I gCuimhne Ar Lís Ceárnaighe, Blascaodach – In Memory of Elizabeth Kearny, Blasket Islander

According to my logs, someone from Dublin wandered here a couple days ago looking for this particular poem; I’ll take that as a request and offer up a clumsy translation.

I gCuimhne Ar Lís Ceárnaighe, Blascaodach

le Michael Davitt

Tráth bhíodh cártaí ar bord,
Coróin is mugaí tae faoi choinneal
Cois tine ar caorthainn;
Asal amuigh san oíche,
Madraí tamall gan bhia
Is seanbhean dom mharú le Gaolainn.

Tráth bhíodh an chaint tar éis Aifrinn
Is nábh í dhamnaigh faisean
Stróinséirí in aon fhéachaint shearbhasash amháin
Is nár chuir sí Leathanta Breátha
Ó Ollscoil Chorca&iaacute; ina n-áit:
‘An tuairgín’, ‘an coca féir’, ‘an fuaisceán.’

Tráth prátaí is maicréal
Le linn na nuachta i lár an lae
Ba mhinic a fiafraí
Mar nárbh fhlúirsceach a cuid Béarla
Is déarfainn dhera go rabhadar ag marú a chéile
I dtuasceart na hÉireann.

Trá bhí sí ina dealbh
Ag fuinneog bharr an staighre
Ar strae siar amach thar ché
Abhaile chun an oileáin i dtaibhreamh
Is dá dtiocfainn suas de phreib taobh thiar di:
‘O mhuise fán fad’ ort, a chladhaire.’

In Memory of Elizabeth Kearny, Blasket Islander

by Michael Davitt

It was a time of cards at the table,
Crowns and mugs of tea by candlelight
Beside the rowan fire;
Ass out in the night,
Dogs without their meals
And the old woman slaying me with her Irish.

It was a time of talking about the Mass
And forming the habit
Of looking bitterly on strangers
Who spend High Holy Days
At the University of Cork:
‘The smiter,’ ‘the haystack,’ ‘the flustered.’

It was a time of potatoes and mackerels
Wrapped in newspaper in the middle of the day
And often the question was raised
In their bit of English
If there would be more killings
In Northern Ireland.

It was a time of destitution
At the window at the top of the stair
Astray out in the world
At home on the island dreaming
And two coming up from behind us:
‘O indeed you’ve wandered far, you rogue.’