart would be wounded,
When others sing their songs ,
I will do nothing but drone
I am tired and I am alone,
Cutting the bracken, cutting the bracken,
I am tired and I am alone,
Forever cutting the bracken
Memory & Archives Aibreán 21, 2018 ag an Huntington i bPasadena, California.
Bhí orm caint faoi mo smaointe ar an scannán Song of Granite as Béarla. Seo’d iad na nótaí a bhreac mé síos roimh chaint faoi. Béarla ag teacht. GML. Féach ar an scannán anseo.
Thoughts & notes about the film: time, place, identity, sean-nós, Irish, Seosamh etc.
Mícheál Ó Confhaola dochreidthe maith mar Joe Heaney!
Gaeltacht & Suffering
I asked what I should talk about and the themes of memory, place, and identity were mentioned. In a great hurry, I jotted down what I could before rushing off to a Celtic retreat where there were music, dance, and language workshops. Here are those rough thoughts.
MEMORIES
The film Song of Granite brought back memories. I felt ancient. Because I understood. Because it was familiar. I saw it in a cinema in Santa Monica. In the darkness, I heard the words of the most moving song and the tears fell. There were no subtitles. What astounded me was that when I looked around was that other people were crying too even though they didn’t understand the words.
TIME l often hear people describing Irish an ancient language and I cringe. It is ancient and we should be proud of that. But that is often said to dismiss it as if it has no relevance to the modern world. Song of Granite made me feel ancient. The film felt like it must have been about a time long before I was born. Still, for a time, I lived this life.
Back in 1973, in the middle of winter, I spent three months as an 11-year-old on a Gael-Linn scholarship. Going from Mullingar in the center of Ireland to Leitir Móir back in 1973 was like stepping into the history books. I landed in one of the most westerly regions of The Gaeltacht (the Irish-speaking region).
When Song of Granite showed the young boy walking across the rocks in a long shot, I knew how he felt. I had walked landscapes like this. I had seen women in clothes that should only have been in the history books but I saw them with my own eyes. It shouldn’t have been. I’m not old enough. I saw old women by the bridge to Leitir Mealláin dressed in black with big hoods around their heads. The memory stayed with me because the brakes had failed on the bus and we went past the church to where the women were before stopping. They seemed like they were from an older time.
Back then, I would bring a sod of turf for the fireplace when I went to school in Leitir Móir. Something that never happened in Mullingar. There were no fireplaces in classrooms and students were not required to bring a sod of turf in with them. The schoolhouse in Leitir Móir was full of life and mischief back then. The local children pestered me with questions because they wanted to know about my world because I was from a different world. When I went home, I was part of two worlds.
I am part of this world of Song of Granite. Part of me then and part of me now. There is a lot of parting going on. In the cinema, part of me felt connected on a deep level and part of me resented being made to feel so old. It messed up my sense of time and place. Joe Heaney had a lot of parting going on in his life too. It is the way of the west: to emigrate. It is the way of Ireland now. His roots were deep but he kept on moving: a walking, singing contradiction.
2. PLACE Song of Granite starts in the Gaeltacht, an Irish-Speaking region. Even in this example I give you of what it is, there is treachery. It suggests that no one else in Ireland speaks Ireland except in the most remote places. We were told that is what it is and we repeat that definition, that limitation of who we can be.
The Gaeltacht still needs to be understood and protected even as we realize it should never have been used to separate people by language. It is a form of Apartheid, often by very well-meaning people. Others are just more comfortable that Irish speakers are kept away in the west and don’t offend their ears in civilized parts of the country.
Some scenes in Song of Granite reminded me of a dark short film about boys drowning: An t-Ádh directed by Colm Bairéad https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgBPdWI8suA It is 21 minutes long if you wait for the song during the credits. And you should. It’s a lament. Bertie O Domhnaill sings the song at the end. Amhrán Maoinis. We have much to lament. Songs where the people in the song know they are going to die pack a punch. Even more so, if they tell their wishes in a matter of fact manner. An t-Ádh is a reworking of a classic tale by Pádraic O Conaire. Children playing on bare broken concrete in an abandoned school reminded me of clips I had seen of reservations for indigenous peoples here in the US. The boys in the short film have the most beautiful, musical Irish. It’s their language and it is alive. Very little else around them is.
They are in the designated area called the Gaeltacht. It exists to protect them and their language. This is how the Gaeltacht is explained. Part of it is real and well-meaning. You have to wonder, though; why does the place where the children play look so abandoned? Why do they play on deserted land, on broken concrete? People will claim it is all for good and there is some truth to that but it reminded me of the message of the movie Song of the Sea where Granny keeps telling the children that they must deal with suffering because it is for their own good and she reminds them, “I know what’s best for you!” The government has often failed to do the right thing for the language and the people of the Gaeltacht.
We should not forget the desire to drive the Irish “to hell or to Connaught.’ Our enemies wanted to kill our people and our language by sending people there. We should not be guilty of doing the same thing while saying we have good intentions in doing so. Our ancestors were driven to the harshest land to separate them from the richer people. To divide and conquer. When I arrived there as an 11-year-old, I saw children dying to escape from their restricted zone. They wanted a better life. We can have that. The definition of a Gaeltacht is changing. We are creating our own Irish-speaking spaces by overcoming shame. It is happening.
ARCHIVE: The Gaeltacht region is remote. Beautiful but remote. Some say there is not one Gaeltacht; there are many. I say the whole country is a Gaeltacht that has a muffle of shame. The separation to protect the language is not working. We must protect the people who have been cast aside or deprived. Ensure they have employment with the language. We must record the words and cadences of Gaeltacht speakers. Record audiobooks to ensure the music of the language is not lost. The locals get jobs and we get audiobooks so as to pass it on to future generations. Universities must do this. Archive it. Make it public. Sell it to those who can afford it. Give it away to the rest. It is urgent to do this.
3. IDENTITY and SHAME
It can be difficult to understand why people would not respect their own beautiful language but in that game of deception that is imperialism, those to be conquered are defined as in need of civilization to justify barbaric actions. To accept the false narrative is to become part of the process of killing off a culture and a language. It is not right to call this post-colonial inheritance because the colonial mentality has been planted in our heads. It is still there. It is a colony in our heads. It is difficult to shake free of the sense of shame that was passed down from generation to generation.
We try to make the whole country a Gaeltacht again. Online, it’s easy enough. Sometimes not. In 2016 I signed up for a course with Trinity College online to learn about the history of the 1916 rebellion. I posted some comments in Irish. This wasn’t allowed, I was informed, as some people couldn’t understand them. I suggested I translate them to English and post both versions thinking people would appreciate this. It wasn’t allowed. It turns out the course was run from England and the person who had to monitor comments probably was worried that I might be a terrorist saying awful things in another language. There is irony in the fact that I did a course on the 1916 fight for freedom hosted by an Irish university where English only was allowed.
In the north of the country, it can be much worse. When I started driving, I had stickers on my car that said: Scrios bóithre Chonamara an carr seo (Connemara roads wrecked this car) and Fág an Bealach (Clear the way). Because of that, I would never dare to drive across the border. The stickers would mark me as a probable terrorist to soldiers at the border and in the north. That’s how they saw us. How some still see us.
Lately, Queen’s University Belfast was in the news for not allowing signs in Irish on their campus. When these things happen we learn it is not just that we are not allowed to use our language in many places, but that people see it as threatening, offensive, and unworthy. That shames us.
As we try to use our language in everyday life, we are banned or prevented from using it again and again. We feel ashamed to speak in case we might start trouble when they have to tell us we are not allowed to speak. All this was not only allowed but is still VERY much alive. Our politicians do not speak Irish in government. They should.
We cannot be separated anymore. Irish words come flooding into my head to try to explain what I feel about the Gaeltacht: Uaigneas, Lom, Tréigthe, Caite Amach, Tost. Loneliness, Bare, Abandoned, Thrown out, Silence. There’s a lot of silence in Song of Granite. Silence between the notes, between the words, between the elements of the story. Gaps in the history of who we are. We know something is wrong with that. Irish speakers need to be accepted and part of Ireland. Our signs should not have Irish bent over in italics. We are not less and we should not be cowed. We need the same opportunities and Internet access as anywhere else. We need respect for our language from the politicians down. Speaking it.
I recently went home to my Father’s funeral. At the removal of remains (not a very poetic description), a nun who had taught me asked me if I was still using music in my life. Did I have a job in the area of music? I told her, in sight of my father’s open coffin, that I was involved with Irish now. Her eyes opened with shock and she said, with genuine horror: You haven’t gone all Gaelic on us, have you? These are the people who educated us. These are the attitudes they hold. Not all. But enough to do major damage. Most students are led to believe Irish is something you have to study but it’s really worthless. They teach disrespect and resentment. Not all, but enough to do major damage. We must change this. It is a mindset. It is shame.
Seosamh Ó hÉanaí
15 Oct 1919 Carna, Connemara – 1 May 1984 Seattle Washington. He went from Ireland to England, Scotland and the US (including New York & Seattle).
He recorded hundreds of songs. His repertoire: over 500 songs. He starting singing at 5 and singing in public at 20.
1949: Worked on building sites in London & recorded for Topic & Gael-Linn. He was married for 6 years. His wife died of TB.
1959: RTÉ & BBC recorded him.
1965: He went to Newport folk Festival, moved to US, settled in New York. He taught at Wesleyan University in Middleton, Connecticut.
1982 – 1984 Artist-in-Residence at the Universiy of Washington in Seattle.
1984: The Joe Heaney Collection of the University of Washington Ethnomusicology Archives
There is an annual festival in Carna: Féile Chomórtha Joe Éinniú
2011: Sean Williams & Lillis O Laoire Bright Star of the West: Joe Heaney, Irish Song-Man.
2017 Song of Granite, Pat Collins
Críochnaigh mé le caint faoi Chomhaltas agus Conradh na Gaeilge i gCathair na nAingeal. Bhí suim ag bean faoi leith sa cheangail le ceol na ndúchasach i SAM. Mór an trua nach raibh níos mó ama agam leo ach mór an onóir bheith ann.
Bhíomar ag an aonach: Irish Fair LA don dara bhliain dúinn anois. Chonaiceamar feabhas mór ann i mbliana. Ardmholadh go gach duine a bhí ag obair ann. Laochra sibh! Moladh speisialta do Erin Scott Haines a chuir a croí isteach ann. Déarfainn nach dtarlódh an Aonach gan í.
Bhí ardáthas ar Chonradh na Gaeilge bheith ag cabhrú le Comhaltas i mbliana. Seo Debut Ceol na nAingeal agus beidh Craobh na nAingeal ag obair leo go minic mar sin comhaltas 😉 Ar an ardán acu bhí ranganna Gaeilge agus comórtaisí amhránaíochta, filíochta, agus scéalaíochta.
Le Céilí Rua (maith agaibh Gypsy Ethnic Arts Center as bheith linn), bhí muid ag múineadh Céilí agus Rince Seit. Chomh maith leis sin bhí rince na scuaibe againn. Maith thú Liana. Múinte: Ballaí Luimní, Soláiste na Bealtaine, Rince Mór na Tine, Baint an Fhéir. Le Tim Martin: Corofin Plain Set agus linn féin an Antrim Square Set. Múinte ag Aedan: rince ar an sean nós. Solos den scoth ó David agus Liana. Tá muid ag dul i gcleachtadh leis an stuf seo anois. Chomh bródúil sin as gach a rinne siad ar fad. Bhí na sluaite (idir óg agus aosta) thuas ag damhsa linn ar an stáidse agus d’airdigh sin mo chroí.
Le Joyce agus Maria, bhí Féasta Sráide againn agus d’fhoghlaim daoine conas bia a fháil as Gaeilge agus iad ag foghlaim Led’ thoil agus Go raibh maith agat. Iontach ar fad daoine a chloisteáil in áiteachaí eile ag an Aonach ag baint úsáid as an nGaeilge a d’fhoghlaim siad. Bua! Maith í Joyce a rinne arán agus bunnóga dúinn. Maith iad Sweeneys a thug bunnóga agus arán dúinn freisin.
Míle buíochas le Caoimhe as na leabhair ar fad a fuaireamar ag an deireadh!
Traocha fós inniu ach fíorshásta.
Grianghrafanna ag teacht isteach inniu. Seo tús leo
What I’m trying to do tonight, in the space I have, is to give you a bit of everything. And the next thing I’m going to do — maybe some of you heard about it, I don’t know — is called The American Wake. Now it’s nothing to do, directly, it’s nothing to do with America. But long ago, when people were going to America and emigrating, their parents knew they’d never see that particular person in this life again.
And the night before they left, the woman or the man who was leaving — It wasn’t so easy then to come home as it is now. They settled down more or less when they went to America, and they got married, and their parents died, meantime they could never see them. But anyway, the man or the woman who was going away visited all the old people in the village, invited them to have a dance that night in the house. And those that weren’t able to go, they gave them a bottle of something as a remembrance.
And they invited the people — Now I’m talking about a time when there was no musical instruments. And of course, long ago, musical instruments were barred, because some of the clergy reckoned that if you played music you were a druid or something — something pagan about you. So maybe it was a good thing, too. But anyway — there was somebody, always, who lilted a tune, and somebody danced to that tune.
Now, in the old country houses they had what was known as a half-door. And sometimes when somebody was dancing on a concrete kitchen floor they lifted off the half-door, and danced on top of the half-door. Now two of the tunes they used to play was a reel, My Love She’s in America, and a hornpipe, Off to California. This was during the night; and in the morning, of course, the song — the lament — was sung by always — nearly always — the woman. But this is somebody lilting a tune for somebody dancing. My Love She’s in America went something like this:
That’s My Love She’s in America. Now Off to California:
Now, the dancing was over, and in the morning, usually the mother, put her hands around whoever was going away, pointing out to that person that ‘Even though you’re going away, remember, you’ll get no money thrown on the pavements. Where you’re going you’ll see somebody rich; but remember, behind that person there may be twenty people who’s very poor. And when you’re walking the streets at night, remember, stop and listen, because as sure as anything the voice you’ll hear will be mine, calling you back; because you know I’ll always love you’.
And the song they used to sing was A Stór Mo Chroí.
A stór mo chroí, when you’re far away from the home you’ll soon be leaving
And it’s many a time by night and day your heart will be sorely grieving.
Though the stranger’s land might be rich and fair, and riches and treasure golden
You’ll pine, I know, for the long long ago and the love that’s never olden.
A stór mo chroí, in the stranger’s land there is plenty of wealth and wearing
Whilst gems adorn the rich and the grand there are faces with hunger tearing.
Though the road is dreary and hard to tread, the lights of their city may blind you
You’ll turn, a stór, to Erin’s shore and the ones you left behind you.
A stór mo chroí, when the evening sun over the mountain and meadow is falling
Won’t you turn away from the throng and listen and maybe you’ll hear me calling.
The voice that you’ll hear will be surely mine of somebody’s speedy returning
A rún, a rún, will you come back soon to the one who will always love you.
Now the song is called Eileanóir a Rún. The way that Cearbhall Ó Dálaigh… composed this, and put music to it himself. And the story attributed to Carolan. I hope you don’t mind listening to this story. This is one of the finest stories ever behind a Gaelic song.
When Carolan was a young man, his job was to do odd jobs for anybody who’d give him work, and he was travelling around the country doing such things until he was about twenty years of age. And one day, he came to this farmer’s house, and the farmer told him he’d give him a job to watch four cows. The rest of the cattle was watched by somebody else. ‘And keep your eye,’ he said, ‘on the white cow, because there’s a legend about the white cow, that she’ll give birth to a calf, and who will ever taste the milk of the mother first will have the gift of all knowledge, master of all trades, and any woman who will ever look at him will fall twice in love with him at the one time.’
So anyway, Carolan took the cattle out grazing, and nothing happened for a couple of months. And this day, he was grazing the cattle beside a huge big rock — like that wall there. And the rock opened up. And out of the rock walked the most beautiful, the most ferocious bull that a man ever laid eyes on. And the bull didn’t look right or left — he walked up to the white cow. Now, whatever they said to one another, the bull and the white cow took off to one corner of the field, and they stayed there all day until the sun was setting. And, you know the myth about something out of the other world, like the banshee — they have to go back before the sun sets, and stay there ’til twelve o’clock at night. Well, anyway, they came back, and the rock opened; the bull gave the cow a little kick with his hind leg, and back he goes into the rock again.
Then Carolan came home and he told the master what happened; and he said ‘Keep an eye on the white cow until she has a calf; and whatever you do, don’t let the calf suck its mother, because whoever tastes the first of that milk is okay for the rest of his life.’
So the day the cow gave birth to the calf, Carolan forgot what the master told him. And he saw the calf about to suck his mother, and went over and he took the milk off the mouth of the calf, and he rubbed his fingers across his mouth, like that. And then he was told: ‘Carolan, you tasted the milk of the white cow and the black bull first. Now, you’re a gifted man. The first thing you do, don’t go home to the farmer and tell him this, because he’ll kill you.’
So he sets off, and he was travelling for three or four months, until one night he came to this shoemaker’s house. And the shoemaker was making a pair of shoes. And Carolan came in and he bid him good evening and he told him to sit down, he’d get him something to eat; but at the moment he was busy trying to finish a pair of shoes for the lady in the big house. The lady in the big house was Eleanor Kavanagh — that was her surname. ‘And I must finish the shoes tonight’, he says, ‘because she’s going to a dance.’ So Carolan says, ‘Could I’, he says, ‘do one of the shoes for you?’ And he said, ‘No, these… have to be perfect. I have to make them myself’. But the poor shoemaker was so tired that he fell asleep; and Carolan took over, and he finished the pair of shoes that was yet untouched. And when the shoemaker woke up, he saw the shoe, and he said ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope the shoe that you made,’ he said, ‘fits her like the one I made.’ And he said, ‘Will you bring them up now,’ he says to Carolan, ‘bring them up to… Eleanor, because she’s waiting.’
So when Carolan went up to the door, he saw Eleanor, standing inside the door. And he said in the song — the first thing he said in the song was ‘mo ghrá den chéad fhéachaint thú, Eileanóir a rún’ — ‘my love to you at first sight.’ He brought the shoes in; she tried them on; one shoe fitted her, and the other didn’t. And she said, ‘Whoever made this shoe, I’ll follow him for the rest… of my life’. And that’s when she eloped with Carolan.
Now, there is no English translation to this, either. Not this way. There is, the other way — the way it’s in the book. And this is the way Carolan did it.
Liricí
Mo ghrá thú den chéad fhéachaint, is tú Eileanóir a rún. You’re my love at first-sight, Eleanor my love.
Is ort a bhím ag smaoineamh tráth a mbím im shuain. It’s of you that I am thinking while I lie asleep.
A ghrá den tsaol is a chéad-searc, is tú is deise ná ban Éireann. My love and my first treasure, you are the best of the women of Ireland.
A bhruinnilín deas óig, is tú is deise milse póig. Lovely young maiden, you have the nicest, sweetest kiss.
Chúns mhairfead beo beidh gean a’m ort As long as I live I will desire you
Mar is deas mar a sheolfainn gamhnaí leat, a Eileanóir a rún.
For I would love to drive the calves with you, Eleanor my love.
Now, Carolan starts praising her. ‘She has a gift’, he says, ‘she could get the birds off the limbs of the trees; she had a gift she could even make the corpse move while laid out on the board and she has another gift I’ll never tell anybody until such a time as we get married.’
‘S bhí bua aici go meallfadh sí na héanlaith ón gcrann. And she had the gift that she could entice the birds from the trees.
‘S ba mhílse blas a póigín ná a chuaichín roimh an lá. And the taste of her kiss was sweeter than the cuckoo before day.
Bhí bua eile aici nach ndéarfad. She had another gift that I will not tell.
Sí grá mi chroí ‘s mo chead-searc. She is the love of my heart and my first treasure.
A bhruinnilín deas óig, is tú is deise milse póig. Lovely young maiden, you have the nicest, sweetest kiss.
Chúns mhairfead beo beidh gean a’m ort. As long as I live I will desire you.
Mar is deas mar a sheolfainn gamhnaí leat, a Eileanóir a rún.
For I would love to drive the calves with you, Eleanor my love.
Well, Carolan always said, ‘Is deas mar a sheolfainn gamhnaí leat’ — ‘I would love to drive the cattle with you’. Because he was thinking of the white cow that made him the man he was. So he’s always talking about driving the cattle with Eleanor.
ancroiait 