Songs & Poetry Archive

I lie and imagine a first light gleam in the bay

After one more night of erosion and nearer the grave,

Then stand and gaze from the window at break of day

As a shearwater skims the ridge of an incoming wave;

And I think of my son a dolphin in the Aegean,

A sprite among sails knife-bright in a seasonal wind,

And wish he were here where currachs walk on the ocean

To ease with his talk the solitude locked in my mind.

I sit on a stone after lunch and consider the glow

Of the sun through mist, a pearl bulb containèdly fierce;

A rain-shower darkens the schist for a minute or so

Then it drifts away and the sloe-black patches disperse.

Croagh Patrick towers like Naxos over the water

And I think of my daughter at work on her difficult art

And wish she were with me now between thrush and plover,

Wild thyme and sea-thrift, to lift the weight from my heart.

The young sit smoking and laughing on the bridge at evening

Like birds on a telephone pole or notes on a score.

A tin whistle squeals in the parlour, once more it is raining,

Turf-smoke inclines and a wind whines under the door;

And I lie and imagine the lights going on in the harbor

Of white-housed Náousa, your clear definition at night,

And wish you were here to upstage my disconsolate labour

As I glance through a few thin pages and switch off the light.

by Derek Mahon

Mo léan gan mé in Acaill,

Nó ar bhóithre Thír an Áir,

Ag Róise ar an Mhol’ Raithní,

Nó theas ag Mairéad Bhán.

Domhnall Óg Ó’Ceallabhuí,

‘Sé a chraithfeadh liomsa lámh,

Nó le Séamus Bhríain in Acaill thall

Níorbh fhada liom an lá.

Dá mbeinnse ar an Doirín,

Is ann a gheobhfainn greann,

Nó ag Parthalán, Croí na gCarad,

Nó as sin siar go Céibh.

Tomás Mór Ó’Gallchobhair

Agus an Charraig uilig ní bréag,

Dá dtéinn ag cruinnniú fataí ann,

Ba mhaith sin lán mo chléibh.

Dá mbeinnse in Acaill Bheag istoigh,

Bheinn seal ag Antoine Eoin,

Nó ag Seán ‘ac Taidhg an scafaire,

Atá thall ar an Chloch Mhóir,

Tá na báid ag teacht ón fharraige ann,

‘S na luingis faoi reaht seiol

Ach tá mise i measc na nOrangemen,

‘S ní fada bheas mé beo.

Is trua gan mé i nDú Éige,

Ach ní fhéadaim a dhul ann,

Tá éisc na mara ag éirí

‘S na báid a’ tíocht ón tuinn,

Tá cailiní breátha spéiriúla ann,

A dhéanfadh súgradh ‘s greann,

Fáilte mhór in gach aon teach romham

‘S pluid ghléigeal os mo chionn.

Dá mbeinnse i nDumhaigh Cin Aille,

Ar an Abhainn nó Sliabh Mór,

An Caol níorbh é mo dhearmad,

Mo chreach agus mo bhrón,

Is ann a gheobhfainn scafairí,

A d’íocfadh síos an scór,

Dúghort ‘s Tóin a’tSean-Bhaile,

‘S as sin go teach Sheáin Mhóir.

Dá mbeinnse ar an Chaiseal,

Is ann a bheidh áit suí,

Ná ag Úna i mBun a’Churraigh,

Níorbh fhada liom an oích’,

Bheinn seal ag Pádraig Ceafarcaigh,

Agus seal ag Aindriú Mór

Ach tá me i measc na nOrangemen

‘S ní fada bhéas mé geo.

Pádraic Daeid,

An Tailliúir Gorm

Oh, take me back to Achill lands before I pass away,

My eyes are not so good no more, my hair has long turned grey,

I want to see the old home, and the folks that live therein,

I want to walk, and stop and talk, on the road that leads to Keem.

There’s my good friend Johnny Fadian, a cobbler skilled was he,

Tick-tack he’d go upon his last or a tune he’d play to me.

A man of wit and wisdom, no lip you’d give to him,

In case he’d say, “Be on your way,” on the road that leads to Keem.

And to Dú Acha, I will go, a village dear to me,

Where Mary Miley, my dear friend, will sit and talk to me,

But when she’d mention Annagh, ‘twould send shivers through the men,

‘Twas then they’d know it was time to fo on the road that leads to Keem.

In Keel there was the blacksmith’s forge, and Tom the Smith I knew,

He’d bash the anvil three times o’er, and then he’d hit the shoe,

As he puffed and blew the bellows, the sparks would fly ‘round him,

Then he’d shoe your ass, and you would pass in the road that leads to Keem.

So take me back to Achill Isle before I pass away,

My eyes are not so good no more, my hair has long turned grey,

I want to see the old house and the folks that live therein,

I want to walk, and stop and talk, on the road that leads to Keem.

Michael O’Donnell, Pollagh.

The year fifty-four it may well be remembered

When fifty shark fishermen landed in Keem,

From Dooagh and Dooega, from Cloughmore and Sáile,

From all over Achill came some of these men.

To number the crews we’ll start with the Routy,

The Salve and the Shamrock and Fair Kindly Light,

Benny’s and Charlie’s, the Kanes’ and the Lively’s,

In oilskins all day and awake all night.

The crews were assembled, the nets were all ready,

The factory started, each man full of hope,

To get a good station, to tie his net on,

To put on his oilskins, and hang on a rope.

On the 14th of April the first shoal was sighted,

Outside the Milliúr and bound for the Hole,

Benny got ready, Kane got excited,

Lively and Tony were slow on the ball.

Benny went into action with one of those Baskings,

He shouted to Steak who was holding him up –

“Get me a rope, we’ll take him to Johnny.”

“Ara,” says Barrett, “he’s only a pup.”

Kane began lughing when he took the station,

Another beside it, well-known as the Chain,

Where the crew of the Kindly at three in the morning,

Had four in the bag and surrendered again.

Next the High Maolán, John Eneas the holder,

He held it through heat, through rain and through cold,

Till one morning early he lost it to Lively,

‘Twas then that he called it the real pot of gold.

Lively and Tony forgot Johnny Judy,

Mártan a’ Bhábaí was knocking about,

It caused a sensation when they took the station,

To lose it again to that hard man the Rout’.

Jack and Big Mangan were on the High Hawser,

Getting an odd one, big fish from the deep.

They might have done better only for one thing,

That was Jack Patten was too fond of sleep.

Now it’s all over and no one is sorry,

Not even Joe Sweeney, the truth I will tell,

I don’t know about O’Gorman, for he was the foreman,

For the sharks they are stacked up and causing a smell.

If you think it’s all over you ask the Keel man

Where sou’west is prevailing by night and by day

Along with taking the perfume from Purteen,

It’s good for potatoes, for corn and for hay.

Some say the sharks are as plenty as ever,

More say the killing is thinning them out,

O’Keeffe’s will not take them, for dogfish will do them,

If we could only export them instead of the stout.

Paddy Kelly, Dooagh.

Farewell to dear old Keel, for I have sailed away,

Farewell to my old parents, aged, old and grey,

Farewell to my companions, they don’t know how I feel,

Parting with my own true love and that bonny spot called Keel,

I went to school to Crumpaun, those were happy times,

It brings a sad and lonely tear to recall it to my mind,

No matter how far I travel, I’ll never contented feel,

Until I do return again to the bonny spot called Keel.

To stand on top of Keel Hill, that village for to view,

There’s not a spot in Erin’s Isle to compare with it, it’s true,

Just look down on the strand below and the Minaun Cliffs so real,

What I would give to be there to-day, in the bonny spot called Keel.

I always made a promise that I’d go back some day,

To see my dear old parents, I though they would be there,

But death is cruel and it has ruled, my tears have fallen so,

They are dead and laid to rest at the foot of old Slievemore.

Now fare thee well to old Achill Isle, I’m thousands of miles away,

I’ll never go back to Keel now, I’ll stay in Americay;

What’s a home without a mother, I know you will all agree,

Farewell and by seven blessings to that bonny spot called Keel.

Mary Fadian, Keel.

Dá mbienn féin i Mám a’ Ghártha,

Dúch is páipéir bheith agam ann,

Ba dheas do scríobhfainn i ndubh is i mbán é,

An moladh álainn a bhí ar an ghleann.

‘Sé a d’iarrfainn d’impí ar Rí na nGrásta,

Intleacht Hómair a bheith in mo cheann,

Is gur lena mhaitheas ba mhian liom trácht air,

Ach faraor géar go bhfuil m’intleacht fann.

‘Sé dúirt fear as Acaill liom, “Ná bíodh ort buaireamh,

Ná bí ag gol is ag éagaoin i ndiaidh Chúil na Béinn,

Bhéarfainn bean duit is dhá chéad bó léi,

Is acra móinéir in aghaidh gach cinn.

Bád is eangacha is béam in éineacht,

Is bhéarfam éadáil isteach ón tuinn,

Is sílim féin gur fearr an méid sin,

Ná a bheith ag gol is ag éagaoin i ndiaidh Chúil na Béinn.”

Dá dtabharfá bean is dhá chéad bó léi,

Acra móinéir in aghaidh gach cinn,

A bhfuil de bháid is d’eangacha ar feadh Chríoch Fodhla,

Saibhreas Sheoirse agus fáighim é cruinn.

B’fearr liom acra den bhogach bháite,

Atá idir an Máimín is Inse an Droighin,

Cead rince le cailíní lá saoire ‘s Domhnaigh,

Ag ceantar na mbóithre úd, “Cúl na Béinn”.

Dá mbeadh a fhios ag na crualfhir,

Atá ar thaobh Ghleann Néifinn,

Go bhfuil mise i m’ aonrachán is mo luí tinn,

Gan spás ar bith chuirfí faoi mo dhéin-sa eachra gléigeala is cóiste cinn.

Ghléasfaí bainis fleá ‘s féasta,

Siamsa ‘s pléisiúr is togha gach ceoil,

Bheadh dhá chéad fear againn ar meisce in éineacht,

I dteach Tom Daly le fíon ‘s le beoir.

Tá litir scríofa agam anois faoi sheoladh,

A chuireas mé amárach go Cúl na Béinn,

Go bhfuil mé ‘mo luí le tuilleadh is ráithe,

Buartha cráite le tinneas cinn.

Ach mar bhfaighe mé fóirithint ó Rí na nGrásta,

Is bheith in mo shláinte arís mar is cóir,

Gléastar Tuama ‘s cónra clár dhom,

Go síntear amárach mé ag bun Shliabh Mór.

Tá na coillte dlúth ann ar thaobh Gleann Néifinn,

Is an duilliúrchraobh ghlas ag sileadh síos,

Tá an chuach ‘s an traonach ar bharr na gcraobh ann,

Ag seinm go héadrom gach lá ‘s oíche.

Tá na daoine uaisle ar bharr an tsléibhe ann,

Ag déanamh eirligh ar chearca fraoigh,

Tá an bradán broinngheal ag tíocht ón tsáile ann,

Ag fearaibh Éireann le fáil gan pighin.

Tá an loch is sáimhe ann dá bhfuil in Éirinn,

Tá na báid ag éirí air ó thuinn go tuinn,

‘S don té a chleacht iad is atá anois dhá n-éamuis,

Nach beag an dochar dó a chroí a bheith tinn?

Ach más é seo an cúrsa a gheall Dia dhomsa,

Mé bheith faoi chumhaidh nó go liathfaidh mo cheann,

Mo chúig chéad slán leat, a Bhoth a’ Dúin.

Is do na coillte dlútha údaigh Chúl na Béinn.

Ní cháinfead Acaill cé gur maith liom ‘fhágáil,

Is maith an áit é ag stráinséaraí,

Tá bia is leabaidh ann ‘s míle fáilte,

Ís comhrá geanúil ann ag fear is ag mnaoi.

Ach mar iasc na farraige thigeas lena nádúr,

In éis a dtéarma amach siar faoin tuinn,

‘Sé ‘fhearacht agam-sa é dhá bhfaighinn a pálás,

Go mb’fhearr liom árus beag i gCúl na Béinn.

An té shiúil Sasana is páirt d’Eirinn,

Shiúil sé an Ghréig is an Ghearmáin,

Chuaigh go hAlbain gur caith sé téarma ann,

As sin don Fhrainc is ar ais don Spáinn.

D’aithriseoinn scéal duit, dar liom ní bréag sin,

Shiúil mé Eirinn uilig gan roinn,

‘S ar a bhfaca mé de shiams’ ‘s de phléisiúr,

Is ag Malaí Fhéilim nó thoir ag an Toim.

P. Mac Siúrtáin a scríobh circa 1800.