Amhrán Mháire Ní Mhongáin

Play recording: Amhrán Mháire Ní Mhongáin

Bhí Máire Ní Mhongáin ina cónaí i mBaile na Cille, is é sin Baile na Cille atá in aice le Leitir Fraic ansin, agus bhí sí pósta agus bhí triúr mac aici. Agus cailleadh a fear agus rinne sí – mar a dúirt sí féin – an dearmad pósadh aríst. Agus nuair a phós sí aríst d’imigh an triúr mac uaithi. Chuaigh duine acu in Arm Shasana agus chuaigh beirt acu go Meiriceá. Agus anois, seo amhrán a tháinig anall as Boston, agus tá mé ag ceapadh gurbh é an chéad uair riamh ar dúradh é, i dteach i mBoston. Agus nuair a phós sí aríst bhí muirín óg uirthi agus bhí a croí chomh briste nuair a d’imigh an chlann mhac uaithi is go ndearna sí an t-amhrán seo.

Bhí duine acu istigh i dteach i mBoston nuair a tháinig cailín as Baile na Cille amach ansin. Agus, mar a dhéanann siad i gcónaí, nuair a thagann duine as an áit, déanann siad céilí beag dó. Agus dúirt sí an t-amhrán seo agus bhí Peadar istigh sa teach ar dúradh an t-amhrán ann. Nuair a chuala sé an t-amhrán thosaigh sé ag caoineadh agus d’imigh sé abhaile lá arna mhárach, ach bhí a mháthair curtha roimhe.

Muise, bhí triúr mac agam a bhí oilte tóigthe,
Ba ghearr ba lón dom iad, céad faraor géar;
D’fhágadar a ndeirfiúirín ag sileadh deora
Gach aon lá Domhnaigh is í ag iarraidh a ngléas;
Ní raibh suim ar bith agam sa mac ab óige,
Cé gur lách an leoinín é Peadar féin;
Ach an mac ba shine acu a chráigh go mór mé
Is mí ní beo mé le cumha ina dhiaidh.

Mo Pheadar muirneach a bhí go hoilte múinte
‘S a chuaigh ar chúntar a bheith ní b’fhearr;
Bhí gnaoi na gcomharsan air fhad is bhí sé liomsa,
‘S ba mhaith an cúntóir é amuigh le Seán.
Tá súil le Muire agam go bhfaighidh tú iomlacht
Is fortún cumhachtach ó Rí na nGrás,
A bhéarfas abhaile chugam thú slán ón gcontúirt,
Mar is mór mo chumha i ndiaidh mo mhicín bháin.

An bhfuil trua in Éirinn ach mac is máthair
A ghabháil i bhfán ar a chéile choíche?
A chuaigh go Sasana san Arm Gallda
‘S gan fios a pháighe ach an beagán bidh.
Dá mba i mBaile na Cille a bheadh a gcnámha
Ní bheinn chomh cráite ná a leath in do dhiaidh,
Ach mo chúig chéad beannacht leat go Ríocht na nGrásta
Mar nach bhfuil sé i ndán dom thú a fheiceáil choíche.

Nach mór a ghoileas bean i ndiaidh páiste
Nuair a fháigheann sé bás uirthi in aois a mhí;
‘S nach iomdha forránach breá lúfar láidir
Ag gabháil thar sáile ‘s nach bhfillfidh choíche.
Ní hé sin is measa liom ná a d’fhág faoi bhrón mé
Ach rinne mé an pósadh úd ar ais aríst,
Mar bhain sé an chlann díom a bhí oilte tóigthe
Tá muirín óg orm is mé lag ina gcionn.

‘S an bhfuil tru in Éirinn níos mó ná mise
I ndiaidh mo chéad mhic a chráigh mo chroí?
Ag guibhe Dé is ag déanamh déirce
Is ní fháighim aon scéal uait ar muir ná tír.
Ach más é an ní a bhfuair mé is a d’fhág faoi bhrón mé
Is iomdha dólás atá ag gabháil thrí mo chroí,
Tá deireadh mo sheanchais is mo chomhrá déanta
‘S ní labhród giog nó go dté mé i gcill.

Translation

Máire Ní Mhongáin lived in Baile na Cille, that’s Baile na Cille near Letterfrack, and she was married with three sons. Her husband died, and she – as she said herself – married again, to forget. When she remarried, her three sons left her. One of them went into the British Army, and two went to America. Now, this is a song that came over from Boston, and I think it was first sung in a house in Boston. And when she remarried, she had a young family; and her heart was broken when her sons left her, and she composed this song. One of them was in a house in Boston when a young girl from Baile na Cille came out there. And, as they always do, when somebody comes out from home, they make a little ceilí for them. And she sang this song, and Peter was in the house where the song was sung. When he heard the song, he started crying, and he went home the next day, but his mother was buried before he got there.

I had three sons who were well raised
But, alas, they were little help to me;
They left their little sister weeping
Every Sunday, seeking their support.
I took no interest in the youngest son,
Although Peter was a sociable little lion;
But it was my eldest son who tormented me the most,
And I won’t live a month with missing him.

My darling Peter, who was well brought-up,
And who left in order to better himself;
He was well-liked by the neighbours when he was with me,
And he was a great help to Seán outdoors.
I trust in Mary that you will get a passage
And a powerful assistance from the King of Graces
That will bring you home to me out of danger,
For I’m greatly missing my fair-haired son.

Is there anything more pitiable in Ireland than a son and mother
Losing track of each other forever?
Who went to England into the foreigners’ army,
Not knowing what pay he’d get beyond a little food.
If their bones were in Baile na Cille,
I wouldn’t be half as tormented about you;
But my five hundred blessings upon you to the Kingdom of Grace,
As I’m not destined to see you again in this life.

A woman will weep sorely after a child
Who dies at the age of one month;
And many’s the fine strapping young fellow
Going abroad who’ll never return.
That’s not the worst for me, or what brought sorrow upon me,
But the fact that I married again,
For that’s what drove my well-raised family from me;
I have a young brood, and I’m weak looking after them.

Is there any woman in Ireland more to be pitied than myself,
After my first son who has tormented my heart?
Praying to God and making alms –
And I get no news from you at sea or on land.
But if that’s what I got, and what has left me woeful,
There’s many a sorrow pressing through my heart;
This is all I have to say,
And I won’t say a bit before I go into the grave.