Amhrán na Leabhar
The Song of the Books
Traditional (Iveragh Peninsula, Kerry)
Gaeilge
English
Go Cuan Bhéal Inse casadh mé
Cois Góilín aoibhinn Dairbhre
Mar a seoltar flít na farraige
Thar sáile i gcéin.
I Portmagee do stadas seal,
Fé thuairim intinn maitheasa
D'fhonn bheith sealad eatarthu
Mar mháistir léinn.
Is gearr gur chuala an eachtara
Ag cách mo léan!
Gur i mBord Eoghain Fhinn do chailleathas
An t-árthach tréan.
Do phreab mo chroí le hatuirse
I dtaobh loinge an taoisigh chalma
Go mb'fhearrde an tír í 'sheasamh seal
Do ráib an tséin.
To the harbour of Béal Inse I was led
Beside the delightful creek of Valentia
Where the fleet of the sea sets sail
Far beyond the waves to distant shores.
In Portmagee I paused a while
With the best of intentions in my mind
Hoping to spend a season among them
As a master of learning.
It wasn't long before I heard the news —
To everyone's grief!
That at Bord Eoghain Fhinn was lost
That strong and mighty vessel.
My heart lurched with anguish
For the ship of the brave captain
That would have served the land so well —
Robbed by the hand of fate.
Mo chiach, mo chumha is m'atuirse!
Mé im iarsma dubhach ag ainnise
Is mé síoraí 'déanamh marana,
Ar mo chás bhocht féin!
Mo chuid éadaigh chumhdaigh scaipithe,
Bhí déanta cumtha, ceapaithe,
Is do thriaill thar thriúcha Banban
Mar bhláth faoi mo dhéin.
Iad bheith imithe san fharraige
Ar bharr an scéil,
Is a thuilleadh acu sa lasair
Is mé go támhach trém néal;
Ba thrua le cách ar maidin mé
Go buartha, cásmhar, ceasnaithe,
Is an fuacht a chráigh im bhalla mé
Gan snáth ón spéir!
My grief, my sorrow and my anguish!
I am a wretched remnant in misery
Forever brooding and reflecting
On my own poor sorry state!
My covering clothes scattered to nothing —
So carefully made and fashioned —
They had travelled through the parishes of Ireland
Like blossoms gathered for me.
That they are gone beneath the sea
To top it all,
And more of them taken by fire
While I lay stupefied in a daze —
All pitied me that morning,
Troubled, mournful and distressed,
The cold that tormented me against the wall
Without a stitch of cloth from the sky!
Ní hé sin is mó a chealg me
Ná chráigh mé arís im aigne,
Ach nuair chínn féin fuadar fearthainne
Gach lá faoin spéir;
Neart gaoithe aduaidh is anaithe
Is síon rómhór gan aga ar bith,
Tinte luatha lasrach,
Is scáil na gcaor.
Chrom an uain ar shneachta 'chur
Le gála tréan
Ar feadh deich n-uair gan amharca
Le fáil ar ghréin.
Na doitheanna cruadha peannaide
A líon rómhór den ghalar mé,
D'fhág suim gan suan ar leaba mé
Go tláth i bpéin!
That is not what wounded me most
Nor tormented me again in my mind,
But when I saw the rush of rain
Every day under the sky;
The force of the north wind and the driving weather,
Too much foul weather without any let-up,
Swift flashing lightning
And the glow of the embers.
The weather bent to bringing snow
With a fierce gale,
For ten hours without a glimpse
To be had of the sun.
Those hard and punishing storms
That filled me too full of sickness,
Left me sleepless in my bed
Weak and in pain!
Dá shiúlfainn Éire is Alba
An Fhrainc, an Spáinn is Sasana,
Agus fós arís dá n-abrainn
Gach aird faoin ré,
Ní bhfaighinnse an oiread leabhartha
B'fhearr eolas agus tairbhe
Ná is mó bhí chum mo mhaitheasa
Cé táid ar strae.
Mo chreach! mo chumha ina n-easnamh siúd
Do fágadh mé!
Is mór an cúrsa marana
Agus cás liom é
Mallacht Dé is na hEaglaise
Ar an gcarraig ghránna mhallaithe,
A bháigh an long gan anaithe
Gan ghála, gan ghaoth.
If I were to walk all of Ireland and Scotland,
France, Spain and England,
And if I were to name as well
Every land under the moon,
I would not find as many books
Of better knowledge and usefulness
Than those which did me the most good —
Though now they are lost.
My ruin! My grief at their loss
Is what I am left with!
Great is the cause for brooding
And it weighs heavily on me.
The curse of God and of the Church
On that ugly, accursed rock
That wrecked the ship without a storm,
Without gale, without wind.
Bhí mórán Éireann leabhartha,
Nár áiríos díbh im labhartha,
Leabhar na Laighneach beannaithe
Ba bhreátha faoin spéir.
An "Feirmeoir" álainn, gasta, deas,
A chuireadh a shíol go blasta ceart,
Thug ruachnoic fraoigh is aitinn ghlais
Go gealbhánta féir.
Scoirim as mo labhartha
Cé chrádar mé,
Is ná cuirfeadsa aon ní ar fharraige
Go brách lem ré;
Moladh le Rí an nAingeal ngeal,
Mo shláinte arís a chasadh orm,
Is an Fhoireann úd ón anaithe
Gan bá 'theacht saor!
There were many of Ireland's books
I haven't yet named to you in my telling —
The blessed Book of Leinster,
The finest ever made under the sky;
The beautiful, clever, fine Farmer,
That would sow its seed so well and true,
That brought red hills of heather and green gorse
Into bright sunlit meadow.
I stop my speaking now
Though they cause me grief,
And I will never send anything by sea
For all my days.
Praise to the King of the bright Angels,
That my health be restored to me again,
And that the crew from the storm
May come through safe, without drowning!
Notes
A scholar-poet laments the loss of his book collection in a shipwreck near Portmagee, Co. Kerry. The places are all on the Iveragh Peninsula: Cuan Bhéal Inse = the harbour of Béal Inse (near Valentia); Góilín Dairbhre = the creek of Valentia Island (Dairbhre = Valentia); Bord Eoghain Fhinn = a reef or rock, site of the wreck. The author was travelling to work as a "máistir léinn" (master of learning/hedge schoolmaster). Among his lost books was "Leabhar na Laighneach" = the Book of Leinster (or a transcription of it), one of the great medieval Irish manuscripts. "Triúcha Banban" = the cantreds/parishes of Ireland (Banba = poetic name for Ireland). The ship was wrecked not by storm but on a rock in calm weather — making the loss even more bitter. The last verse ends with a prayer for the crew's survival.
Source: https://songsinirish.com/