Sliabh Luachra Lectures

Ballydesmond, Sliabh Luachra, Ireland

Friday August 1, 2014

Lecture 3
Speaker: Bertha McCullagh
The Poetry of Sliabh Luachra

Introduction by Patricia Herron Siodhachin

Bertha was born in Castleisland and lived there, and in Tralee, during her childhood.
Her mothers family, the McGillicuddys, ran the Market Bar in Castleisland, a favourite
for traditional musicians. Bertha remembers Pdraig Cibh calling regularly, as well
as sports writer, raconteur and literary critic Con Houlihan, who took a great interest
in, and encouraged, Berthas love of literature from an early age. Bertha was educated,
through the medium of the Irish language, at Coliste de in Dingle. She went on to
become a secondary school teacher and principal, and a lecturer in Education at the
Mater Dei Institute (DCU) and at NUI Maynooth. She is an acknowledged authority on
Irish and English literature and poetry. Currently living in Limerick, among her other
activities in the artistic and cultural world Bertha is a Council member of Cuisle,
Limerick Citys International Poetry Festival. So, I give you Bertha McCullagh.

Bertha McCullagh:
One thing - when I was speaking with Pat about poetry, and my interest in literature
growing up, and whatever, we were focusing of course very much on Sliabh Luachra;
and afterwards I thought that I might say tonight that while Sliabh Luachra figured
largely, because of the music of Sliabh Luachra and players came to my mothers home
and to their business a great deal, and that was my first interest I suppose in the area
of Sliabh Luachra, and the first time I heard of it, I have to say, that while music
because my mother was a lovely pianist and her family were very musical, and we had
all those traditional people calling - my great love of literature came from my father.
My dad loved all literature, but had a particular interest in drama and was very involved
in drama in Tralee. And he also had a huge love of poetry, and I remember him on
evenings like this in the summer-time, sitting in the armchair inside our sitting-room
door and reading poetry aloud to himself. I would sometimes wander into the hall, or
into the room, and listen to him. And I am thinking of him, obviously, very especially
tonight, as well as all the others. And I just thought Id add that, I suppose in fairness
to him and because I was so lucky to have such an awareness of music and sound and
literature on both sides of the family.
I thought Id begin by saying a word or two about Sliabh Luachra. Sliabh Luachra is,
you know, such a vast area, but in a way undefined also. And it has produced some of
Irelands greatest poets, especially Aoghn Rathaille and Eoghan Rua Silleabhin.
It has also been the birthplace of An tAthair Dinneen, Patrick Dinneen, who is
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responsible for our great Dictionary, and also the birthplace of Toms Rathaille, the
Superior General of the Presentation Brothers from 1905-1925, and indeed to other
interesting literary people which I will mention later.
I was reading something recently where somebody said, you know, described being
asked, Where exactly is Sliabh Luachra? And the answer was, he said to himself,
You know, I dont think Sliabh Luachra has ever been exactly defined, because its such
a broad and extensive area. Con Houlihan, whom Pat mentioned, the great journalist
and writer and critic, when he was asked about Sliabh Luachra, he said, I think its a
state of mind. And in a way, isnt that a wonderful description of an area which has
given birth to so much, and that the state of mind which must have permeated the
area here over the centuries is obviously hugely significant.
Sliabh Luachra was first noted in the Annals of Inishfallen in 534, and that stated the
King of Luachar won a battle against Tuathail Mac Garbh. And it comes to that again
in 741 with the death of Cuaine, the Abbot of Ferna, son of Cormac, King of Luachra.
Throughout the years, and for many centuries, Sliabh Luachra was an area of very poor
land, and indeed it was only after Gearid Iarla, the Fifteenth Earl of Desmond, died,
and even before that, you know, that the land was so bad that it wasnt populated at
all. And then, after the death of Gearid Iarla, with the coming of the plantation of
Leinster, and then terribly so after the defeat at Limerick, at the Treaty of Limerick, so
much hope was gone from the people of Ireland, they no longer had even Bonnie
Prince Charlie to look to any more, and the English crowded in on the area around
Sliabh Luachra, not Sliabh Luachra itself, but they found that it was very difficult to
persuade landlords to settle anywhere called Sliabh Luachra, which means the
Mountain of Rushes, very poor, very poor land.
And then, in time, people from other areas moved in a little, because all of the Irish
people were suffering so terribly in those years, because of the Penal Laws, that they
had little to survive on and were growing more and more poor. But as well as that,
they were being pushed out of any land they had, or might previously have had under
the rule of the Irish chieftains, taoisigh, and so you find that people, like the OSullivans
of Kenmare, then moved into the edges of Sliabh Luachra and began to settle there.
Then as landlordism grew, more and more people, the Irish people, who were poor,
who were struggling, who were deprived, moved into the area, and of course it was a
very lucky thing in later times.
I thought Id mention two other things to do with the history of Sliabh Luachra, as a
background to what were speaking about, because I found them interesting and
relevant. There was a report called the James Weale Report, and this came about
because the British were so worried about all of the dealings, and underhand things,
and threat that was emanating to the British system, from the heart of Sliabh Luachra
over the years. And so he made a survey, and actually reported on it in the House of
Commons in London. Whats important about it is that it was the first time, as a result
of his recommendations, and indeed as the result of the recommendations of Nemo,
the man who was responsible for so many piers and roads throughout the country, in
Galway for example, but that for the first time roads were built. And up to then horses
carried the butter, as we all know, on the Butter Road from Sliabh Luachra to Cork, and
in 1830, I read, that Cork city was the largest butter market in the world in that year.

Anyhow, to come closer to where we are now, arising out of that Report and the
development of the area, the Weale Report also recommended the erection of a town
in Sliabh Luachra, and the town that was created, or the village, was the village of
Kingwilliamstown, which today we know as Ballydesmond. So I thought Id take us that
far in the history, since it is here this evening that we are, and are thinking about it.
So, where is Sliabh Luachra and how far does it extend? It is a great area in distance
and so on, but also so rich in so many ways. Very marshy, rushy land in the old days,
and bordering the areas of Cork, Kerry, Limerick, including the Kerry parishes of
Ballymacelligott, Cordal, Brosna, all of those around Castleisland; Knocknagoshel,
Barraduff, Gneeveguilla, Scartaglen, Rathmore south from here; and then the Cork
villages of Ballydesmond, Kiskeam, Rockchapel, Knocknagree, Boherbue, Meelin and
Freemount; and the Limerick villages of Tournafulla, Templeglantine, Athea,
Mountcollins and Abbeyfeale. And as I was reading that, I thought, no wonder that
that is where Donal and Pat chose to be married Templeglantine and I am sure that
it was one of the things which influenced Donals choice at the time. So I just thought
Id set us there, and see where we are, and why.
Aoghn Rathaille was one of the great poets of the area, and he would have come
from, at first, a comfortable family. He was an educated man, educated by the courts
of poetry in the greater Sliabh Luachra area south of it really, more in the southerly
part of it. He was born near Killarney and was more comfortable, but more than
anything else, he lived early enough to have experienced the Irish chieftains, the Irish
noble families and then at the time where he starts to write, it is just the time after
1691, that the Irish chieftains are losing their land, their power, and that is something
which quite often informs his poetry. He was a great writer of the Aisling and he and
Eoghan Rua Silleabhin would have been the two great writers of the Aisling, and
after them, Sen Clarch Mac Domhnaill. The Aisling, as I am sure we know, was a
poem form which developed because the Irish were so downtrodden, and because
they were still angry with, but afraid of, the invader. And one of the ways in which
they continued to fight this, and keep the spirit of the Irish alive, was through poems
like the Aisling. And the Aisling form, as Im sure you all remember from school, was
a poem where the poet would have a dream or a trance-like sequence, and a beautiful
girl, or a lovely lady, would come in a vision to him, and then as the poem developed,
those who were inside and knew, knew that the lovely lady or the beautiful girl, was
in fact Ireland. And one of the great exponents of the form was Aoghn Rathaille.
But even before he wrote the Aisling, he did very often, you know, cry out in his poems
about the poor state of the Irish people. And, you know, the poets then were peasants
in the best sense of that word, poor and deprived. In one of his early poems he says,
At mo chraid gan fuithin
s mo chuingir gan far, gan fs,
At anshgh ar mo mhuirear,
Is a n-uillinn gan adach sln;
At an tir ar mo mhullach,
Go minic o Thighearna an stit,
At mo bhrga-sa briste,
Is gan pinginn d bhfiacha im limh.

And the English translation:

My cattle are shelterless,

My team, unfed, thrive ill,
In misery my people dwell,
Their elbows through their clothes,
A price is on my head
At the landlords will;
My shoes are tattered,
And no wherewithal to make them good.

And he still hankered after the old days, the old days in which he grew up and where
the noble family, the Irish noble family round ther where he lived, were the
MacCarthys, Mac Carthaigh Mr. And for him, that was a terrible blow that those days
were gone.
Aoghn, and Im sure you remember this as well as I do, how often Donal referred to
Aoghn, he would never say Aoghn Rathaille, he would just say Aoghn, as in
Aoghn said, or as Aoghn felt. And Im thinking of this as I say these words.
His work can be divided into three areas: elegies, satires and shorter lyrics. His elegies,
twelve of them, survive. There probably could be more in places, but they havent
been found. His elegies are very powerful, and their power is probably related to his
education in genealogy. He was lucky enough to have been educated in one of the last
of the courts of poetry, growing up near Killarney, and he uses the style of a litany
always, where the litany of things, and of bad things, or sadness, or sorrow, or loss, are
listed like litanies; and it is something, I think, which is very, very powerful in his elegies.
He constantly wrote about the Cromwellian people, the invaders, and in particular he
would, in his poems, have shown us the difference and the changes that had come
about. When he was only fifteen, at that stage, Bonnie Prince Charlie King James
was the king, then followed by Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Irish were full of hope.
However, it didnt work out that way, and the Cromwellians dominated.
And in one of his poems, called C Ngabhann Sen he says, he is showing us what it
was like with so many Cromwellian people settling all around them. This is it translated
into English, where he says:
Whither faces John, no more red-coated,
Weres his Whos there? as beside the gate
He saught the least excuse to raise a row
And have me fined for quarrelling in the night.
Where faces Ralph and his accursed guard [and you notice the English names]
Those devilish city apprentices
Who everywhere pillaged consecrated chapels
Plundering the priests of God and exiling them.

The Flight of the Earls followed then, you know that great period of hope, when it was
thought that things would look up, and be brighter, and I think that was one of the
greatest blows to him also. At the time, after the Cromwellians, the Browns were the
leading family, the Viscounts of Kenmare, and they were Catholic and remained
Catholic into the twentieth century. One of the things that saddened him most was
the fact that some of his own people were turning from the faith and becoming
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Protestant. They did so out of fear, and also in hopes of some progress. And he cried
out, in a poem, A Dhia t ar Neimh,
A Dhia, t ar neimh do cluin na scalta
A R na bhfeart is a Athair naomhtha
Crad fr fhuilngis a ionad ag baraibh,
A chos aca, is sinnil in agmuis!
Oh God, Who art in Heaven, Who hearest the tidings,
Oh King of miracles, and Holy Father,
Why hast thou suffered his place to be held by bears,
That they should have his rent while he is straitened for the want of it.

And he was lucky, in that he had been educated, but in his life view, and his vision, one
would describe him as aristocratic, noble. He wasnt a peasant or didnt come from
that kind of background. However, he felt that around him, thats what was happening
all the time, and the land being plundered. In another poem, A Mianach Roghdha, he
says,
A mianach roghdha, a coill sa haolbhach,
Do digheadh do briseadh a connadh s a caolbhach,
A slata fis go scinte rabtha,
I gcrochaibh eachtrann scaiphithe chile.

And hes talking about the land, and his own area, the area around here, where
Her princely mines, her woods and lime quarries,
Her trees old and young, have been burnt and broken down;
Her growing rods, scattered and torn,
In foreign countries severed from one another.

And, as I say, he had that kind of litany-like style and approach, and theres great
strength in it, because theres power in any liturgy. And, you know, he has written for
example, a poem called Tr Do Doirteach, (A Land Poured Out Beneath the Feet of
Miscreants), and he goes on,
Tr gan eaglais chneasta n clrigh!
Tr le mioscais, noch ditheadar faolchoin!
Tr do cuireadh go tubaisteach, traochta
F smacht namhad is amhas is mirleach!
A land without a meek church or clergy!
A land which wolves have spitefully devoured!
A land placed in misfortune and subjection
Beneath the tyranny of enemies, and mercenaries and robbers!

And Im stressing those because I think they show that he had a great sense of how
noble Ireland had been, and as I said an aristocratic sense, the sense of being educated
and coming from a relatively comfortable background the exact opposite of Eoghan
Rua Silleabhin who followed.

As a person, he could be quite surprising, and one of the stories I love about him which
shows on the one hand how educated he was, also shows us that he was a character
with a sense of humour, and that humour and wit were part of his everyday life. There
is a story, and its verified apparently, that he visited a bookshop in Cork, and he was
of course a country man, a peasant in town, and his English was all brogue. He took
up a large and expensive classical work and he asked the cost of it. And I suppose,
because he looked so down, and anything but wealthy or educated, the shop owner
said hed give it to him, for nothing, if he could read it. So hes looking at the book,
and its upside down, or almost upside down the way hes reading it, and its a classic,
either Greek or Latin, and he manages somehow to read some of it, and convince the
owner to give it to him. And then, once hes got the book for nothing, he turns it
around the right way and rapidly, fluently reads the Greek, or the Latin. I thought it
was, you know, a human moment in the life of a great and very intellectual poet.
As well as that, there is a story also that, on the other hand, he did ordinary things and
went to ordinary places, and he speaks very well with the ordinary people. Soon after
that episode in the bookshop in Cork, he went to the local fair to sell his cattle, and
when people asked him about the price, you know, what hed sell them for, he said,
My mother told me not to sell it for less than this price, and acted as a sort of innocent
as well, and playing a joke on them.
Anyhow, as I said, his work can be divided into three classes: elegies, satires and
shorter lyrics. His elegies are the great ones, I reckon, and he had a particular strength
in that area, and one or two beautiful and shorter lyrics. I think to understand him, I
suppose, there is a story that he told, and he referred to it in a poem, about when
somebody had died, the son of one of the ODonoghues of Mire N Dhuibh the son
of Mire N Dhuibh died and a family member, who wasnt Irish, came and knelt by
the coffin and just blessed herself, and then the others, you know the woman whose
son had died, she screamed at her and said, Do you not know you should come in and
caoin over the corpse? You shouldnt just come in and be like that. Do you not feel any
sorrow or any sense of loss for us?
And when Aoghn wanted to write a long elegy, one of the things which we know hes
rich in is genealogy; and I mentioned to you before, thats one of the things that he
had studied in the school of poetry. And he wrote a poem about Diarmuid Laoghaire
of Killeen near Killarney. Its a poem that goes on forever Im not going to read it
but Ill list the stages and the content of the poem: the terror caused by the death of
Diarmuid (12 lines); the man himself (20 lines); genealogical matter, his family and
their history (50 lines on that).
Im not going to mention how many lines in others, but just to show that for him
genealogy, the background, probably going back to the earliest Irish rulers, probably
going back to the lord himself; about his prowess in sport and learning; the places
known to him; and the people who bewail him; the fairy women of the Gael bewail
him; and he puts all this in the poem. I love this one:
The rivers and mountains of Munster weep for him;
The gifts which were bestowed on him at birth;
His home is desolate;
His people are now defenceless;
And his wife is desolate too;
Women will weep for him and all Munster will miss him.

And then the close of it, its a long poem, right, but its an amazing thing that apparently
that is a poem which most of the peasants knew off by heart, and even into the
twentieth century there were places in Sliabh Luachra, in Cork, in Kerry, where people
could just chant a part of that.
And in another elegy, one for Domhnall Ceallachin, he gives all his genealogy and
again Ill just read you some of it, just a few lines of it very quickly, in English:
Son of Ceallachan, the manly, the high-spirited, the vivacious,
Son of Conchubhar, a noble who was bold and brave,
Son of Donogh, son of Tadhg, the staying strength of the learned,
Son of Conchubhar Laighneach, who did not show weakness . . .
Son of Lochlann who never yielded in contests . . .
Son of Murchadh, son of Aodh, of the battle-brands.

And that was it, the genealogy. His elegies are long, long poems. And his interest in
education and his love of genealogy certainly informed it very, very definitely.
And in talking again about, you know, in the elegy, about the sense of loss and how it
permeated everywhere, he talks about how the rivers of Munster, even, would mourn
somebody like that:
Do ghoil an Laoi tr mh go celmhar;
Do ghoil an tSionnain an Life s an Chrinseach;
An Mang, s an Fhleasc, Ceann Mara is Time;
An Fhil, s an Ghnaoi, s an Bhrighdeach mhr thoir.

In English:
For three months the Lee wept musically;
The Shannon, the Life and the Croinseach wept;
The Mang, the Flesc, Ceann Mara, and Toime;
The Feil, the Gnaoi and the great Bride in the east.

I suppose his greatest works are the works of his elegies. They are very much unique
to him, while some are in the tradition. Youll find him talking about sport on the
hillside, and how that had ended,
Sil ba mhire, na druide na gcoilltibh;
Sil an tseabhaic, gan ainimhe laoi ghil.

Or a note of homeliness:
Tobar lachta na n-anbhfann trith-lag
B na mbocht, s a ndorus aonair.
A well of milk for the weak and prostrate
Cow of the poor, their only door.

I think he constantly gives us, then, an insight into what Ireland was like in his own
days. In writing one of his satires, you know, a strong anti- one about a fellow poet,
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Domhnall na Tuile, who I think had written in a begrudging way about Aoghn
Rathaille himself, and he says in one of the verses,
Soraire sramach, sopaire salach,
Rothaire reatha an bragaire;
Crotaire tana, slogaire smeartha,
Shloigeas gach treas n a chraosgoile.

And the translation tells you what its about, but it doesnt have the power of those
words being pumped out, alliterative, you know, with the strong vowel sounds
involved in pattern. It is:
A fellow full of vermin, of running eyes, a dirty gaunt wad,
A fugitive, vagabond, is a liar,
A slender hunchback, a greasy swallower,
Who swallows every rubbish into his greedy maw.

And writing about him, and about that poem, Daniel Corkery, the great Cork critic and
writer himself, he said that some of the verses of that poem just werent fit to be
quoted. So obviously I didnt go into it too deeply.
His Lyrics are very, very powerful and, you know, when we come to those, and to the
Aislings, I think thats where his great power lies. Corkery said that he compared
Aoghn to Dante, and I think that must be a tremendous compliment to him, but
meant it in all sincerity, and explored and developed indeed by Corkery. He compares
him to Dante also in that Aoghn Rathaille, like Eoghan Rua Silleabhin, was very
much a poet of place, his own place, Sliabh Luachra and round it.
His greatest poem, a great Aisling, is Gile na Gile. Now usually when he would write,
or he would write an Aisling, or a poem that was condemning, it would be very bare
and stark, whereas Gile na Gile is a poem of great brightness and beautiful imagery.
But it is also an Aisling which is very beautiful. And since I think it is his outstanding
poem, I thought Mairtn would read for us as Gailge. It has a good many verses: you
can leave out some of them.
Gile na Gile
Gile na gile do chonnarc ar shl i n-uaigneas;
Criostal an chriostail a guirmruisc rinn-uaine;
Binneas an bhinnis a friotal nr chron-ghruamdha;
Deirge is finne do fionnadh n-a gros-ghruadhnaibh.
Caise na caise i ngach ruibe d budhe-cuachaibh,
Bhaineas an ruithneadh den chruinne le rinn-scuabaibh;
Iorradh ga ghlaine n gloine ar a bruinn bhuacaigh,
Do geineadh ar gheineamhain di-se san tr uachtraigh.
Fios fiosach dham dinnis, is ise go for-uaigneach:
Fios filleadh dhon duine dhon ionad ba rgh-dhualgas;
Fios milleadh na druinge chuir eisean ar rinn-ruagairt;
s fios eile n cuirfead im laoidhthibh le for-uamhan.
[. . .]

Ar chloistin mo ghotha dhi goileann go for-uaibhreach,

Is sileadh ag an bhfliche go life as a gros-ghruadhnaibh,
Cuirreann liom giolla dom choimirc n mbrughin uaithi ;
s gile na gile do chonnarc ar shlighe i n-uaigneas.

Ands theres always the Ceangal:

Mo threighid! mo thubaist! mo thurrainn mo bhrn! mo dhth!
An soillseach muirneach miochair-gheal beol-tais caoin
Ag adharcach fuireann-dubh miocaiseach cirneach buidhe;
s gan leigheas n-a goire go bhfillid na leoghain tar tuinn.

And the Caengal at the end is the summing up. I just thought Id read that in English:
Oh my misery, my woe, my sorrow and my anguish,
My bitter source of dolour is evermore that she,
The loveliest of the Lovely, should thus be left to languish
Amid a ruffian horde till the heroes cross the sea.

And that reminds us about what the poem is about: it is about Ireland, and how terrible
that Ireland (the loveliest of the Lovely) should be left languishing until, hopefully,
heroes cross the sea. Because that hope of a hero coming to rescue Ireland was always
there in the Aisling, and I think the castigation of the invader is well summed up in the
phrase amid a ruffian horde. So, thanks Mairtn.
Another one of the lyrical poems which he wrote, and which shows the very poetic and
creative side, is the Elegy he wrote for the three children of the Cronin family, Tadhg
Cronins children:
Tr tada ba bhinn, tr crachta san tr,
Tr naomh-leinbh naomhtha, thug gir-shearc do Chrost,
A dtr mbil, a dtr gcroidhe, a dtr soar-choirp f lg,
A dtr n-adain ba ghligeal ag daolaibh is dth.
Three melodious strings, three chasms in the earth,
Three sainted, holy children who fondly loved Christ.
Their three mouths, their three hearts, their three noble bodies beneath a stone,
Their three fair, bright foreheads, the prey of chafers, it is ruin.

And we see how he can bemoan the fate of Ireland, and then in a very simple, but very
affectionate way, bemoan the loss of three children in one family.
Life wasnt easy for him, and we know very little about where he went, or stayed, or
whatever, but as time went on he became more and more poor, and more and more
like a peasant, like most of the Irish, particularly the poets. And one of the poems
which really shows us that, I think, is Tonn Time, where he describes a night where
he cannot sleep, because a huge and terrible wave is pounding outside. He had at this
stage moved to Dhuibhne, or Corca Dhuibhne, and Im sorry that Louis and the others,
who were to be here tonight, but unfortunately couldnt come, because it was a special
occasion for an tAthair Toms hc, and I think any of us who know Irish drama, and
Irish literature and so on, would know that in celebrating his ninetieth birthday, Louis
had to make a choice, and the group with him, otherwise he would have been here.
9

But I wondered what hed say, or think, that one of the darkest nights in Aoghns life
was a night close to the sea, when a huge wave was pounding in, and he couldnt sleep,
and of course all of the sadnesses and all of the pains overwhelmed him. He says,
Is fada liom oidhche fhr-fhliuch gan suan, gan srann,
Gan ceathra, gan maoin, caoirigh, n buaibh na mbeann;
Anfhaithe ar tuinn taoibh liom do bhuadhir mo cheann,
Is nr chleachtas im naodhin fogaigh n ruacain abhann.
This truly wet night seems long to me, without sleep, without snore,
Without cattle or wealth or sheep or horned cows;
The storm on the wave beside me has troubled my head,
And I was unused in my childhood to dogfish and periwinkles.

And that was one of the things he found hardest as a poor poet, that when he moved
to Corca Dhuibhne he was having to eat unfamiliar fish and shellfish. And later he says,
Meabhair mo chinn claoidhte t bhiceach ta;
Cabhair d dtigheadh ars go irinn bhin,
Do ghlam nach binn do dhingfinn fin it bhrghaid.

And this is what he says, that hes prepared to put up with his own suffering, if only
the sea brought help to Ireland.
Were help to come again to fair Erin
I would thrust thy discordant clamour down thy throat.

Then hed do something about the wave, and hed have help to do something about
it.
While he felt, you know, and knew, that his health was fading, and life was so hard for
him, he still had great courage and said,
Cabhair n ghoirfead go gcuirtear me I gcruinn-chomhrainn.
Chomrainn, as you probably know, is coffin.
For help I will not cry until Im put In a narrow coffin.

And, you know, he talks, continuing in that same poem, about how he himself, his brain
is hurting, his entrails are pierced, and so on, but worse than anything else he says:
Ar bhfonn, ar bhfoithin, ar monga, s ar monchomhgair
I ngeall le pinginn ag fuirinn chrch Dhbher.

And he says,
Our lands, our shelter, our woods, our fair neighbourhood

He always identifies with the plight of Ireland and puts that far ahead, bemoans it far
more, than any loss to himself.

10

Now, one of his great Elegies, and one of the most famous of them, illustrates what I
said about him, this incantatory quality, the crying out of a litany, really. In Ireland
there was a tradition, in Elegies, of incorporating what was called the twelve olagns
and I suppose we all know what an olagn is: I know as children, if we were
complaining about something, sometimes wed be told by my uncles to stop olagning and we didnt know at the time that it came from something quite serious. This
poem I think is powerful; there are three verses, and in each verse repetition is
powerful, and it stresses the losses, and the awful things that are happening.
Seabhac Mumhan, curadh laochais,
Seabhac Gleanna, mac na file,
Seabhac Sionnan, Oscar achtach,
Seabhac Muimhneach Inse Fidhlim.
Phoenix croidhegheal, mn a ghaga;
Phoenix mre, gaois ba thritheach;
Phoenix Lithe, agus Life, mo mhala!
Phoenix beodha, crdha, caoimhnirt,
Parla Bhaile na Martra mithe;
Parla Chluana . . .
Parla Shiuire . . .
Parla Luimnigh, is fuinnebhreach File.

So you see how the first epithet in each line: Seabhac, hawk; Phoenix, you know and
Parla, pearl, and it gives that incantatory quality to the poetry, which strongly
emphasises all that was to be mourned and lamented in his day.
And he died, not too old, but saddened, saddened, and always hoping that life would
improve for Ireland. He died then in 1720, if my wits are about me, and about twenty
years later came the next great Sliabh Luachra poet, Eoghan Rua Silleabhin. And
Im sure that there are people here who would have some stories for us, now or later.
Is Father JJ here? (Answer: Hes not too well.) Is he not? Oh, sorry, because he, you
know, when we were chatting before about the poets of Sliabh Luachra, and talking
about Eoghan Rua Silleabhin, he had the kinds of stories that the local people
always told and remembered about Eoghan Rua.

Now, Eoghan Rua Silleabhin was a very different person, from a different kind of
background, to Aoghn Rathaille. As I said, his family had moved into the rushy,
poor land of or his ancestors had moved into the rushy, poor land of Sliabh Luachra
then, and it was a place where there had been one of the last schools of poetry, and
he grew up in a school of poets, and he loved it from a very early stage. He was very
lucky in that there was a classical school, and there was a court of poetry still
happening in the area, and for that reason the value of poetry and literature was kept
alive, especially in the area of Faha, and in the plain below it, and he has written about
the fact that on Sunday evenings, every Sunday evening, up above there would be the
gathering of poetry, and then down below, on the plain, there would be hurling, and
all of the local families would take part in that.
He always, himself, felt that he was less good than Aoghn, because he felt that he
hadnt had the same education. He did go to a school, and there was a school, and he
appreciated that, but he wished that he could have been educated more broadly,
11

especially in genealogy, and in a court of poetry. And he would often say himself, that
he felt that inadequacy: My head is empty of ogham.
In his poems he did, of course, write poems of Aisling, and dnta i moladh na mban,
poems in praise of women. He did write what are called Warrants, kind of humorous
verses; they arent all that significant really. He is a folk poet, but at the same time he
is a literary man and he, in his time, wrote nineteen Aislings; two songs about the
settlers and the names (he wrote in the style of genealogy, and very often about the
settlers); poems about his own life and significant moments in his own life; and he also
wrote Satires, like Aoghn and many of the poets of Ireland; and then the dnta i
moladh na mban, the poems in praise of women.
He, again, was quite a bright and a very witty man, born on poor land, but he did very
well in school, in the local school, and he was lucky to have a poet as his teacher; and
obviously there would have been some stress then or emphasis, on that. He learned
Latin and Greek, and he also learned English; and in fact, he wrote some poems and
an essay in English. He was very clever, and on one occasion when he was quite young,
he was late for school, and when he was asked about what kept him late, he answered
in a short little poem, two or three lines of poetry; and that was one of the reasons
then why his teacher, who was a poet as well, took such a keen interest in him, and
also encouraged him in his love of poetry. Regarding his reasons for being late for
school, he started off:
Ar dhrcht na maidne is m ag taistal go r-mhoch.

And that is:

In the dew of the morning, when I was journeying, when it was earlier [or too early]

So he made a great impression on his teacher, who mightnt have said so at the time,
but he did. He was Eoghan Rua, a red-haired man, handsome and good looking, one
understands, and he had been born in Meentoges, here in Sliabh Luachra, near
Gneeveguilla. And when he was eighteen he opened a school there, and it didnt last
long. And all we know is that something happened, there was an incident, something
not to his credit, and so that was the end of the school. And I suppose its our first
introduction to the fact that Eoghan Rua was brilliant, and a great poet, but that he
had, you know, little weaknesses, and maybe some of them not so little, and there
were times when he could have had, perhaps, more self-control. I think we see that
in different ways. Im not saying that in a condemning way, its just something thats
true, that affected his life and his writing.
So then after that, he had no choice but to become a spalpn. The spalpni were people
who went off to work in different seasons and then returned to their home, after the
turf was brought in, and after all of the crops had been saved and brought in. So that
during the time of late summer and autumn especially, the spalpns would be on the
road. They would always go to areas of richer land, and so he headed for Limerick,
north east, and east Cork as well. And then theyd come home at maybe Christmas
time, when theyd come back, and so that was the life he lived for a lot of years. He
really had a hard life in many ways, and found it hard to survive, I think, at times.
When he came back that first time, after the first bout of spalpneacht, at home there
was a confrontation going on, in the village and in the area, between the older and the
12

younger men, the married and the unmarried, and so he took the part of the younger
ones and joined in, and became a fighter for the younger men, you know, that is
metaphorically speaking.
One of things, I think, which struck me when reading about him, at that stage, was that
one of the poems he wrote was a poem for an illegitimate child of his own, when he
was less than twenty, and he wrote a short poem about having to look after the child
while the mother was out.
Thats the kind of life then he had, the spalpn for the brighter months, and he would
come home in the winter, but always he was involved in poetry, and the life of the
area, when he did come back. He lived that way for ten years, from 1770 to 1780 and,
as I say, we know little of what he did; he was just wandering from place to place,
looking for work, trying to survive, maybe meeting up with some of the other spalpns
and having a drink in a tavern, or whatever.
And then he became a teacher. He became the tutor of a family, a landed family, the
Nagle family. He had come to their area, or their place, and one of the women who
worked there, who worked for the family, wanted to write a letter, a letter of petition
to the master of the house. She couldnt write herself and she couldnt find anybody
else who could write, and I suppose that, too, tells us a lot about the wrongs and the
deprivations of the Irish families. But he wrote a letter for her anyway, to the Mister,
and he wrote a letter in four languages. And what a tribute to the schooling of the
poor people, in the schools, being taught by a poet-master, because many of the poets
would still have had training in the courts of poetry. And then when the Mister saw
the letter, of course, in four languages, he said, Who on earth wrote this? and
insisted on meeting Eoghan Rua, and then offered him the job of tutor, or teacher, to
the family. That would have been a comfortable moment or two. But then he left, he
left under a cloud, he had to leave, he had obviously transgressed in some way I
suppose we begin to speculate when we know that the man of the house, the Mister,
hunted him and chased him with a gun, and was shooting after him as he was leaving.
Then, he was frightened and terrified at this stage, and he felt he couldnt stay around,
either as a spalpn or as a poet-teacher in winter-time, and that family, the Nagle
family, were living near . . . was it Kanturk one of the Cork towns and there was a
British army barracks there. And so he felt that if he could get inside that, with a big
stone wall between him and Nagles gun . . . and so he went in there and joined the
British army. And you can imagine what that was like for him.
And then, in fact, he was mooted to go into the Navy, and he did. Life on board the
ships in those days was apparently utter torture, and he would have been in the fold
of a ship of war, with all kinds of people. John Masefield, the English poet and novelist,
he wrote about that time in the British navy, and said, you know, that the people who
were there, many of them struggling on their own because they had no other way of
surviving, were in absolute bad company. And very often it was the filth of the prisons
that were there, heading out on the ships. Anyway, the ship that he was on himself
was heading for the West Indies, and before they got to the West Indies, they caught
up with the ship which was being led by the leader of the French army, and it was
against the French army they were fighting for the dominance of the West Indies. And
there was a battle, a battle which lasted from seven in the morning until nearly
midnight. And the intensity of the battle their ship was the main one leading the
13

fleet, was in the hands of the British Admiral of State, the leading admiral in England,
a man called Rodney. They were successful, and they conquered the French and it was
a great moment. And that led to him writing a great poem, which is called Rodneys
Glory. Im sure that some of you people from Sliabh Luachra, who are really into the
music and the dancing, will know the dance. There is a set dance Rodneys Glory, which
indeed, the dance part of it then, was created by a man called Mooreen, Donchada
Mor from Listowel. But it grew out of the episode where he was sent packing from
the teaching job, the tutoring in the house, sailing out to the West Indies, and surviving,
indeed, for which he was very, very lucky, and it was written in English. And remember
I said that when he was in school he did very well, and learned English, and could write
quite well in it:
Rodneys Glory: Im reading it in English because it was written in English, and it was
obviously in praise of the Admiral, who had led them.
Rodneys Glory
Give ear, ye British hearts of gold,
That e'er disdain to be controlled,
Good news to you I will unfold,
'Tis of brave Rodney's glory,
Who always bore a noble heart,
And from his colours ne'er would start,
But always took his country's part
Against each foe who dared t'oppose
Or blast the bloom of England's Rose,
So now observe my story.
'Twas in the year of Eighty-Two,
The Frenchmen know full well 'tis true,
Brave Rodney did their fleet subdue,
Not far from Old Fort Royal.
Full early by the morning light,
The proud De Grasse appeared in sight,*
And thought brave Rodney to affright,
With colours spread at each mast-head,
Long pendants, too, both white and red,
A signal for engagement.

(*De Grasse was the French general)

Now its a very long poem then, which describes all of the tactics and manoeuvres, all
inspired, ordered, by Admiral Rodney, and he says,
So well our quarters we maintained,
Five captured ships we have obtained,
And thousands of their men were slain,
During this hot engagement;
Our British metal flew like hail,
Until at length the French turned tail,
Drew in their colours and made sail
In deep distress, as you may guess,
And when they got in readiness
They sailed down to Fort Royal.

14

Now may prosperity attend

Brave Rodney and his Irishmen,
And may he never want a friend
While he shall reign commander;
Success to our Irish officers,
Seamen bold and jolly tars,
Who like darling sons of Mars
Take delight in the fight
And vindicate bold England's right
And die for Erin's glory.

The ode was sent to the Admiral, and indeed he had written it hoping to impress the
Admiral, and the Admiral asked to meet the poet. The officer who brought Eoghan
Rua to meet Rodney, in his glory, was a man named McCarthy, a Kerry man. Anyhow,
when Eoghan Rua met Rodney, Rodney offered him promotion, but Eoghan Rua said
he wouldnt like promotion, he would prefer instead to be free. But McCarthy
intervened and said, We couldnt part with you for love or money, and so that was it,
Eoghan Rua stayed. He did get promotion, but he said to McCarthy, Imireochaimd
beart igin eile oraibh, I will play another trick on you lot. And he was very, very sad
and depressed, and disappointed by that.
Anyhow, in time, maybe as a result of that, some intervention through Rodney, for
whom he wrote that English poem, he was transferred to the army and when he did
eventually get away out of the army, the only way he managed to do it was by putting
some kinds of herbs (that Im not familiar with) on his shins, and they made his legs
really sore and terrible, and he was in a very bad way. The doctors couldnt cure it, so
he was dismissed from the army. And it was through blistering his shins, with
something called spearwort, that he managed to get himself out of the army, and he
headed for Kerry. And that brings us to his next poem written in English (Im always
surprised when I find him writing in English) and it is to Father Ned Fitzgerald. He
wants him to announce at Mass that Eoghan Rua is coming back and that hes going to
set up a school. Again, Im reading it in English as it was written in English.
Reverend Sir,
Please to publish from the altar of your holy Mass
That I will open school at Knocknagree Cross,
Where the tender babes will be well off,
For it's there I'll teach them their Criss Cross;
Reverend Sir, you will by experience find,
All my endeavours to please mankind,
For it's there I will teach them how to read and write;
The Catechism I will explain
To each young nymph and noble swain,
With all young ladies I'll engage
To forward them with speed and care,
With book-keeping and mensuration,
Euclid's Elements and Navigation,
With Trigonometry and sound gauging,
And English Grammar with rhyme and reason. *
With the grown up youths I'll first agree,
To instruct them well in the Rule of Three;
Such of them as are well able,
The cube root of me will learn,
Such as are of a tractable genius,

15

With compass and rule I will teach them,

Bills, bonds and informations,
Summons, warrants, supersedes,
Judgement tickets good,
Leases receipts in full,
And releases, short accounts,
With rhyme and reason,
And sweet love letters for the ladies.

* We could do with him now, but thats an aside.

So hes back, and he did set up the school. But again, it didnt last very long and, as
usual, he was constantly . . . he was the kind of man, I think, who maybe liked a drink,
and liked the ladies, and got himself into trouble fairly often. Later on, he was writing
a poem for a man called Cronin, again whom he wanted to impress, and wrote a
flattering poem, and Cronin didnt respond to it. And this really angered Eoghan Rua.
A short time later he was in a tavern and some of Cronins men, workers, were there,
and so there was a huge row. One of them hit Eoghan Rua on the head with a tongs,
and that was what brought about his final fever, and the fever which killed him in the
end.
But the person who revealed most about Eoghan Rua to us, and who wrote most about
him and gives a very full view of him, was an tAthair Dinneen, the man who did the
Dnaire . . . he gave a complete overview of the Irish language, but also of Irish
literature.
I said that he wrote nineteen Aisling poems, and weve looked at them, and Ill
ask Mairtn to read his best known one, which is one of great beauty, and that is
Ceo Draochta.

Ceo Draochta/ Magical Mist

Ceo draochta i gcoim oche do sheol m
tr thorthaibh mar inmhid ar strae,
Gan promhcharaid dograis im chngar
s m i gcrochaibh tar meolais i gcin;
Do shneas go forthuirseach deorach
i gcoill chluthair chnmhair liom fin,
Ag guchan chun R ghil na glire
s gan n ar bith ach trcaire im bal.
Bh lonrith im chro-se gan g ar bith
sa choill seo gan glr duine im ghaor,
Gan aoibhneas ach binnghuth na smlach
ag sorchantain ceoil ar gach gig,
Lem thaoibh gur shuigh s-bhrinneall mhmhrach
i bhfr is i gcl-chruth mar naomh;
na gnaoi do bh an l gheal le rsaibh
i gcoimheascar, s norbh eol dom c ghill.
[]

16

Is binn blasta caoin dfhreagair domhsa

s ag sorshileadh deora tr phin
N haoinbhean dr mhas mise id ghlrthaibh,
s mar chmse n heol duit mo thrad;
s m an bhrdeach do bh sealad psta
f aoibhneas I gcorinn chirt na rx
Ag r Chaisil Chuinn agus Eoghain
fuair mrcheannas Fdla gan phl.
Is dubhach bocht mo chrsa s is brnach
om dhrchreimeadh ag coirnigh gach lae
F dhlthsmacht ag braibh gan schas
s mo phrionsa gur seoladh i gcin;
T mo shilse le hrMhac na glire
go dtabharfaidh mo leoghan faoi rim
na dhnbhailtibh dchais i gcir mhaith
ag rscadh na gcrnphoc le faobhar.
[]
r Stobhard d dtodh chugainn thar sile
Go croch inis ilge faoi rim
Le fleet dfhearaibh Laoisigh s an Spinnigh
Is for le corp thais go mbeinn
Ar fhor-each mhear ghro thapa chefrach,
Ag sorchartadh cch le neart pilar
s n chlofinnse mintinn na dheidh sin
Chun lu ar sheasamh garda lem r.

Go raibh maith agat.

Again, he describes a beautiful maiden, the beautiful lady coming to him, and his
dialogue with her and so on, and then she says shes sad and mournful and oppressed,
and of course she is, because she is Ireland. And he tells her, this is the closing part of
Ceo Draochta, which is a really beautiful poem, long but well worth taking time on it
sometime yourselves, he says,
r Stobhard (that is Stuart, the foreign king, the Scottish kings, who it was hoped for
years, every Aisling did, would come and save Ireland)
r Stobhard d dtodh chugainn thar sile
Go croch inis ilge faoi rim
Le fleet dfhearaibh Laoisigh s an Spinnigh
Is for le corp thais go mbeinn
Ar fhor-each mhear ghro thapa chefrach,
Ag sorchartadh cch le neart pilar
s n chlofinnse mintinn na dheidh sin
Chun lu ar sheasamh garda lem r.

And in English he is saying, wouldnt it be wonderful if the Stuarts returned,

If our Stuart returned oer the ocean
To the lands of inis ilge in full course,
With a fleet of Louis men, and the Spaniards,

17

By dint of joy Id truly be

On a prancing pure steed of swift metal
Ever sluicing them out with much shot
After which Id not injure my spirit
Standing guard for the rest of my life.

And again, you see the power and the greatness of that Aisling.
I said he wrote a number of Satires, and it was a Satire which brought about his end,
the one which he wrote about the man called Cronin. Hed written a flattering poem
to Cronin, who didnt respond and appreciate it. As I said previously, that really
annoyed him, and so he wrote him a nasty and an ugly one instead. And then Cronins
men then had a row with him in a tavern, and injured his head, and he was filled then
with a terrible fever. He died . . . not even in a house, he did of course come back to
his own area again . . . but he died not in a house, although he was fairly close to his
original home; he died in a fever hut, alone, with nothing, utterly poor. And I think one
of the saddest and tragic ends we know, and that was close to Gneeveguilla, and as
you know there is a monument to him there Knocknagree yes Knocknagree. I
remember you took us up there, just outside the church in Knocknagree.
So that was Eoghan Rua Silleabhin, tragic and sad, and one of the great poets of
Sliabh Luachra. But, if you dont mind, I thought I would say something about the time
after those two greats, who were the essence of the great poetry here of Sliabh
Luachra, and which hasnt been bettered since. Just to say that its amazing, the
awareness and the presence of Sliabh Luachra, and Sliabh Luachra poets, in the
twentieth century. For those of you who are interested, you may like to read the Field
Day publications on the Sliabh Luachra poets, the great ones Aoghn and Eoghan Rua,
and I think the very fact that they commissioned and published a whole series on Irish
poets, and poetry in general in the Irish language, is marvellous, but there is a book on
Aoghn and a book on Eoghan Rua.
Now there are many ways in which twentieth century accord is paid to them, and I
think one of the great ones, I suppose because I admire him so much, and I think we
all do, is that Seamus Heaney paid tribute to him. As Eoghan Rua travelled around the
country, very often blacksmiths were his friends, and hed stop and talk with them.
One man in particular, Samus MacGearailt, was a favourite of his, and he has a poem
which he wrote, asking Samus MacGearailt to make a spade. When Im doing this, I
keep seeing the word in Irish, instead of in English, and I find myself with the last few
days . . . I went into the library in UL the other day and each time I was going to speak
to the girl, Mairtn was with me, I started with an Irish word, or an Irish phrase, and Im
a bit like that now . . . anyway, he had asked this man, Samus MacGearailt to make
him a spade, a rmhainn, and Seamus Heaneys poem, in District and Circle, youre
probably familiar with it, Poet to Blacksmith, is a direct translation of that poem by
Eoghan Rua. You probably know, as well, about Seamus Heaney that there was a
blacksmith, and blacksmiths, that he loved calling in to also. And he says, and it is
translating the poem in Irish,
Samus, make me a side-arm to take on the earth,
A suitable tool for digging and grubbing the ground,
Lightsome and pleasant to lean on, or cut with or lift,
Tastily finished and trim, and right for the hand,
No trace of the hammer to show on the sheen of the blade,
The thing to have purchase and spring and be fit for the strain,

18

The shaft to be socketed in, dead true and dead straight,

And Ill work with the gang till I drop and never complain.
The plate and the edge of it not to be crinkly or crooked,
I see it well-shaped from the anvil and sharp from the file,
The grain of the wood and the line of the shaft nicely fitted,
And best thing of all, the ring of it, sweet as a bell.

And that was Seamus Heaneys translation and tribute, and indeed I think many of the
modern poets did admire Eoghan Rua and Aoghn. When compiling the Faber Book
of Irish Verse, John Montague included translations of poems by both Aoghn and
Eoghan Rua.
A quick run through of some other influences of their poetry, especially Eoghan Rua,
seen in twentieth century literature: Yeats used aspects of Silleabhins reputation
in his Stories of Red Hanrahan, you know Red Hanrahans Song About Ireland and the
series on Red Hanrahan, whose given name is Eoghan, thats Red Hanrahan, who
carries a copy of Virgil in his pocket: the hedge-school master, a tall, strong, red-haired
young man. And as we know, Eoghan Rua was a hedge-school master, tall and strong
and red-haired.
Synge mentions Eoghan Rua in The Playboy of the Western World: Pegeen Mike
compares Christy, the Playboy, to him. She says, If you werent destroyed travelling
youd have as much talk and streeleen, Im thinking, as Eoghan Rua Silleabhin, or
the poets of the Dingle Bay, and Ive heard all times its the poets are your like, fine
fiery fellows, with great rages when their tempers roused. Synge had spent a lot of
time in west Kerry, and spoke Irish, and spent a lot of time on the Aran Islands, and so
on, as well.
And Daniel Corkery, whose book Im sure you know, The Hidden Ireland, it was one of
my great loves when I was studying literature, because that book was written in
English, even though the style is old-fashioned and archaic in a way, it still has helped
him to be known. I was amazed to find out, until I was reading stuff for tonight, that
Sean Rada had written a play based on the life of Eoghan Rua, and then I thought,
Spailpn a Run, I remember that being sung somewhere OK. The song of the same
name is part of the lament, in the music of the film of the Titanic, you know the Titanic
film? And part of Riadas song, inspired by the life of Eoghan Rua, Spailpn a Run, is
actually a part of that. I suppose thats fitting too, since there were so many Irish lost
in it.
As Ive said, Daniel Corkery compared him to Dante, and Frank OConnor, the great
Cork short story writer and author, he compared him to Robert Burns, and said he was
a poet of the people, in the way that Robert Burns was in Scotland.
In An Duanaire, of which Im sure youre familiar, published by Thomas Kinsella, in
association with another writer, they included Aoghn Rathaille, and Thomas
Kinsella himself translated two of his poems, and he also translated and included in
the Duanaire, which was published Id say in the 80s probably, sometime around then,
it was when Thomas Kinsella was still living and working in Dublin, and the one he
translated about Aoghn is the one which I read, which I talked about, Is fada liom
oidhche fhr-fhliuch, you know, about the long night of the terrible wave, and he is also
writing about Aoghn Rathaille again in his poem, Homesick in Old Age. So the poem,
The Drenching Night Drags On, the two of those, were included in the Duanaire. It was
19

one of the great events, I think, in bringing Irish language literature to more people,
because he translated all kinds of work which mightnt have been found too easily
otherwise.
I think its amazing how the tradition of poetry and writing is still so alive in Sliabh
Luachra, and continued. And thats the next way my thoughts went, and I thought
about Bernard ODonoghue, the poet, born in the Sliabh Luachra area, whose father
died very suddenly, tragically, when he was sixteen, and his mother, who was English,
then took the family back to her native Manchester. But Bernard ODonoghue, who
became a brilliant academic, and worked for long years in Oxford, and who has written,
was constantly coming back to Sliabh Luachra to find his roots, and has written a great
deal about that. And probably people will know his book called Farmers Cross, his last
collection I think, and that is very much concerned with being an emigr writer,
although he always said he didnt want to be called just an migr writer. But he had
a great love of the land, a great love of the area. One of the poems in Farmers Cross is
a poem on emigration:
Unhappy the man that keeps to the home place
and never finds time to escape to the city
where he can listen to the rain on the ceiling,
secure in the knowledge that its causing no damage
to roof-thatch or haystack or anything of his.
Unhappy the man that never got up
on a tragic May morning, to go to the station
dressed out for America, where he might have stood
by the Statue of Liberty, or drunk in the light
that floods all the streets that converge on Times Square.
Unhappy the man that has lacked the occasion
to return to the village on a sun-struck May morning,
to shake the hands of the neighbours hed left
a lifetime ago and tell the worlds wonders,

before settling down by his hearth once again.

And he also has a lovely poem from an earlier volume, about visiting the birthplace of
Aoghn Rathaille. He says:
We got directions from a man in socks
asleep in front of Coronation Street
who followed us to the door with a kind
of generous wistfulness, and then worked our way
up along the mountain road past Lisheen Cross
to reach the place itself, easily known
by its limestone monument.

And he describes how happy they were to be there, and looking back and thinking
about Aoghn Rathaille.
Bernard ODonoghue, I believe, is carrying on the great tradition of Sliabh Luachra,
being a great writer and so successful himself. And I suppose Gunpowder is the
poem most of us would have known for a longer time, and thats the one which he
wrote about the death of his father, who had been shooting (he wasnt shot or
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anything like that) shortly before he died, and before the accident. What he found
the saddest of all, and I suppose we all have known something of this in different
ways, was the smell of his fathers coat, there was a smell of gunpowder from it. It
really was one of the saddest moments, and he talks about it in the poem:
In the weeks afterwards, his jacket hung
Behind the door in the room we called
His study, where the bikes and wellingtons
Were kept. No-one went near it, until
Late one evening I thought I'd throw it out.
The sleeves smelled of gunpowder, evoking...
Celebration excitement things like that,
Not destruction. What was it he shot at
And missed that time? A cock pheasant
That he hesitated too long over
In case it was a hen? The rat behind
The piggery that, startled by the bang,
Turned round to look before going home to its hole?
Once a neighbour who had winged a crow
Tied it to a pike thrust in the ground
To keep the others off the corn. It worked well,
Flapping and cawing, till my father
Cut it loose. Even more puzzlingly,
He once took a wounded rabbit off the dog
And pushed it back into the warren
Which undermined the wall. As for
Used cartridges, they stood well on desks,
Upright on their graven golden ends,
Supporting his fountain-pen so that
The ink wouldn't seep into his pocket.

I think thats the continuing tradition of Sliabh Luachra. And finally, Im sure some of
you probably know this book, a book called Pulse, written by Tommy Frank OConnor
who lives in Tralee, but was a native of Scartaglen, and as you know Scartaglen is one
of the areas which is part of Sliabh Luachra. He writes both in prose and in poetry, and
also has written drama. Some of you may have seen it at Siamsa Tre in Tralee. And I
thought Id quickly read one of his, and it is called Misneach Chiarra, or Courage,
Bravery, put your courage into whats taking place and youll not fail. And he says:
The kings and chieftains of Chiarra Luachra
Are testament to the line of []
A people honed in unyielding battle,
Historys witness will persevere.
Refrain:
Let us muster as a ring fort
To guard and cherish our iodreacht,
In words and deeds our heritage lives
And thrives on the way to tomorrow.
In words and deeds our heritage lies
And thrives on the way to tomorrow.
No sword can ravage resourceful spirit,

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Or traitor hope for our final grave,

Today no boundary sets a limit,
Our future reborn in every age.
Refrain:
Let us muster as a ring fort
To guard and cherish our iodreacht,
In words and deeds our heritage lives
And thrives on the way to tomorrow.
In words and deeds our heritage lies
And thrives on the way to tomorrow.
The shell and cannon that breach castle
Rust in time various deeds,
Our Chiarra Kingdom has rock foundation,
Braverys spirit flourishes here.
Refrain:

From Shannon waves to the Kenmare river,

Blasket Sound back to Scartaglen,
On Skellig Michael and Tarbert Island,
Legendary news, again and again.
Refrain:
May God look kindly on generations
Past and present and yet unborn,
Give fortitude, so well join together,
Always willing to share and learn
Refrain:
Let us muster as a ring fort
To guard and cherish our iodreacht,
In words and deeds our heritage lives
And thrives on the way to tomorrow.
In words and deeds our heritage lies
And thrives on the way to tomorrow.

Now Ive said that as well as being a poet, I think that evokes all of the great sense of
patriotism of Sliabh Luachra, which obviously hes very much a part of, Tommy Frank,
since he has written this book. In one of his Essays in the book, he says, Great
literature has a way of making the village universal. He was referring to one of the
stories of Chekhov, and really the point he is making, I suppose, is that place is so
important, something which is very obvious in the work of Bernard ODonoghue as
well. And he says, so what is so inspiring about Sliabh Luachra? How would Chekhov
have regarded it? And he talks a little about the history of Sliabh Luachra, and about
the difficult times, the penal laws, conquest and so on. He talks about the hedgeschools, Dtha Bruadair the poet, and one of the greatest of these was Dtha
Bruadair, a great file and teacher, highly regarded still by many poets, including the
late Michael Hartnett of Newcastle West. And then he comes to a part which I think
is a good note on which, almost, to end: The poets and writers responded in a
language and idiom that could not be interpreted by the heathen invaders, which was
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very much, as I said, in the work and mind and soul and heart of Aoghn. It gives the
poor Kerry masters, Piaras Feiritar, Corca Dhuibhne, Geoffrey ODonoghue of the
Glens, who carried on Feiritars work after he was hanged, outside Killarney as you
probably know, in 1653. Then Gneeveguilla gave us the great Aoghn Rathaille
(1675-1728), followed by the abundantly talented rascal Eoghan Rua Silleabhin
(1748-84), whom Tommy Frank OConnor regards as the Dylan Thomas of his time.
So, I think people constantly make marvellous comparisons between Aoghn, Eoghan
Rua and the great writers like Pindar, Dante, and the Dylan Thomas of our time.
A century later, that hinterland thats called Corca Dhuibhne, gave us the poet Ned
Buckley, and that most eminent lexicographer Father Stephen Dinneen, An t-Athair
Dinneen, is how we mostly know him, author and co-author of many works but most
famous for his Irish-English Dictionary.
The legacy of Aoghn and Eoghan Rua has increased and multiplied into the present,
not just in [] like attention to nuance and detail, in the story-telling of the late Eamonn
Kelly (who is known to us as well), in Bernard ODonoghue, one of the most
accomplished poets in any land (he actually was winner of the Whitbread Prize in
1995, I forgot to mention that about Bernard ODonoghue), one of the most
accomplished poets in any land, in poets writing in Irish such as Donal Siodhachin,
Marion Moynihan, whom we know from Corca Dhuibhne, Karen OConnor and Eileen
Sheehan, and theyre all poets known to us. And I thought it was rather lovely that I
was summing up with something which mentioned Donal. And he says, Their poetry
is enjoyed all over the land, and poet/translator Eugene OConnell, who already has a
well-deserved national and international profile, but also by the songwriters,
musicians, story tellers, historians and dancers, who cherish and enhance their
heritage. They have emerged from the wide womb of Sliabh Luachra, and endowed it
with a mystical and a mythical ethos in Irish and world folklore. Anton Chekhov would
surely be impressed.
And finally, I think we are all very conscious of Donal [ Siodhachin] and that hes in
all our thoughts this evening, and I think its very fortuitous that we have somebody
with us, who wrote a very nice poem for Donal, that Mairtn has translated into Irish,
and I thought that Donal, who was one of the people who had such a pride and passion
in the culture and the literature, the music, the spirit, just the brilliance of Sliabh
Luachra, and it never failed him, and I suppose I always remember the first time I heard
him read, and I said to whoever was beside me, it wasnt Mairtn because he was at
choir practice that same night, but I remember saying, Isnt he just a Bardic poet come
back? You know that incantatory voice, and the way he called out the poem in Irish,
or the poem in English . . . so I think that he who loved Sliabh Luachra, who was born
here, inspired by it, upheld it, worked for it, promoted it, enhanced it and always paid
a great tribute to the culture and heritage of Sliabh Luachra, should be the note on
which we end. And we are very lucky that the poet who wrote this poem in memory
of Donal is here with us, all the way from Essex, outside London. Tim Cunningham, is
here this evening, so Tim maybe you could say the original in English and Mairtn will
say it in Irish.

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As Lthair (i.m. Donal)

Absence is dawn without light
Night without darkness
Lightening without its flash
Thunder without its roll
A meadow without flowers
A desert without sand
A river without fish
A sky without birds
Children without laughter
A dog without its bark
Language without words
A blackbird without her song
A sea without waves
A forest without trees
Paint without colour
A rose without smell
A tiger without stripes
The circus without a clown
Christmas without carols
April without showers
Love without touch
A church without prayer
A harp without strings
His favourite chair, empty.

[Irish translation unavailable]

I just want to say that I think thats a lovely way to pay a final tribute to Sliabh Luachra,
that he loved so much.

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