Reading the poems, I'm struck with the pent up frustration of those who wrote them.  PBS showed some extracts from that new documentary about the early days of the Irish state yesterday, and it really brought home the plight and awfulness of being a "singleton" in rural Ireland - to use a Bridgit Jonesism.

The singletons in distress were those women who didn't have a decent enough dowry to get married, or the second or third siblings in the family who found themselves with little status once the farm went to the older brother. So you had a situation where the second brother, or sisters remained on the farm as helpers, but without much chance of ever getting married themselves. In a sense they were nobodies, just mucking about maybe fixing a fence or shovelling shit for the rest of their lives. They were doomed to a very lonely and soul destroying existence, the only escape being the boat to America.  The Love Songs of Connacht express their anguish, and bitterness.

If I were to go west, it is from the west I would not come,
On the hill that was highest, 'tis on it I would stand,
It is the fragrant branch I would soonest pluck,
And it is my own love I would quickest follow.

My heart is as black as a sloe,
Or as a black coal that would be burnt in a forge,
As the sole of a shoe upon white halls,
And there is great melancholy over my laugh.

My heart is bruised, broken.
Like ice upon the top of water,
As it were a cluster of nuts after their breaking,
Or a young maiden after her marrying.

My love is of the colour of the blackberries,
And the colour of the raspberry on a fine sunny day.
And the colour of the darkest heath-berries of the mountain,
And often has there been a black head upon a bright body.

Time it is for me to leave this town,
The stone is sharp on it, and the mould is cold;
It was in it I got a voice (blame), without riches
And a heavy word from the band who back-bite.

I denounce love; woe is she who gave it
To the son of yon woman, who never understood it.
My heart in my middle, sure he has left it black,
And I do not see him on the street or in any place.

Posted by K E Dennis
December 10 2001

Brendan wrote:

Reading the poems, I'm struck with the pent up frustration of those who wrote them.  PBS showed some extracts from that new documentary about the early days of the Irish state yesterday, and it really brought home the plight and awfulness of being a "singleton" in rural Ireland [...]

... you had a situation where the second brother, or sisters remained on the farm as helpers, but without much chance of ever getting married themselves.  [...] They were doomed to a very lonely and soul destroying existence, the only escape being the boat to America.  The Love Songs of Connacht express their anguish, and bitterness.

It must indeed have been a difficult & soul deadening experience for many - & it was, by all accounts, one of the most powerful 'push' factors in the steady depopulation of the countryside. Many a modern I-Am is the descendant of such a second son or daughter - as are many jackeens & Hiberno-Brits.

Thanks again for that. & to encourage your efforts with the the old script, here's the original, in Modern Irish orthography, & with an alternative translation by Thomas Kinsella:

Dá Dtéinnse Siar
Gan ainm

Dá dtéinnse siar is aniar ní thiocfainn,
ar an gconc ab airde is air a sheasfainn,
's í an chraobh chumhra is túisce bhainfinn,
agus 's é mo ghrá féin is luaithe leanfainn.

Tá mo chroí chomh dubh le hairne
nó le gual dubh a dhófaí i gceárta,
nó le bonn bróige ar hallaí bána,
is tá lionn dubh mór os cionn mo gháire.

Tá mo chroí-se brúite briste
mar leac oighre ar uarchtar uisce,
mar bheadh cnuasach cnó tar éis a mbriste
no maighdean óg tar éis a cliste.

Tá mo ghrá-Sa ar dhath na sméara,
's ar dhath na n-airní lá breá gréine,
ar dhath na bhfraochóg ba dhuibhe an tséibhe,
's is minic bhí ceann dubh ar cholainn ghléigeal.

Is mithid domhsa an baile seo a fhágáil,
Is géar an chloch 's is fuar an laib ann,
Is ann a fuaireas guth gan éadáil
Agus focal trom ó lucht an bhéadáin.

Fógraim an grá, is mairg a thug é
Do mhac na mná úd ariamh nár thuig é,
Mo chroí I mo lár gur fhág sé dubh é.
's ní fheicim ar an tsráid ná in áit ar bith é.

If I Travelled West
trans., Thomas Kinsella

This heart of mine is as black as sloe
or a black coal burnt in any forge
or the print of a shoe upon white halls,
and a black mood is upon my laughter.

This heart of mine is bruised and broken
like a sheet of ice on top of water,
like a heap of nuts when they are broken,
or a youthful maid when she's betrayed.

Blackberry-colour is my beloved,
and sloeberry-colour on a sunny day;
or the blackest fraughan upon the mountain:
There's a dark head often on the whitest body.

It would suit me better to leave this place:
the stone is sharp and the mire cold.
Futile blame is all I found there
and bitter words from calumniators.

Love I denounce: God help who gave it
to a man who could not appreciate it.
The heart in my core, he has left it blackened
andI see him nowhere passing by.