A Recent Irish Literature IV

Of other collections of verse, the pieces which have secured most popularity are those collected by Mr. Lloyd, “An Buinnean Buidhe,” “Siobhan Nig Uidhir,” and “Coillte Glasa Triucha,” mentioned above, which two former have become especially well known through their insertion in “Ceol Sidhe.” “The Buinnean Buidhe” is one of the finest additions to our store of folk-songs, and is in many respects one of the best songs we possess. It is known all over the North-West and West, but the version given by Mr. Lloyd comes from Donegal. The poet, rejected by his sweetheart for imbibing rather freely, comes on a wintry night to a frozen pool, where he finds a bittern, lying stiff and dead. He proceeds to lament the bird, and moralising on its fate, reflects on the fallacy of teetotalism, pointing out that death must come if thirst be not appeased. There is a touch of grim humour in his conclusions which is absent from most of our folk songs. We know that the ancient bards were credited with mighty powers of sarcasm and invective, and traces of this faculty are not unknown in later days, Aodhagain O’Rathallaigh and Eoghan Ruadh especially, were dowered with no small share of it. Irony and satire are not absent either, Mangan’s glorious version of “Bean na tri mBo” is a good example, and Dr. Hyde in the “Roman Earl” has recovered a specimen of a grimmer kind. Of humour proper there are many examples in our poetry, but the poems otherwise are not remarkable. In the prose one often meets real humour. Dr. Hyde’s story “An Piobaire agus an Puca,” will repay a reading even in English, but for the general merit of the lot the little tale in “Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta” may well stand: –

“There was a man once and he had a beautiful daughter, and every man was in love with her. There used to be two youths coming to court her. One of them she liked, and the other she did not. The man she didn’t like used to often come to her father’s house to be in her company, but the other whom she liked used to come but seldom. Her father preferred her to marry him who came often, and he prepared a great dinner, one day, to which he invited everybody. When all were gathered he says to the girl ‘Drink now,’ says he, ‘to the man you prefer best in this company,’ for he thought that she would toast him whom he liked himself. She raised the glass in her hand and she stood up and looked around, and then gave this quartrain: –

I drink to the health of Often Who Came,
Who Often Came Not I also must name,
Who Often Came Not I often must blame,
That he came not as often as Often Who Came.

She sat down when she had given the lines and spoke no more that evening. But ‘Often Who Came’ came not after that, for he knew he was not wanted, and she married the man of her choice, with her father’s permission.”

All this literature has been committed to print within our days. In Mr. P. O’Brien’s “Blaithfhleasg de Mhilseanna na Gaedhilge” we get a specimen of the tales written by the Irish writers of the last century, and existing in great part still in MS. This book contains three stories, “The Adventures of Torlogh MacStairn,” “The Adventures of his Three Sons,” and a tale entitled “The Bruighean Bo.” They are all remarkable for great imaginative power, and though of course highly improbable, still as romantic tales are entitled to rank with any of the adventures of knight or cavalier which have made the Romance languages famous. As a type of what lies unread, and in great measure unknown in our literature, they are extremely valuable.

So much for the traditional or MS. literature of the Gael. It has not been the only product of our times. As I observed earlier, Irish poetry has never ceased to be written, but Irish prose probably has. Of original prose work in Irish in these later days the only examples are those afforded by the various journals here and in America devoted to Gaelic. These articles, written largely for the hour, are consequently not of permanent interest. Of workers in the cause, one of the veterans is certainly Mr O’Neill Russell, whose labours here and among our kindred in the United States can never be forgotten. His book, “Teanga Tioramhail na h-Eireann,” is an endeavour to give to modern Irishmen a book in classic Irish that is in the tongue which all our people, acquainted with the written language, can understand and appreciate. The style is vigorous, and based as it is on the best models, must certainly become popular. It occupies the place of the “Essay” in Irish, and is a book that one can turn to with pleasure as a fount of encouragement when the outlook for the old cause is dim and cheerless. Dr. Hyde’s Gaelic articles dealing with the “Love Songs” and “Religious Songs of Connacht” are excellent examples of what Irish is capable of in criticism. They are written in the simplest fashion, and contain no word that would elude the intelligence of any peasant.

The advent of Fainne an Lae, and later on of Claidheamh Soluis, introduced to the public writers of whom little had previously been heard. Of them, by far the best was Donnchadh Fleming, whose death last year deprived Irish literature of its most promising writer. His “Eactra na n-Argonantac” will be found to be one of the best additions which Irish literature has received in our time, and a prime service, too, would be the gathering of the various articles contributed by John Fleming to the early numbers of the Gaelic Journal.

The greatest glory of our recent literature is, however, its poetry. Here also Dr. Hyde is pre-eminent, but it is regretted by those best able to judge that the Craoibhin has not written less in the metres of the foreigner. The English reader can scarcely appreciate the difference that lies between Irish and English systems of rhyming. This is not the place to enter into a disquisition on them, but anyone acquainted with the street ballads of a half century since will have little difficulty in understanding in what the styles differ. Dr. Hyde’s poems have been gathered to an extent in two little volumes, “Duanaire na Nuadh Ghaedhilge,” and more recently in “Ubhla de’n Chraobh.” Of them possibly the finest is his “Smuainte Broin,” or “Sorrowful Thoughts,” included in the first book, which has been translated by O’Donovan Rossa, and ought to be better favoured by our reciters than it has been. It is unfortunately too long to quote, but it may be recommended as absolutely the most National of recent Irish poems. Here, however, is one that tells its own story: –

“O’er the sounding sea many wild waves flee,
Till they burst in glee on the shell-strewn shore;
Many blithe birds sing in the shining spring,
Or, on sun-tipped wing, through the ether soar;
In the blossomed trees on the light-flecked leas,
The flower-fed bees swarm day by day;
But the sweets they miss of my honeyed bliss
In your echoed kiss, my young ‘Queen of May!’

“Many grains of sand make that sea-swept strand,
Many grass-stalks stand in yon meadow green;
Many sweet songs float from the wren’s small throat –
But the whole to note ‘twere less hard, I ween,
Than of kisses count the combined amount
Which our hearts’ love-fount yield myself and bride;
When the lilting lay of the skylark gay
Hails the blush of day o’er the green hillside.

“Ere the sun’s first ray tinged the mountain gray,
Love-tranced we lay, dear – yourself and I;
With no one near us, to see or hear us,
What spell could bear us to earth or sky?
While above and ‘round swelled a joyous sound
(God’s praise profound – from the woods and air),
We listened dreaming – but, to my seeming –
To music teeming we gave no care.

“The birds in chorus sang – ‘Night is o’er us,
And Day’s before us with radiant smile;’
But little heeding how time was speeding,
Our thoughts were reading our hearts the while.
My ‘Sunburst streaming!’ ‘My Pole-Star gleaming!’
On me you’re beaming, my mild ‘May-dawn!’
My sweetest pleasure! my joy’s full measure!
Through life to treasure, mo mhuirnin ban!”¹

The constant recurrence of rhyme here is an attempt to follow the original, but English is a bad medium for such exercises. The Craobhin is very fond of the past. Here is a dramatic little poem which tells its own tale. It is entitled “A Day in Eirinn”: –

“Four gleaming scythes in the sunshine swaying,
Thro’ the deep hush of a summer’s day,
Before their edges four stout men sweeping
In tuneful measure the fragrant hay,
Myself the fourt of them, strong and happy,
My keen blue steel moving fast and free,
Oh! little then was the broadest meadow
And light the heaviest scythe to me.

O King of Glory! what a charge is o’er me,
Since the young blood thrilled me long, long ago,
When each day found me, with the sunshine round me,
And the tall grass falling to my every blow,
O’er the dewy meadows came the cailins’ voices,
Ringing glad and merry as they raked the hay,
Oh! the hours pass quickly as a beam of sunshine
When the years are rosy and the heart is gay.

Like fairy minstrels, the bees a-humming
Went honey-sucking from flower to flower,
Like golden berries in the distance gleaming,
I’ve watched and listened to them hour by hour.
And the butterflies on the sunbeams riding,
With wings surpassing e’en the blush of dawn,
Or like fairy jewels, full of light and splendour,
On the golden crown of the bouchalan.

The blackbird’s lay in the woods rang clearly,
The thrush’s note echoed far and high,
While the lark’s full song, like a bell’s vibration,
Came floating down from the midmost sky,
From his leafy station the linnet lifted
His little voice in the hazel glen,
And oh, God of Grace! was not life a pleasure
In our green and beautiful Eirinn then!”

This also is taken from “Duanaire na Nuadh Ghaedhilge.” Beside them in the book are a number of pieces signed “Padraic,” the work of Patrick O’Byrne, now of Killybegs, who more than anyone else has contributed to keep alive interest in Gaelic amongst our people in America. He, too, writes in modern modes, but his pieces are exceedingly melodious, especially such of them as “Bas an Fhilidh,” “An t-Am Fad O,” “Smuainte ar Eirinn,” “Cuireadh,” “Tog suas an Chlairseach,” &c. Then our friend Mr. Russell is also in the ranks of the bards, and many of his lays are very singable, which is a very are quality in most songs I would especially refer to “An Fhuiseog,” “An Fhuiseoigin Dearg,” and “An Cuaichin Binn.”

These men represent the van of the movement. Long before any of the prominent men of the day were heard of, and in fact when most of them were still at school, these three men were working in silence, day in ad day out, to waken the people from the lethargy in which the last agitation steeped them. To-day, thanks to their efforts, the signs of a new literature, full of every characteristic of the past, are becoming plainer. Among poets who have been working consistently for years, Domhnall O’Loinghsigh holds a high place. Most of his work is in the modern mode, but he has written songs in the old style, and his “Ta an la ag Teacht,” “Ar nGaedhilge Binn,” and “A Dhia Saor Eire” have been long and bid fair to remain long popular. Robert MacSharry Gordon (An Gabhar Donn) has also given us some melodious pieces, and is one of the few Gaelic poets who have attempted the sonnet. Patrick Staunton, of Cork; Captain Norris, of New York; Father O’Reilly, of Kerry, Father O’Growney, have been all more or less successful as versifiers. Among even more recent men, striking piees have come from Tadhg O’Donnchadha, who would be much more popular if he favoured the faults of the Munster school to a less degree than he does. His verse is often archaic in its vocabulary, and a popular poet needs to be simple in his diction. Mr. J. H. Lloyd in his fine song, “Leathadh an Ghaedhilg,” Michael O’Sullivan in his “Cailin Deas Cruidhte na mBo,” Dermot Foley in his “Rallying Song,” Seamus O’Seaghda in quite a number of songs, notably “An Cailin Donn,” Osborn Bergin in a few very musical little lyrics, Tadhg MacSuibhne in some two or three swinging songs like “Slainte na nGaedheal,” and Daniel O’Connor, of Mill-street, a poet of great promise, have all contributed to the growing literature of the nation. They are all young men, and may confidently be looked to, to maintain the high standard handed down by such writers as “Liam Dall,” Seaghan O’Cullane, Andrias MacCraith, Seaghan O’Tuama, &c.

I have yet to refer to another branch of our literature which is the growth of the last two or three years, and which one may say to have never had a previous existence. Hero and romantic tales we have had, but the story in the modern acceptance of the term has only come to us since the Oireachtas started. A few men have distinguished themselves in this line. Father O’Leary, of Castlelyons, practically began it with his “Seadhna,” which ran for some months in the Gaelic Journal, but the short story or sketch in Irish has been begun by such writers as P. T. MacGinley of Donegal, James Doyle, now of Derry, Father Hynes of Sligo, but above and beyond all, by Patrick O’Shea of the Belfast Gaelic League. It is not deprecating the others to say that such tales of Mr. O’Shea’s as “Eachtra Risteaird” and “Laeteanna Sgola” have never been surpassed in modern Irish. I know of few figures more calculated to stir the heart than that of Nora Ni Fhailbhe in this latter story. Dickens, with all that we hear of his mastery of the heart, never created a more lovable character. She is an ideal Irish girl, and it is to be hoped that the promised volume of Mr. O’Shea’s stories will soon be given to us that our girls may be introduced to Nora and taught to know their duty to Ireland as well as she. To Father O’Leary we owe likewise the initiation of another phase of our literature – the dramatic. Years ago Father O’Carroll in the Gaelic Journal gave us a few historic dramatic episodes in Irish, but the play as a play has been initiated by “Tadhg Soar,” and that very fine tragedy, “Bas Dallain,” which has passages worthy of the drama of any country, more especially the speech of Seanchan Torpeist in the last act. Mr. MacGinley in “An Bhean Deirce” has essayed this style, too, rather successfully, and Dr. Hyde’s “Casadh an t-Sugain” is said to be excellent. It needs but a few public performances to test whether or not these pieces, which read excellently, possess the cardinal quality of a drama, suitability for stage purposes.

1 The translation appeared originally in United Ireland; I am unaware of the identity of the translator.