Neart ag smaoineamh gur British muid anseo i SAM. Anuraidh labhair mé le seanchúpla i Sasana, Sasanaigh, daoine lách gealgháireach a cheap gur le Sasana Éire.
Cúpla rud le tuiscint. Níl gach duine mar Dave bocht thíos, ach neart acu ann. Féach air led’ thoil. Seo míniú a bhaineann leis an bpeil.
Mar sin, tuig, tuig, tuig, le bhur dtoil, cén fáth NACH bhfuil sé oiriúnach Celtic Center a chur i gClub le pictiúirí de bhanríon Shasana aguas Churchill ar an mballa ann. Sin an fáth a chaill sibh daoine. Mar níor éist sibh linn. Mar labhair sibh linn ar nós labhairt le páistí dána. Mar bhí drochmheas agaibh orainn.
Rud a d’fhoghlaim sibh ón leagan den stair a d’fhoghlaim sibh trí Bhéarla anseo. Mar TÁ ciníochas láidir anseo.
Agus Bridget a d’ionsaigh mé le maslaí is tú ag screadadh go mba chóir dom meas a thabhairt don bhanríon san Center sin, tá súil agam go bhfuair tú cúnamh mar is mór an t-ualach fuath mar sin. Ní ghlacaim le bulaíocht in aon áit.
ACH an rud a dúirt liom go raibh daoine iomlán tone-deaf don stair ansin ná an chaoi ina raibh orm argóint a dhéanamh le am a fháil le smaoineamh ar a tharla i mBerkeley nuair a fuair Éireannaigh óga bás. Le ómós a thabhairt dóibh.
Is féidir liom aineolas a mhaitiú ach daoine gan croíthe, sin rud eile.
Bhí mé ciúin faoi seo i bhfad rófada.
Anois, mé i spás nua le daoine den scoth a thuigeann. Muid ag fás go tapaidh. Beidh craobh againn i Los Feliz i Lúnasa lcd. Bígí cinnte NACH mbeidh Banríon Shasana ar an mballa againn ná Churchill mar tuigimid an stair.
Anois, Dave agus daoine cosúil leis, beidh meas againn ort agus oraibh nuair a aithníonn sibh an fhírinne. Ansin, le meas, beidh craic againn le chéile. Tuiscint. Croí. Sin atá de dhíth.
Nóta: Domsa ciallíonn British cultúir a bhaineann le Cymru, Corn na Breataine, agus An Bhriotáin. ACH san alt SEO mé ag tagairt ar leagan den stair a thugann meas don impireacht gan an dochar a dhéanann sé a aithint, ar dhream a bhainfeadh ár gcultúr is stair dínn.
Conas críochnú?
Neart atá iontach sna hoileáin seo in aice le chéile agus cé nach British muid, bainimid taitneamh as an gcuid is fearr dínn. B’fhearr críochnú mar sin.
Muid imníoch fúibh is Sasamach ag teacht. Tá cairde agaibh anseo. Tuigimid gur thug sibh grá do go leor dínn le fada an lá. Tuiscint. Grá. Sin é.
Níl sé ceart, ar ndóigh: an G sin sa ‘Guit’ mar atá i ‘Gilead.’
Dia duit a fheicimid ach níor chuala mé Dia duit ó dhuine ar bith sa Ghaeltacht riamh. Dia dhuit a chloisim. Fiú ar scoil, níor chuala mé Dia duit. Sin a bhí ar an leathanach ach Dia dhuit a léigh an múinteoir amach agus Dia dhuit a dúramar. Níl fhios agam cén fáth nach scríobhaimid dhuit in áit duit, mar dhuit a deirimid.
Go minic is daoine ag foghlaim ar dtús, níl an fhuaim dh acu agus fuaim g a thagann uathu. Níl siad ceart. Ach muid ar fad ag foghlaim, nach ea?
Fiú sa Bhéarla, cheapfá gur Jilead in áit Gilead a bheadh ann mar fhuaim leis an litriú Gi sin i nGilead. Seans nach dtugaimid sin faoi deara fiú. Tagann an fhuaim amach mar a mhúintear dúinn í, is cuma céard atá ar an bpáipéar. Má deirtear go minic é, glacaimid leis fiú nuair nach bhfuil ciall ann dúinn.
Nuair a bhíomar ag foghlaim ar scoil, mhúin siad Dia duit dúinn mar bheannacht. Sin atá i mbeagnach gach téacs is daoine ag foghlaim Gaeilge. Freagra? Dia is Muire duit. Sin a deirtear, ar siad linn. Beannacht traidisiúnta, ar siad.
Is breá liom traidisiún is muid ag caint ar cheol nó rince. Mheas mé fhéin (ní féin – níl sé nádúrtha dom) nárbh shin ár dtraidisiún. Múinte dúinn ar scoil. Na mná rialta a mhúin mise, na Bráithre Críostaí a mhúin mo dhearthaireacha: nach raibh vested interest (vestido, invested, sheep’s clothing) acu sna frásaí seo?
Bhí agus tá, ar ndóigh!
Is mé ag múineadh daltaí ón Araib Shádach, labhair siad liom faoina dtraidisiúin. Thaitin a dúirt siad liom go dtí gur úsáid siad ‘traidisiún é’ le cosc a chur ar shaoirse na mban a mhíniú. San India is muid i dtuaisceart na tíre, níl fhreagair fear aon cheist uaim. D’fhreagair sé m’fhear céile nuair a chuir mé an cheist air. Ní traidisiún sin. Sin guth agus aitheantas a bhaint díom mar is bean mé. Mar an gcéanna leis an mburka. Glanann sé an bhean amach ón scéal. Mar a bhí mná Éirebrushed as stair na hÉireann.
Mar sin, mínigh arís dom an Dia dhuit seo. Cad a chiallaíonn sé? An gcloistear daoine ag rá God be with youAGUSGod and Mary be with you mar fhreagra air go minic sa Bhéarla? God be with you cloiste go minic againn ón altóir ach ní ag daoine ar an tsráid. God bless you coitianta ach ní God and Mary bless you mar fhreagra air. Ní labhraíonn muid mar sin. Labhraíonn na sagairt mar sin.
Cad a d’fhoghlaim muid anseo? Mhúin an Eaglais atá fós i gceannas ar 90%+ de scoileanna na tíre frása dúinn ar leo é. Múinte do gach páiste sa tír le fada fada an lá. Má deirtear go minic é, glacaimid leis fiú nuair nach bhfuil ciall ann dúinn. Ach níl sin ceart. Níl sé de cheart acu sin a dhéanamh. Sin iompúchán agus ní chóir go mbeadh spás dhó sin sna scoileanna.
Agus Gilead? Sin an tír sa scéal le Margaraet Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale. Beannachtaí acu a mhúineann siad le chuile dhuine ann: Blessed be the fruit. Freagra: May the Lord open. Múinte ann: Lord, sin té le cumhacht nach féidir a cheistiú. Fireann, ar ndóigh. Bean? Níl inti ach fruit. Tortha. Ní duine. Cead ag fir í a oscailt. Níl guth ná cearta aici. Focal deas, tortha. Milis. Ansin le ceadú a thabhairt d’fhir mná a éagnú: i bhfad ó mhilis an bhrí leis. Ainmneacha bainte de na mná i nGilead agus ainm an fhir ar leis í tugtha do gach bean. Anseo san bhfíseán, tugann siad faoi deara go bhfuil siad róchleachtaithe leis an saol nua agus cuimhníonn siad cé hiad i ndáiríre. Cumhacht ag focal agus ag ainm.
Níl beannacht ar bith eile ceadaithe seachas Blessed be the fruit. May the Lord open nuair a bhuaileann tú le bean i nGilead. Níl cead ag páistí tada a rá seachas Dia duit is Dia is Muire duit is iad ag foghlaim Gaeilge ar scoil in Éirinn. Sin a tharlaíonn. Admhaigh é.
Má deirtear go minic é, glacaimid leis fiú nuair nach bhfuil ciall ann dúinn.
Admhaigh nach bhfuil sé ceart. Aithin é. Athraigh é. In am sin a athrú.
Seo amhrán a chuir ag caoineadh mé agus beagnach gach duine eile sa phictiúrlann nuair a chonaic mé Song of Granite le déanaí.
Ach cérbh é Lord Randall? Nuair a chloisim an t-ainm sin na laethanta seo, smaoiním ar an diabhal Black Jack Randall in Outlander.
Bhí bailéad leis an ainm sin fadó ó theorainn Shasana/Albain. Comhrá idir an tiarna óg is a mháthair atá ann. Thaisteal an t-amhrán. Tá bailéidí cosúil leis ar fud na hEorpa i go leor teangachaí: Gearmáinis, Danmhairgis, Magiarach (ón Ungair), Gaeilge, Sualannach, Uendis (Slavaic) agus Iodáilis ina measc. San leagan Iodáilis tugtar L’avvelenato (an fear ar tugadh nimh dó) nó Il testamento dell’avvelenato (tiomna an fhir ar tugadh nimh dó). Bhí leagan de leCamillo il Bianchino, i Verona i 1629.
An scéal
Filleann An Tiarna Randall abhaile, áit ina bhfuil a mháthair. Fiafraíonn a mháthair cad a tharla is faigheann sí amach gur thug leannán Randall nimh dó. San amhrán cloistear ar mhaith le Randall a dhéanamh len atá aige sa saol.
San leagan seo, míníonn Joe gur í deirfiúr Lord Randall atá ag cur na ceisteanna ar an bhfear atá ag fáil bháis. Is minic a deirtear ‘dearthairín’ nuair nach dearthair atá i gceist. Amantaí cara atá ann. Seans freisin gurb é a sheanmháthair atá á cheistiú, nó aintín leis.
Leagan de The Star of the County Down atá sa cheol anseo.
Míniú ar an scéal ina fhocail féin ag Joe Heaney:
[…] the story we had: that his newly-married wife that gave him an eel full of poison for his dinner. And that his sister was sitting by his bedside, asking him questions. Where were you all day? Cé raibh tú ó mhaidin, a dhearthairín, ó? And then, What will you leave your father? What will you leave your mother? What will you leave your brother? You know. What will you leave your wife? And he said, Ifreann mar dhúiche aice. Hell to be her land. Flaithis a bheith dúnta uirthi. Heaven to be closed to her.
And then he had two sons, according to this story, too. And she asked him, What will you leave your little sons?Hopping, he said from place to place, begging their food, he said, and ending up with the same way he said I’m dying now.He was bitter, and who wouldn’t be? And this is the way they used to sing it at home:
1. Cá raibh tú ó mhaidin, a dheartháirín, ó? Where have you been since morning, my little brother, oh?
‘S cá raibh tú ó mhaidin, a phlúr na bhfear óg? And where have you been since morning, oh flower of youth?
Bhí mé ag iascach ‘gus ag foghlaeireacht. Cóirigh mo leaba dhom. I was fishing and fowling. Get my bed ready for me.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
2. Céard a d’ith tú ar do dhinnéir, a dheartháirín, ó? What did you eat for your dinner, little brother, oh?
‘S céard a d’ith tú ar do dhinnéir, a phlúr na bhfear óg? And what did you eat for your dinner, oh flower of youth?
Óra, eascann a raibh lúib (cor) inti, nimh fuinte ‘gus é brúite uirthi. Oh, eel that had a twist in it, poison kneaded and pressed onto it.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
3. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do Dheaide, a dheartháirín, ó? What will you leave your Daddy, little brother, oh?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do Dheaide, a phlúr na bhfear óg? What will you leave your Daddy, oh flower of youth?
Óra, eochair mo stábla aige. Sin ‘gus mo láir aige. Oh, the key to the stable. That and my mare.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
4. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheartháir (dheirfiúr), a dheartháirín, ó?
What will you leave to your brother (sister), little brother, oh?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheartháir (dheirfiúr), a phlúr na bhfear óg?
What will you leave to your brother (sister), oh flower of youth?
Óra, eochair mo thrunca aige (aici). Sin agus míle punt aige (aici). Oh, the key to my truck. That and a thousand pounds.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
5. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do chleamhnaithe, a dheartháirín, ó? What will you leave your in-laws, little brother, oh?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do chleamhnaithe, a phlúr na bhfear óg? What will you leave your in-laws, oh flower of youth?
Fuacht fada ‘gus seachrán agus oíche ar gach bothán. Long periods of coldness and straying and night with no shelter.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
6. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do mháthair, a dheartháirín,ó? What will you leave your mother, little brother, oh?
‘S céard a fhágfas tú ag do mháthair, a phlúr na bhfear óg? And what will you leave your mother, oh flower of youth?
Dhá bhfágfainn an saol broghach aici, d’fhágfainn croí cráite aice. If I were to leave her to a sullied life, I would only leave her with a tormented heart.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus ligigí dhom luí. My heart is sick and let me lie down.
7. Céard a fhágfas tú ag do bhean phósta, a dheartháirín, ó? What will you leave your wife, little brother, oh?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do bhean phósta, a phlúr na bhfear óg? What will you leave your wife, oh flower of youth?
Óra, ifreann mar dhúiche aici, is na flaithis a bheith dúnta uirthi. Hell for her dwelling-place, heaven to be closed to her.
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí, agus beidh go deo deo. My heart is sick, and will be forever.
“Cé raibh tú ó mhaidin a dheartháirín ó?
Cé raibh tú ó mhaidin a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Ag iascach ‘s ag foghlaereacht, cóirigh mo leaba dhom,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a d’ith tú ag do bhricfeasta a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a d’ith tú ag do bhricfeasta a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Eascann a raibh lúb uirthi, nimh fuinte brúite uirthi,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheartháir a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheartháir a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Muise, cúig mhíle punt aige, gunna agus cú aige,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheirfiúr a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do dheifiúr a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Caoirigh beaga bána aici, na beithigh le bleán aici,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag t’athair a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag t’athair a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Eochair mo stábla aige, cuig mile púnt aige,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do mháithrín a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do mháithrín a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Má fhágaim an saol go brách aici, fágfad croí cráite aici,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do chuid páistí a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do chuid páistí a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Muise fuacht fada ‘gus seachrán, agus oíche ar gach bothán,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus caithfidh mé luí.”
“Céard a fhágfas tú ag do bhean phósta a dheartháirín ó?
Céard a fhágfas tú ag do bhean phósta a phlúir na bhfear óg?”
” Ifreann mar dhúiche aici, na Flaithis a bheith dúinte uirthi,
Tá mé tinn fá mo chroí agus bead go deo deo.”
The Song of the Eel (Lord Randall)
“Where have you been since morning, my pet?
Where have you been since morning, oh flower of young men?”
” Fishing and fowling. Make my bed for me.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What did you eat at your breakfast, my pet?
What did you eat at your breakfast, oh flower of young men?”
” An eel with a twist in her, poison kneaded and mixed into her.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your brother, my pet?
What will you leave your brother, oh flower of young men?”
” Five thousand pounds, a gun and a hound.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your sister, my pet?
What will you leave your sister, oh flower of young men?”
” Little white sheep and the cattle to milk.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your father, my pet?
What will you leave your father, oh flower of young men?”
” The key to my stable, that and my mare.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your mother, my pet?
What will you leave your mother, oh flower of young men?”
” If I leave life forever to her I’ll leave her a broken heart.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your children, my pet?
What will you leave your children, oh flower of young men?”
” A long time wandering in the cold, and each night a different shelter.
I’m sick in/to my heart and I’ll have to lie down.”
“What will you leave your wedded wife, my pet?
What will you leave your wedded wife, oh flower of young men?”
” Hell as her surroundings and Heaven to be closed on her.
I’m sick in/to my heart and will be for ever and ever.”
Léigh Lynn Brady an dán seo amach ag Comóradh 1916 inné. Bhí béim ag an ócáid ar ról ríthábhachtach na mBan san Éirí Amach. Ghlac timpeall 300 bean páirt san Éirí Amach. Níor ghlac siad le cultúr a dúirt leo fanacht sa chistin. Bhí siad ar lorg comhionannas, saoirse, agus cearta: rud nach bhfuil faighte againn os rud é gur ghoid McQuaid saoirse uainn.
We Saw A Vision
le Liam Mac Uistin
An Aisling
I ndorchacht an éadóchais rinneadh aisling dúinn.
Lasamar solas an dóchais.
Agus níor múchadh é.
I bhfásach an lagmhisnigh rinneadh aisling dúinn.
Chuireamar crann na crógachta.
Agus tháing bláth air.
I ngeimhreadh na daoirse rinneadh aisling dúinn.
Mheileamar sneachta táimhe.
Agus rith abhainn na hathbheochana as.
Chuireamar ár n-aisling ag snámh mar eala ar an abhainn.
Rinneadh fírinne den aisling.
Rinneadh samhradh den gheimhreadh.
Rinneadh saoirse den daoirse.
Agus d’fhágamar agaibhse mar oidhreacht í.
A ghlúnta na saoirse cuimhnígí orainne, glúnta na haislinge…
In the darkness of despair we saw a vision,
We lit the light of hope,
And it was not extinguished.
In the desert of discouragement we saw a vision,
We planted the tree of valor,
And it blossomed.
In the winter of bondage we saw a vision,
We melted the snow of lethargy,
And the river of resurrection flowed from it.
We sent our vision aswim like a swan on the river,
The vision became a reality,
Winter became summer,
Bondage became freedom,
And this we left to you as your inheritance.
O generation of freedom remember us,
The generation of the vision.
Creidim Mná na hÉireann. Tá saoirse fós uainn. Tá cearta fós uainn. Creid san Aisling.
D’fhág Richard Murphy an saol seo inné. Seo dán óna Collected Poems 1952 – 2000 The Last Galway Hooker
le Richard Murphy
Where the Corrib river chops through the Claddagh
To sink in the tide-race its rattling chain
The boatwright’s hammer chipped across the water
Ribbing this hooker, while a reckless gun
Shook the limestone quay-wall, after the Treaty
Had brought civil war to this fisherman’s town.
That ‘tasty’ carpenter from Connemara, Cloherty,
Helped by his daughter, had half-planked the hull
In his eightieth year, when at work he died,
And she did the fastening, and caulked her well,
The last boat completed with old Galway lines.
Several seasons at the drift-nets she paid
In those boom-years, working by night in channels
With trammel and spillet and an island crew,
Tea-stew on turf in the pipe-black forecastle,
Songs of disasters wailed on the quay
When the tilt of the water heaved the whole shore.
‘She was lucky always the Ave Maria,’
With her brown barked sails, and her hull black tar,
Her forest of oak ribs and the larchwood planks,
The cavern-smelling hold bulked with costly gear,
Fastest in the race to the gull-marked banks,
What harbour she hived in, there she was queen
And her crew could afford to stand strangers drinks,
Till the buyers failed in nineteen twenty-nine,
When the cheapest of fish could find no market,
Were dumped overboard, the price down to nothing;
Until to her leisure a fisher priest walked
By the hungry dockside, full of her name,
Who made a cash offer, and the owners took it.
Then like a girl given money and a home
With no work but pleasure for her man to perform
She changed into white sails, her hold made room
For hammocks and kettles, the touch and perfume
Of priestly hands. So now she’s a yacht
With pitch-pine spars and Italian hemp ropes,
Smooth-running ash-blocks expensively bought
From chandlers in Dublin, two men get jobs
Copper-painting her keel and linseeding her throat,
While at weekends, nephews and nieces in mobs
Go sailing on picnics to the hermit islands,
Come home flushed with health having hooked a few dabs.
Munich, submarines, and the war’s demands
Of workers to feed invaded that party
Like fumes of the diesel the dope of her sails,
When the Canon went east into limed sheep-lands
From the stone and reed patches of lobstermen
Having sold her to one on Cleggan Quay,
Who was best of the boatsmen from Inishbofin,
She his best buy. He shortened the mast, installed
A new ‘Ailsa Craig’, made a hold of her cabin,
Poured over her deck thick tar slightly boiled;
Every fortnight he drained the sump in the bilge
‘To preserve the timbers.’ All she could do, fulfilled.
The sea, good to gamblers, let him indulge
His fear when she rose winding her green shawl
And his pride when she lay calm under his pillage:
And he never married, was this hooker’s lover,
Always ill-at-ease in houses or on hills,
Waiting for weather, or mending broken trawls:
Bothered by women no more than by the moon,
Not concerned with money beyond the bare need,
In this boat’s bows he sheathed his life’s harpoon.
A neap-tide of work, then a spring of liquor
Were the tides that alternately pulled his soul,
Now on a pitching deck with nets to hand-haul,
Then passing Sunday propped against a barrel
Winding among words like a sly helmsman
Till stories gathered around him in a shoal.
She was Latin blessed, holy water shaken
From a small whiskey bottle by a surpliced priest,
Madonnas wafered on every bulkhead,
Oil-grimed by the diesel, and her luck lasted
Those twenty-one years of skill buoyed by prayers,
Strength forged by dread from his drowned ancestors.
She made him money and again he lost it
In the fisherman’s fiction of turning farmer:
The cost of timber and engine spares increased,
Till a phantom hurt him, ribs on a shore,
A hulk each tide rattles that will never fish,
Sunk back in the sand, a story finished.
We met here last summer, nineteen fifty-nine,
Far from the missiles, the moon-shots, the money,
And we drank looking out on the island quay,
When his crew were in London drilling a motorway.
Old age had smoothed his barnacled will,
One calm evening he sold me the Ave Maria.
Then he was alone, stunned like a widower–
Relics and rowlocks pronging from the wall,
A pot of boiling garments, winter everywhere,
Especially in his bones, watching things fall,
Hooks of three-mile spillets, trammels at the foot
Of the unused double-bed–his mind threaded with all
The marline of his days twined within that boat,
His muscles’ own shackles then staying the storm
Which now snap to bits like frayed thread.
So I chose to renew her, to rebuild, to prolong
For a while the spliced yards of yesterday.
Carpenters were enrolled, the ballast and the dung
Of cattle he’d carried lifted from the hold,
The engine removed, and the stale bilge scoured.
De Valera’s daughter hoisted the Irish flag
At her freshly adzed mast this Shrove Tuesday,
Stepped while afloat between the tackle of the Topaz
And the St John, by Bonfin’s best boatsmen,
All old as himself. Her skilful sailmaker,
Her inherited boatwright, her dream-tacking steersman
Picked up the tools of their interrupted work,
And in memory’s hands this hooker was restored.
Old men my instructors, and with all new gear
May I handle her well down tomorrow’s sea-road.
Buíochas leis an Ollamh Liam Mac Mathúna a sheol an taifeadadh do Chuan Ó Seireadáin é a roinn le daoine é ar ‘Gaeilge Amháin.’ Seoid, gan dabht. Buíochas le Jack O Drisceoil & Gearóid Ó Ceallaigh as moltaí nuair nár chuala mé focail i gceart.
Seo a dúirt sé:
Tá mé i bParis na Fraince anois agus mé ag labhairt Gaeilge. Agus tá mé ag dul [le] beagán a rá a dúirt mé leis an, (le), Congrès de la Race Irlandaise a bhí cruinnithe le chéile i bParis an tseachtain seo. A dúirt mé an uair sin: Cá bhfuil, arsa mise, an fear [nach fear atá ann] ach an deargSheoinín nó an leathShasanach nár mhaith leis Éire a d’fheiscint ina náisiún arís? Agus ní fhéadfaidh sí a bheith ina náisiún choíche gan a teanga féin aici. Cad é an sórt rud, arsa mise, náisiún gan teanga? Is madra gan fiacla, is táilliúir gan deimheas, is trumpa gan teanga, is spealadóir gan speal, is saighdiúir gan gunna é. Ach cuirfimid teanga nua ins an trumpa agus bainfimid ceol as. Cuirfimid deimheas i lámh an táilliúra: an deimheas is géire agus gearrfaidh sé gach aon sórt éadaí. Ach go speisialta, aon [rud] dubh agus aon dearg. Cuirfimid gunna i lámh an tsaighdiúra agus nuair a scaoilfidh sé urchar as an gunna sin, a deirim libh, go gcloisfear buama an urchair sin ó na sléibhte go dtí an fharraige agus ar fud an domhain go léir.
Óráid as Gaeilge / Jean Poirot, éd.
Guth: Douglas Hyde
Eagarthóir eolaíochta: Poirot, Jean (1873-1924)
Eagarthóir: Université de Paris, Archives de la parole (Paris)
