AN BUINNEÁN BUÍ / THE YELLOW BITTERN
The great lament for the yellow bittern that died of thirst on a frozen lake, a fate that its whiskey-loving author, the splendidly named Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna (http://www.eofeasa.ie/cathalbui/public_html/danta_CB/who_was_CB.html), is determined to avoid!
This version, from the CD 'Skara Brae', is sung in a quiet reflective style that is not quite what is usually heard in pubs , bars and concert halls (http://www.youtube.com/user/odirean). Not only a great song but also one of the very few singable laments for a bird. This lyrical and moving version has an atmosphere of grieving for all ceatures great and small who rise, who fall, who cease. Haunting...
My personal favourite is that recorded by Thomás 'Jimmy' Mac Eoin about 20 years ago, not yet on Youtube. I once had that grand cassette...
Anyway, listen a while then scroll down for two fine versions in English.
AN BUINNEÁN BUÍ
A Bhuinneáin Bhuí is é mo chrá do luí
Is do chnámha sínte ar leaca lom'
Is nach dtearn tú dith nó dolaidh sa tír
Is nárbh fhearr leat fíon nó uisce poill.
Dá gcuirfeá scéala fá mo dhéin
Go raibh tú i ngéibhinn nó i ndeacair íot'
ó bhainfinnse béim ar Loch Mhic an Éin
A fhliuchfadh do bhéal is do bhrollach síos.
Ní hiad bhur n-éanlaith atá mé ag eagaoin
An chuach, an traona ná an corr-bhreac
Ach an Buinneán Buí a bhí lán de chroí
Is gur cosúil liom fein é i snua is i ndreach.
Bhíodh se ag síoról na dí
Is deir daoine go mbím ar an nós sin seal
Is níl braon dá bhfuighinn nach ligfinn síos
Ar fhaitíos go bhfuighinn féin bás den tart.
Is d'iarr rno stór orm ligint den ól
Nó nach mbeinnse beo ach seal beag gearr;
Is é dúirt mé léi gur chan sí bhréag
Nó go mbfhaide mo shaol an braon seo a fháil.
Nach bhfeiceann tú éan an phíobáin réidh
Go dteachaidh sí in éag den tart ar ball?
Is a dhaoine chléibh, fliuchaigí bhur mbéal
Nó ní bhfuighidh sibh braon i ndiaidh bhur mbáis.
************
THE YELLOW BITTERN
1. Translation by Skara Brae:
Oh yellow bittern, alas, to see you stretched
And your bones there lying on bare flagstones,
You did no harm at all in the country
And would just as prefer ditch water to wine.
Had you only sent me a message
That you were in a quandry, in need of a drink,
I would have broken the ice on the lake
To wet your beak and all the way down to your breast.
I'm not lamenting your ordinary birds,
The cuckoo, the corncrake or the heron,
But the yellow bittern of the great heart
Who was just like me in many ways.
He was always fond of the sup
And people say I'm fond of the drop myself,
Whatever drink comes my way it's down it goes
For fear that one day I might die of thirst.
And my darling asked me to give up the booze
Or I'd only be alive a short while more,
I told her straight she was telling a lie
And that the drink extended my life's span.
Don't you see that bird with the smooth neck
That only a while ago perished with the thirst?
Ah my pleasant people, wet your whistles
Because after death ye won't get a drop.
*****************
2. Translation by Thomas McDonagh (1878-1916):
The yellow bittern that never broke out
In a drinking bout, might as well have drunk;
His bones are thrown on a naked stone
Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.
O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,
Though they say that a sot like myself is curst --
I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise
For I fear I should die in the end of thirst.
It's not for the common birds that I'd mourn,
The black-bird, the corn-crake, or the crane,
But for the bittern that's shy and apart
And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.
Oh! if I had known you were near your death,
While my breath held out I'd have run to you,
Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird
Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.
My darling told me to drink no more
Or my life would be o'er in a little short while;
But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength
And will lengthen my road by many a mile.
You see how the bird of the long smooth neck
Could get his death from the thirst at last --
Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,
You'll get no sup when your life is past.
Thomas McDonagh was executed after the 1916 rising.
Francis Ledwidge, the poet from County Meath, was serving in France. His first response to hearing about the Easter Rising was to get drunk. His second response was his famous 'Lament for Thomas McDonagh'.
It begins with the words:
He shall not hear the bittern cry.
They were probably inspired by his familiarity with McDonagh's version of 'The Yellow Bittern'.
He was killed in action in July 1917:
http://www.ballinagree.freeservers.com/ledwyn.html
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An bonnan Buiby firey1049857 views
This is Maighread ni Dhomnaill in her early 20s. Shis is Triona's younger sister.
Both women were sopranos when they were girls. Triona sounds nasal now, and
Maighread's voice is even more powerful.
bookkeeper57 1 year ago