A beautiful Irish lament, Róisin Dubh (the dark Rose) has been posted by Carol on The Tenth Crusade. The words are enough to move one to tears:
Little Rose, be not sad for all that hath behapped thee:
The friars are coming across the sea, they march on the main.
From the Pope shall come thy pardon, and from Rome, from the East-
And stint not Spanish wine to my Little Dark Rose.
Long the journey that I made with her from yesterday till today,
Over mountains did I go with her, under the sails upon the sea,
The Erne I passed by leaping, though wide the flood,
And there was string music on each side of me and my Little Dark Rose!
Thou hast slain me, O my bride, and may it serve thee no whit,
For the soul within me loveth thee, not since yesterday nor today,
Thou has left me weak and broken in mien and in shape,
Betray me not who love thee, my Little Dark Rose!
I would walk the dew with thee and the meadowy wastes,
In hope of getting love from thee, or part of my will,
Fragrant branch, thou didst promise me that thou hadst for me love-
And sure the flower of all Munster is Little Dark Rose!
Had I a yoke of horses I would plough against the hills,
In middle-Mass I'd make a gospel of my Little Dark Rose,
I'd give a kiss to the young girl that would give her mouth to me,
And behind the liss would lie embracing my Little Dark Rose!
The Erne shall rise in rude torrents, hills shall be rent,
The sea shall roll in red waves, and blood be poured out,
Every mountain glen in Ireland, and the bogs shall quake
Some day ere shall perish my Little Dark Rose.
Thank you, Carol. This was new to me.
Out Of Don Milani’s Pig’s Mouth, Or: Defence of The “Marginalised” Is The
Best Indication Of Sexual Perversion.
-
The lurid translations of that big, fat, lurid pig called Don Milani are
here. I have read the Italian version and can assure you the translations
are actu...
14 hours ago
3 comments:
Indeed a beautiful specimen of sean nós (old style) singing. I had linked to this is a previous comment on a thread on Carol's outstanding blog and I'm glad she highlighted it as a separate post.
Carol is a True Crusader for the Lord (the Tenth, by her own account!) whom I would follow into battle in this or any era. I truly think her a Jeanne d'Arc après la lettre (if I may phrase it that way).
Another commenter on the same thread on Carol's blog, Breathnach, is a wealth of knowledge about this style of singing (as well as most matters relating to Irish culture) and he has some superb suggestions for those who enjoy Irish traditional music. Also for some of Flannery O'Connor's essays. The relevant post of Carol is Cara Dillon's The Parting Glass. There are a few tangents in the associated comments (mainly my fault) but thanks to Breathnach a number of musical nuggets were sifted out.
Incidentally, there is a pub in Boston (Massachusetts) called the Róisín Dubh. On my infrequent visits I have not heard any sean nós singing. But at least the Guinness is usually fresh. And if you try to sing Éamonn a' chnoic in Irish, (Ned of the Hill, in Saxon), amidst a euphoric inspiration derived from the Guinness and the Jameson's, you will be requested to revert to contemplating the froth in your pint lest you perturb the poor tourists who think this an genuine Irish pub. Ochón, ochón (alas, alas). It's rather like thinking the novus ordo a traditional liturgy.
The snows of yesteryear all but have melted away. Thank God Poland preserves the Faith. Niech żyje Polska!
Thanks for the link. A very interesting post, with very interesting and erudite comments. It has got me reading and Googling.
Jeszcze Polska nie zgineła!
Jack O'Mallley - further thought about Irish - and probably all music, from an old post on this blog:
About 15 years ago, I used to play Irish music (one of my passions) at a local pub which had sessions on Sunday afternoons. I played flute, competently, and fiddle feebly. The 20 or so very middle-class people who came and played were largely highly competent, but not Irish. There was a very good uilleann (Irish pipes) player. I thought that their playing tended to lack passion.
One day, I arrived early to find two men waiting, each with his pipes in a box. It turned out that they were the real thing - Irish navvies who were brothers, working on a local road. They asked me to play something on the fiddle, and I obliged with "Boulavogue". Their over-generous comment was, "It's fine - just needs a bit more elbow."
When the session started, they unpacked their pipes, and revealed themselves to be absolute maestros on that most difficult instrument. I have never heard anyone play with such grace and passion.
The other players were very put out. The English uilleann player most of all. Musical navvies? There was something wrong here. They fell silent
For the English players, folk music was something whose perfection they could only, with rather joyless determination, strive towards. For the two Irishmen, it was a lark. They were doing something they loved, and with the joy which springs from love. Their playing was full of beef and wit, as it should be. One of them even played a shortened version of Bach's Cantata and Fugue in B minor. It was a tour de force.
One of them sang. I forget the song, a sad one, but the delivery was perfect.
Sadly, the very English welcome they received was too much for them. They left after about 40 minutes, never to return.
As Chesterton remarked, "a job worth doing is worth doing badly". If it's worth doing, do it, as best you can, but with joy and enthusiasm.
Post a Comment