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An Bhuatais (Aor an tSagairt)

Diarmaid Na Bolgaí Ó Sé

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[ca 1825?]

An angry song in Irish, highly critical of the clergy itself, is ‘An Bhuatais’, the story of a Catholic priest who preferred to buy himself new boots rather than take care of his dying parishioners during Great Famine. Understandably, this song was also very rarely heard in Ireland before the second half of the 20th century.

Available on:
Áine UÍ CHEALLAIGH: Isir Dhá Chomhairle (Gael Linn, 1992)
-Three Shouts from a Hill (1999)
Slide- Harmonic Motion (2002)
Frank HARTE and Dónal LUNNY: The Hungry Voice: The Song Legacy of Ireland’s Great Hunger (Hummingbird, 2004)
Michelle Mulcahy: Suaimhneas (2012)
Ailliliú, a dhuine a chruinnigh an t-ualach,
Ar mhiste leat gluaiseacht nó an mairfir go brách?
Bágún dod chistin a dh’oirfeadh rómhór duit
Is má chuirtear san uaigh leat é codail go sámh.
Dá mhéad iad do dhlithe, d’ionmhas is d’ualach
Chífidh tú an tuama romhat lán de na cnámh’.
Ach de réir mar a thuigim do shentence an uair úd,
Ní thabharfairse an bhuatais go Flaithis na nGrás.

Is dóigh liom gur chodail tí i gcraiceann mhic tíre
Is an t-ainspiorad coimhthíoch ag faire ar do bhráid.
Ná déan dia ded bholg i bhfochair na ndaoine,
Nó an bhfeiceann tú Gaeil bhocht’ le heasnamh ag fáil bháis?
D’aithníos ar do dhochma lá croite na síol dom
Nach raibh do chroíse istigh ag smaoineamh ar eagla an bháis.
Ach an crann a mbíonn an toradh air ní airím go gcríonann,
Is go bhfóire go caoin é Mac Mhuire na nGrás.

Mo ghrá, mo lagar, i mbranar ag gluaiseacht
Ní chloisim aon duan duit i bhFlaitheas na nGrás;
Ní airím ná meamram cneasta ná stuama,
Ó chailleadh Eoghan Rua bocht, níl a bharra le fáil.
An té thabharfadh bliain ar an leaba i ngalar is i gcruatan,
Is a d’éireodh ina sheasamh ag grafadh is ag bualadh,
Is ná smaoineodh ar Aifreann beannaithe an Uanmhic,
A shaorfadh ón gcruatan a anam lá an ghá.

A bhráthair, gach filleadh a thuillis go buacach,
Chífidh tú an buachaill marbh ar chlár,
Cordaí go daingean á cheangal ar ghuaillibh,
Go gcuirfear san uaigh é le hualach ón rámhainn;
Nó ar fhéach tú go minic ar dhuine a bhí i gcruatan?
Gheobhaidh tú do dhualgas, mar a mheasaim, lá an bháis;
Raghair sna Flaithis gan hata gan bhuatais,
Ach cochall ró-uasal anuas ort go sáil.

Ailliliú, a dhuine, chonaic tú na mílte,
Is ní fhaca tú Íosa a d’fhulaing an Pháis
Ar Chranna na Croise is an chonairt á dheoladh
Mar a mbíodh an fhuil ghlórmhar ina ceathanna ar lár.
A Ríon dil na cruinne tríd’ bhroinn gur seoladh
Le haoibhneas do bhrollaigh ba mhilis a thóg É;
An té dhein fíon den uisce ní bhainfidh sé an choróin díot,
A Bhanríon na Glóire, mar thuillis í a fháil.

Ni mhaireann Peadar ba chalma, Séamus,
Ná Aindriú ba néata dár shiúlaigh i mbróig,
Mathghamhain a’s Pilib a’s aon-mhac Alphéus,
Síomón ró-naofa, Jude agus Eoin;
Nach iad siúd an fhoireann a chonaic Zaccheus
Ins an gcrann a’s é ag feitheamh ar dhlithibh an Aon-Mhic.
Is dóigh liom, a dhuine, ná tuigeann tú an Ghréigis,
Caith díot an éide mara leanair Naomh Pól!

inviata da dq82 - 11/11/2015 - 12:32



Lingua: Inglese

English version / Versione inglese / Version anglaise / Englanninkielinen versio

The following English translation of the song is reproduced from a Mudcat Cafe thread on “Songs in Irish about Priests”. Only four of the six verses of the original poem (those generally sung?) are translated. This is the only (partial) translation of the poem available from the Web. [RV]
The Boot

Indeed my good sir, who would heap up the riches
From Death's call there's no power a person can save.
Though the hams in your kitchen be sweet and be tasty
They'll give you small comfort when you're in your grave!
Though great are your powers, your esteem and your lasting
The tomb lies in wait at the end of the road
And then you will find that, unless I'm mistaken,
You'll not need your boots in your future abode.

Pretend not your gruffness conceals your good nature.
The devil is waiting and won't be deceived.
Don't worship your belly and offer it sweetmeats
While the poor faint with hunger and die unrelieved.
I knew by your face on the day of the sowing
That the harvest you craved was not the true one.
The Tree that bore fruit has never grown older
Its burden is still - as it was- Mary's son.

For he who lies down in illness and sorrow
But rises next day to plough land and sow seed
Will not think at all of the Mass and its graces
Which would save his poor soul in the day of its need.
Indeed my good man you have seen many people
But you never saw Jesus who suffered the Passion
On the arms of the cross with the dogs snapping at Him
While His Blood showered round in most prodigal fashion.

Gone now is brave Peter and James is gone with him
And Andrew - no finer man ever wore shoe
Matthew and Philip and also Alphaeus,
Simon the Blessed, St John and St Jude.
All these were the people who witnessed Zaccheus
In a tree as he waited Our Lord's blessed call.
Forgotten your Greek? Then I'd like to remind you:
Abandon your cloth or else follow St Paul.

inviata da Riccardo Venturi - 3/11/2020 - 08:18


Un cardinale stronzo di meno ;-)

https://gazetawroclawska.pl/kardynal-g...

k - 6/11/2020 - 21:46



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