This is another of the big Munster songs, with their eight beat lines and eight line verses. This song taught me not to say, "The song was written by..." because its composer, Maire Bhui ní Laoireagh, never wrote a word in her life. Yet she is considered to be among the brightest of Munster's nineteenth century poets, a foundation-stone of the Munster oral tradition. I first heard Cath Chéim an Fhia in the kitchen of a friend of a friend (whose name I did not record) in the town of Ballingeary, near (if not right on) the spot where some of the events described in this song took place, almost 200 years ago. When I became serious about learning the song, I depended on recordings made by Éilís Ní Shúilleabhain and her brother, Díarmuíd, as well as Éilís' personal encouragement. Go raibh míle maith agat, a Éilís!
The song celebrates the Battle of Keimaneigh in January, 1822, a series of skirmishes between the Whiteboys (armed agrarian agitators) of the Ballingeary area of west Cork and the Yeomen (the private army of the landlords) of the Muskerry Blue Light Dragoons from Bandon. I have learned only the first three verses of the eight-verse song.
The translation here is literal and by Brian Brennan, whose book, Máire Bhuí Ní Laoire, A Poet of her People (Collins, 2000), is a fascinating and invaluable aid in understanding this song and the area and period in which it was composed.
lyrics
8. Cath Chéim an Fhia
(The Battle of Keimaneigh) By Máire Bhuí Ní Laoire, 1822. Traditional
Cois abhann Ghleanna an Chéama in Uibh Laoire 'sea bhím-se,
Mar a dtéann an fia san oíche chun síor-chodladh sóghail,
Ag machnamh seal liom féinig, ag déanamh mo smaointe
Ag éisteacht i gcoiltibhle binn-ghuth na n-eon,
Nuair a chuala 'n cath ag teacht aniar, 'gus glór na n-each ag teacht le sians,
Le fuaim an airm do chrith an sliabh, 's nár mheinn liom a nglór;
Thánadar go námhadmhar mar thiocfadh garda do chonaibh nimhe,
'Gus chuha mo chrói na sáirfhir d'fhágadar gan treoir.
Nior fhan fear, bean, ná páiste i mbun áitreabh ná dtíortha,
Na gártha goil do bhí 'cu, 's na mílte ologón;
Ag féachaint ar an ngárda go láidir 'na dtímpeall,
Ag lámhah 'gus ag líonadh, 's a' scaoileadh 'na dtreo;
An liú gur leath a bhfad i gcian, 'sé dúirt gach flaith 'nar mhaith leis triall,
"Gluaisídh go mear tá 'n cath dá riar, 'gus téimís 'na chomhair."
Thánadar na sáirfhir, gcuím áthas ar Chlanna Gael,
Thiomáineadar no páinigh le fánaidh ar seol.
Níorbh fhada dhúinn go dtáinig lámh láidir 'n ár dtimpal
Gur sgaipeadar ár ndaoine 's gach maoilinn faoi 'n gceó,
Bhí 'n Barrach 'na bhunbail' 'cu, Barnett agus Beecher,
Hedges agus Faoitigh 's na mílte eile leo.
(A) Rí na bhfeart go leagaidh iad, gan chlú gan mheas gan rath gan séan,
Go teintibh meara 'measg na bpian, gan faoisiomh go deo!
Céad moladh mor le hÍosa nar dhíolamair as an dtóir
Ach bheith ag déanamh grinn de 's d'á insint ar sógh.
English translation:
By the river bank in Keimaneigh, in Iveleary I do be,
Where the deer comes nightly for its restful repose,
Thinking for a while, pondering some memories,
Listening in the woodlands to the birds' melodious tones.
From the west came the sound of battle, of horses' hooves, or armour's rattle,
Which quaked the hills in displeasing fashion, loathsome to report.
So they came, viciously like a pack of venomous hounds.
I pity those valiant men for whom no leader can be found.
Not a man, woman, or child was left in their dwelling or house
Without grief-cries and thousands of wailings,
As they watched the guard vigorously surrounding them,
Shooting and loading and firing in their direction.
The cry that went out far and wide--
It was what every prince who wished to be on the move said:
"Move fast, the battle is being fought and let us go to meet it."
The heroes joined the Clanna Gael at a mountain recess,
And they drove the fat rabble away down the slope.
Short was the time until a strong hand surrounded us
And led out our people into the fog of early morning.
Barry, the bum-bailiff [was there], Barnet and Beecher,
Hedges and White and thousands of others besides.
Oh, King of Great Deeds, may they be cast down into fires of heat,
In the midst of pain, without remission for all eternity,
Without reputation, without honor, without success, without prosperity.
A hundred great praises to Jesus that we didn't pay the penalty for the rout,
But lived to make a joke of it, and tell the story at our ease!
David entertains in the old-fashioned way, with warmth and wit, as if he were sitting with the audience around the turf fire
in an Irish cottage long ago. David has been singing old-style Irish songs for 40 years and is deeply invested in collecting, researching, and performing them authentically and entertainingly....more
