Anglo-Saxon, Norse & Celtic

Caisleán Uí Néill nó An Bhean Dubh ón Sliabh, in Tomás Ó Criomhthain, An tOileánach, ed. Seán Ó Coileáin (Baile Átha Cliath, 2002), 190-91.

Mo shlán chuin na hoíche aréir; ’sé mo léan nách í anocht atá ann;

Mo bhuachaillín séimh deas do bhréagfadh me seal ar a ghlúin;

Dá ’neosainn mo scéal duit, is baolach na déanfá orm rún;

Go bhfuil mo ghrá bán dhom thréigean, ’s a Dhia ghléigil is a Mhuire nách dubhach!

Do gheallais-se féin dom go mbréagfá mo leanbh ar dtúis;

Do gheallais ina dhéidh sin go mbeadh aontíos idir me agus tú;

Dá gheallúint in aghaidh an lae dhom, gur ligeas-sa leatsa mo rún,

Agus fóraoir tinn géar dubhach, tá an saol so ag teacht idir mé agus tú.

Tá mórán don bhrón so, a dhianstóraigh, ag gabháil timpeall mo chroí,

Agus lán mo dhá bhróigín do dheoraibh ag sileadh liom síos.

Grá buachaill óig do bhreoigh me is do bhain díom mo chiall,

Is ná mairfead féin nóimit má phósann tú an bhean dubh ón sliabh.

Tá mo ghairdínse ina fhásach is, a dhianghrá ghil, ní miste leat é,

Gach torthaí dá áilneacht ag fás go dtí barraí na gcraobh.

Ní chloisim insa tsráid seo ceol cláirsí ná ceiliúr na n-éan,

Ó d’éalaigh mo ghrá uam, cúl fáinneach, go dtí Caisleán Uí Néill.

Nár théad don tsaol choíche go scaoilfidh mé dhíom an mí-ádh,

Go mbeidh ba agam is caoire in aontíos i bhfochair mo ghrá;

Troscadh na hAoine an lae saoire ní dhéanfainn go brách,

Is nárbh fhada liom lá saoire a bheinn taoibh led bhrollach geal bán.

Tá siad á rá go bhfuil ádh na mban deas orm féin

Is, dar ndóigh, má tá, a dhianghrá, ní miste leat é.

Thugas naoi lá, naoi dtráth is aon tseachtain déag

Ag cúl tí mo ghrá ghil ag piocadh airní do bharraí na gcraobh.

A chumainn ghil is a ansacht, i dtúis an tsamhraidh an dtiocfá liom féin,

Amach fés na gleanntaibh nó in oileáinín mar a dteánn an ghrian fé?

Ba, caoire ná gamhna ní shantóinnse leat iad mar spré,

Ach mo lámh dheas faoid cheannsa is cead labhairt leat go dtí am a dó dhéag.

Téanam araon go dtéam go tigh an tsagairtó thuaidh,

Mar a gcloisfeam ceol éan go déanach dár síorchur chuin suain.

Níor bhuail éinne ar an saol liom in aon chor do bhuail orm cluain,

Gur tháinís-se taobh liom led bhéilín ba bhinne ná an chuach.

‘O’Neill’s Castle’, or ‘The Dark-haired Woman from the Mountain’,  in Thomas O’Crohan, The Islandman, ed. Seán Ó Coileáin (Dublin, 2002).

Farewell to the night that is over; alas, that it is not about to begin;

My fine gentle lad who would coax me for a while on his knee;

If I told you my story, I fear you’d not keep my secret;

That my fair love is abandoning me, and pure God and Mary, is it not sorrowful!

You promised me at the beginning that you would soothe my child,

You promised afterwards that you and I would live together;

Continually promising it to me, until I confided my secret in you,

And alas, a painful and sharp sorrow, this world is coming between me and you.

Much of this sorrow, o love, is churning deep within my heart,

And my tears pouring down are enough to fill my two shoes,

The love of a young boy has sickened me and has robbed me of my sense,

And I shall not live a minute if you marry the dark-haired woman from the mountain.

My garden is growing wild and, o dearest  love, you do not care,

all of its most beautiful fruits growing to the tops of the trees;

I do not hear on this street the music of harps nor the warble of the birds,

Since my love stole away from me, hair all in ringlets, to the Castle of Ó Néill.

May I never leave this world until I shall rid myself of this misfortune,

Until my cattle and sheep will be under one roof near to my love,

I would never fast on the Friday or holy day,

And I would not find long the holiday that I might spend next to your bright white breast.

They are saying that I have the luck of the fine women,

And, of course, if so, o dearest love, you won’t mind,

I have spent nine days, nine seasons and eleven weeks behind my true love’s home,

picking sloe-berries from the tops of branches.

Oh my bright love and beloved, would you come with me in early summer,

out beneath the glens or in a little island where the sun sets?

I would not desire cattle, sheep nor calves along with you as a dowry,

But only leave to rest my right hand beneath your head and to speak with you until noontide.

Let us both go north to the house of the priest,

Where we shall hear late music of the birds putting us to sleep,

I never met anyone in the world who beguiled me so,

until you came beside me with your little mouth sweeter than the cuckoo.

Translation by Margo Griffin-Wilson, with many improving suggestions from the editor, Seán Ó Coileáin. For a loose translation see Garry Bannister & David Sowby, The Islander (Dublin, 2112), 178-79.

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