https___ancroiait.wordpress.com_2018_04_23_823-ainmneacha-gan-bri__1.xml
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Chonaic mé taispeántas san Getty Villa le déanaí faoi Phluais Plato. Daoine mar phríosúnaigh ag breathnú ar bhalla ag ceapadh do bhfuil siad ag breathnú ar an saol mar atá ach níl siad ach ag breathnú ar scáileanna. Téann duine amach agus feiceann sé an domhan i gceart is tagann sé ar ais le rá leo cad atá amuigh ansin i ndáiríre ach tá daoine ann is fanann siad ina bpríosúnaigh go deo. Níor mhaith leo an fhírinne, ná brí, ná an saol mar atá i ndáiríre a fheiceáil. Smaoinigh mé ar sin is mé ag breathnú ar an scannán Song of Granite. Chuaigh Seosamh Ó hÉanaí amach sa saol mór is chonaic sé a bhí ann. D’aithin sé scaití go raibh glór nach raibh ceolmhar ann a chuir mearbhall ar dhaoine is fuair sé suaimhneas sa cheol a d’fhoghlaim sé sa bhaile amuigh faoin aer nó i gcisteanach. Smaoinigh mé ar an bpluais nuair a d’éist mé le The Streets Have No Name le U2. Tá ainmneacha ar na sráideanna againn. Ach níl brí leo. I mBÁC tá sráideanna nó bóithre ann ar nós Cappagh, Ratoath, Ballyboggan, Finglas, Glasnevin, Ballymun, Kilmore, Malahide, Raheny, Kilbarrack, Drumcondra, Clontarf, Kylemore, Ballyfermot, Inchicore, Terenure, Clonskeagh, Rathfarnham, Dundrum. Brí ar bith leo san leagan seo. Sin atá fágtha againne, na príosúnaigh a chreideann nach bhfuil tada mícheart le brí a bhaint ó ainm áite. Ní thuigimid cad is brí lenár dtír féin. Muid caillte sa dorchadas is ní aithnímid sin. Ní Béarla ná Gaeilge atá againn ach dul amú. Teanga gan brí. Sin a d’fhág siad againn. Is tharla 1916 is tháinig saoirse, dúradh linn. Níor tháinig ach daoirse eile. Is rinneamar dearmad ar an mbrí is d’fhanamar sa dorchadas. Leads, seo 2018: 125 bliain ó bunaíodh Conradh na Gaeilge. Mar a dúirt De hÍde fadó: DeAnglicize. Hear the Atlantic seethe and swell And hear the lonesome chapel bell. God save their souls and mind them well, Tomás and Seán Conneely. Yesterday at half past four They pushed their currach from the shore. One took the net while one took the oar, The two fishermen, Conneelys. From Connor’s fort and from Synge’s chair Towards Inis Mor and Inis Iarr. They scour the sea in silent prayer As they go searching for their neighbours. Dia daoibh, beirt iascaire breá God be with you two fine fishermen Nach mbeidh thar nais ar barr an trá. Who will not be back at the top of the strand Go mbeibh sona sásta ar neamh, May you have peace and happiness in Heaven Tomás is Seán Conneely. Draw the seaweed up the hill And sow potatoes in the drill. Try to understand God’s will And the loss of the two Conneelys. Hear the Atlantic seethe and swell And hear the lonesome chapel bell. God save their souls and mind them well, Tomás and Seán Conneely. What I’m trying to do tonight, in the space I have, is to give you a bit of everything. And the next thing I’m going to do — maybe some of you heard about it, I don’t know — is called The American Wake. Now it’s nothing to do, directly, it’s nothing to do with America. But long ago, when people were going to America and emigrating, their parents knew they’d never see that particular person in this life again. And the night before they left, the woman or the man who was leaving — It wasn’t so easy then to come home as it is now. They settled down more or less when they went to America, and they got married, and their parents died, meantime they could never see them. But anyway, the man or the woman who was going away visited all the old people in the village, invited them to have a dance that night in the house. And those that weren’t able to go, they gave them a bottle of something as a remembrance. And they invited the people — Now I’m talking about a time when there was no musical instruments. And of course, long ago, musical instruments were barred, because some of the clergy reckoned that if you played music you were a druid or something — something pagan about you. So maybe it was a good thing, too. But anyway — there was somebody, always, who lilted a tune, and somebody danced to that tune. Now, in the old country houses they had what was known as a half-door. And sometimes when somebody was dancing on a concrete kitchen floor they lifted off the half-door, and danced on top of the half-door. Now two of the tunes they used to play was a reel, My Love She’s in America, and a hornpipe, Off to California. This was during the night; and in the morning, of course, the song — the lament — was sung by always — nearly always — the woman. But this is somebody lilting a tune for somebody dancing. My Love She’s in America went something like this: That’s My Love She’s in America. Now Off to California: Now, the dancing was over, and in the morning, usually the mother, put her hands around whoever was going away, pointing out to that person that ‘Even though you’re going away, remember, you’ll get no money thrown on the pavements. Where you’re going you’ll see somebody rich; but remember, behind that person there may be twenty people who’s very poor. And when you’re walking the streets at night, remember, stop and listen, because as sure as anything the voice you’ll hear will be mine, calling you back; because you know I’ll always love you’. And the song they used to sing was A Stór Mo Chroí. A stór mo chroí, when you’re far away from the home you’ll soon be leaving And it’s many a time by night and day your heart will be sorely grieving. Though the stranger’s land might be rich and fair, and riches and treasure golden You’ll pine, I know, for the long long ago and the love that’s never olden. A stór mo chroí, in the stranger’s land there is plenty of wealth and wearing Whilst gems adorn the rich and the grand there are faces with hunger tearing. Though the road is dreary and hard to tread, the lights of their city may blind you You’ll turn, a stór, to Erin’s shore and the ones you left behind you. A stór mo chroí, when the evening sun over the mountain and meadow is falling Won’t you turn away from the throng and listen and maybe you’ll hear me calling. The voice that you’ll hear will be surely mine of somebody’s speedy returning A rún, a rún, will you come back soon to the one who will always love you.
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Chonaic mé taispeántas san Getty Villa le déanaí faoi Phluais Plato. Daoine mar phríosúnaigh ag breathnú ar bhalla ag ceapadh do bhfuil siad ag breathnú ar an saol mar atá ach níl siad ach ag breathnú ar scáileanna. Téann duine amach agus feiceann sé an domhan i gceart is tagann sé ar ais le rá leo cad atá amuigh ansin i ndáiríre ach tá daoine ann is fanann siad ina bpríosúnaigh go deo. Níor mhaith leo an fhírinne, ná brí, ná an saol mar atá i ndáiríre a fheiceáil. Smaoinigh mé ar sin is mé ag breathnú ar an scannán Song of Granite. Chuaigh Seosamh Ó hÉanaí amach sa saol mór is chonaic sé a bhí ann. D’aithin sé scaití go raibh glór nach raibh ceolmhar ann a chuir mearbhall ar dhaoine is fuair sé suaimhneas sa cheol a d’fhoghlaim sé sa bhaile amuigh faoin aer nó i gcisteanach. Smaoinigh mé ar an bpluais nuair a d’éist mé le The Streets Have No Name le U2. Tá ainmneacha ar na sráideanna againn. Ach níl brí leo. I mBÁC tá sráideanna nó bóithre ann ar nós Cappagh, Ratoath, Ballyboggan, Finglas, Glasnevin, Ballymun, Kilmore, Malahide, Raheny, Kilbarrack, Drumcondra, Clontarf, Kylemore, Ballyfermot, Inchicore, Terenure, Clonskeagh, Rathfarnham, Dundrum. Brí ar bith leo san leagan seo. Sin atá fágtha againne, na príosúnaigh a chreideann nach bhfuil tada mícheart le brí a bhaint ó ainm áite. Ní thuigimid cad is brí lenár dtír féin. Muid caillte sa dorchadas is ní aithnímid sin. Ní Béarla ná Gaeilge atá againn ach dul amú. Teanga gan brí. Sin a d’fhág siad againn. Is tharla 1916 is tháinig saoirse, dúradh linn. Níor tháinig ach daoirse eile. Is rinneamar dearmad ar an mbrí is d’fhanamar sa dorchadas. Leads, seo 2018: 125 bliain ó bunaíodh Conradh na Gaeilge. Mar a dúirt De hÍde fadó: DeAnglicize.