Message from Q'il Q'as (Al Jazzbeera)
Q'adda yen Hamid fastha q'on Aymid?
Tha Tehran A'Q'ilta er Al'Awer.
Ni Al Traw'q ter Q'il Q'as nawat' Ayla'q,
Shni Q'lingfer A'Qling Ibn' Braw
& Kateh wrote:
So, share already!
Cad a dhéanfaimid feasta gan adhmad
Tá deireadh na gcoilte ar lár.
Níl tracht ar Chill Cháis ná a teaghlach,
is ní bainfear a cling go bráth
It's an old lament from the 1700's about Kilcash and the destruction of the Irish forests. A lovely, if sad, old song, and Kilcash is a lovely spot if you ever get a chance to visit it.
Actually that whole area of South Tipp, from the Glen of Aherlow over through Caher to Slievenamon and across the Suir Valley to the Knockmealdown and the Comeragh in Waterford is a very beautiful and oft overlooked part of Ireland.
|
Caoine Cill Chais Gan ainm |
An Duanaire 1600 - 1900 (Poems of the Dispossessed edited by Sean Ó Tuama Dublin: The Dolmen Press / Bord na Gaeilge, 1981 |
|
Lament for Kilcash - translation by Thomas Kinsella |
Cad a dhéanfaimid feasta gan adhmad?
Tá deireadh na gcoillte ar lár;
níl trácht ar Chill Chais ná ar a teaghlach
is ní bainfear a cling go bráth.
An áit úd a gcónaíodh an deighbhean
fuair gradam is meidhir thar mhnáibh,
bhíodh iarlaí ag tarraingt tar toinn ann
is an t-aifreann binn á rá.
Ní chluinim fuaim lachan ná gé ann,
ná fiolar ag éamh cois cuain,
ná fiú na mbeacha chun saothair
thabharfadh mil agus céir don tslua.
Níl ceol binn milis na n-éan ann
le hamharc an lae a dhul uainn,
ná an chuaichín i mbarra na ngéag ann,
ós í chuirfeadh an saol chun suain.
Tá ceo ag titim ar chraobha ann
ná glanann le gréin ná lá,
tá smúid ag titim ón spéir ann
is a cuid uisce go léir ag trá.
Níl coll, níl cuileann, níl caor ann,
ach clocha is maolchlocháin,
páirc an chomhair gan chraobh ann
is d'imigh an géim chun fáin.
Anois mar bharr ar gach míghreann,
chuaigh prionsa na nGael thar sáil,
anonn le hainnir na míne
fuair gradam sa bhFrainc is sa Spáinn.
Anois tá a cuallacht á caoineadh,
gheibheadh airgead buí agus bán;
's í ná tógfadh seilbh na ndaoine,
ach cara na bhfíorbhochtán.
Aicim ar Mhuire is ar Íosa
go dtaga sí arís chughainn slán,
go mbeidh rincí fada ag gabháil timpeall,
ceol veidhlín is tinte cnámh;
go dtógtar an baile seo ár sinsear
Cill Chais bhreá arís go hard,
is go bráth nó go dtiocfaidh an díle
ná feictear é arís ar lár.
Ducks' voices nor geese do I hear there,
Nor the eagle's cry over the bay,
Nor even the bees at their labour
Bringing honey and wax to us all.
No birdsong there, sweet and delightful,
As we watch the sun go down,
Nor cuckoo on top of the branches
Settling the world to rest.
A mist on the boughs is descending
Neither daylight nor sun can clear.
A stain from the sky is descending
And the waters receding away.
No hazel nor holly nor berry
But boulders and bare stone heaps,
Not a branch in our neighbourly haggard,
and the game all scattered and gone.
Then a climax to all of our misery:
the prince of the Gael is abroad
oversea with that maiden of mildness
who found honour in France and Spain.
Her company now must lament her,
who would give yellow money and white
--- she who'd never take land from the people
but was friend to the truly poor.
I call upon Mary and Jesus
to send her safe home again:
dances we'll have in long circles
and bone-fires and violin music;
that Cill Chais, the townland of our fathers,
will rise handsome on high once more
and till doom --- or the Deluge returns ---
we'll see it no more laid low.
