Leagan Connachtach
***
Tá na Francaigh anois istigh i gCill Ala
Agus beimid go leathan láidir;
Tá Bonaparte i gCaisleán an Bharraigh
Ag iarraidh an dlí a cheap Sáirséal.
Beidh beairicí an rí ins gach aon-oiche trí lasadh
Agus yeomen againn ar garda,
Puiceanna an Bhéarla go síorroí dá leagan –
Sin cabhair ag an Spailpín Fánach.
B’fhaide liom lá a bheinn i dtír gan chara
Ná bliain mhór fhada is ráithe,
Ag baint na díogan is dá síor-chartadh
Go dté an ghrian ina háras.
Glacfad fís ó rí na gCraipí;
Beidh spíc agus cleith ins gach láimh liom;
Agus ar an tsráid seo arís ní ghlaofar m’ainm –
Cá gcónaíonn an Spailpín Fánach?
In Inis a bhíos is mo chúl le balla
Agus arís go dtí lá ‘r na mhárach.
Mná na leannta ag glaoch isteach orm,
Súil is go n-ólfainn mo phá(ighe).
Tháinig mé isteach is deamhan pingin a bhí i mo bhealach
Agus mé go leathan láidir;
Is deamhan cárt dí a gheobhainn ar m’fhocal –
Mar bhí mé ‘mo Spailpín Fánach.
Is d’ardaigh mé mo láí liom suas go Gaillimh
Is mé ag gabháil ag saothrú pá(ighe),
I gContae an Rí ba mhain liom seasamh
Ach ní bhfaighinn ann bia ná pá(ighe).
Ar chuanta Bh’l’ Átha Cliath a liath mo phlaite
Is nárbh é sin an t-aistear náireach?
Ach i measc mo ghaolta, pósfaidh mé featsa –
Is ní bheidh mé ‘mo Spailpín Fánach.
1798 Homepage
(Air: The same as "The Singing Bird" and is often played in Croke Park by the Artane Boys’ Band)
Henry Joy McCracken was born in High Street, Belfast, in 1767. A member of one of the most notable Presbyterian commercial families in that city, he joined the Society of United Irishmen and led the Republican forces when they captured Antrim town from the British garrison in 1798. Arrested after the insurrection, he was courtmartialled and hanged in the Cornmarket, Belfast, on the evening of July 17th, 1798. His sister Mary Ann walked arm-in-arm with him to the gallows. This Belfast street ballad was written about 1800.
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An Ulster man I am proud to be,
From the Antrim glens I come.
Although I labour by the sea,
I have followed flag and drum.
I have heard the martial tramp of men;
I’ve seen them fight and die.
Ah! lads I well remember when
I followed Henry Joy.
I pulled my boat in from the sea,
I hid my sails away.
I hung my nets upon a tree
And scanned the moonlit bay.
The boys were out, the redcoats too,
I bade my wife good-bye,
And then beneath the greenwood glade
I followed Henry Joy.
Alas, for Ireland’s cause we fought
For home and sire we bled.
Though our arms were few, our hearts beat true
And five to one lay dead.
And many a lassie missed her lad
And mother mourned her boy,
For youth was strong in the dashing throng
That followed Henry Joy.
In Belfast town they built a tree
And the redcoats mustered there.
I watched him come as the roll of the drum
Sounded on the barrack square.
He kissed his sister, went aloft
Then waved a last good-bye,
And as he died, I turned and cried
They have murdered Henry Joy.
1798 Homepage
(Air: "The Rising of the Moon")
Down by Sheelin’s vale at sunset,
Fierce as demons in their wrath,
Spread a band of English troopers
Fire and carnage marked their path.
Midnight shines, and blazing rooftree
Lit the darkness of the night,
From the shores of fair Lough Gowna
Th the slopes of Granard’s height.
Maid and mother fell before them,
All in wrath and vengeance smote,
And in pride the foeman’s legion
Onward sped to Granard’s Moat.
We marched that morn from Creenagh
To oppose them on their way,
And by river, lake or mountain
Made we neither stop or stay.
Till a band of English troopers
Crossed our path at Edgeworthstown
And we piked the last red foeman
As the evening sun went down.
Early in the dewy morning,
As the day began to dawn
Towards the ancient moat of Granard
We were proudly marching on.
High o’erhead us waved our banner
In its beauty fair and free,
Borne by men from Carrickmoira
And the plains of Killashee.
From the banks of Cloonart river
And from Cleaney’s village green,
Hast’ning onwards to the onset
Many a gallant youth was seen.
As we reached the heights of Granard
Right before us formed in line,
We could see the English legion
And their spears and banner shine.
For a moment’s space we halted
As we came within their view,
Then a deadly thirst for vengeance
Filled our bosoms through and through.
With a shout that loudly echoed
To the far-off Shannon shore,
Through the red ranks of the foeman
In a furious rush we tore.
With that rush our gallant pikemen
Leaped against their foremost line,
And their blades drank deep in vengeance
For many a bloody crime.
Fast and deadly ev’ry weapon
Found a Saxon foeman’s breast,
As our fierce and maddened pikemen
Through their columns thickly pressed.
Granard’s ancient moat was reddened
By the blood of friend and foe,
Well we met them with their bayonets
With our pike their sabre-blow.
Backwards pressed against the valley
Bravely fighting to the last,
But again our gallant pikemen
Gathered round them fierce and fast.
Morning saw their haughty standard
In its pride and glory wave;
Evening saw the foeman’s legion
Crushed and sunk in one red grave.
And where stood the ranks of Britain
By the light of morning’s dawn,
O’er their graves in proud defiance
Erin’s rebel banner shone.
Longford long shall tell the story,
How her children bravely stood
In that fight for Erin’s glory
Brave and stern as freemen should.
And their deeds shall nerve their brothers
When they grasp the freeman’s brand,
To go forth, to fall or conquer
For the rights of motherland.
1798 Homepage
Ní airím véarsa ó lon ná ó chéirseach
Is ní fhásann féar ins na coillte ceart’;
Níl suim ag an spéirbhean i spórt ná i bpléisiúr
Ach í ag gol is ag béiceadh is ag réabadh bas.
Á rá gan faothamh, ní bhfaighidh na séimhfhir
Aon oíche in Éirinn ná uain chun reast,
Ag an trúp seo meirligh is iad ag teacht lena chéile,
Is go mbuailfear caoch sinn ar Shliabh na mBan.
Is is oth liom féinig bualadh an lae úd
Do dhul ar Ghaeil bhocht ‘is na céadta slad;
Mar tá na meirligh ag déanamh géim dínn,
Is a rá nach aon ní leo píc ná sleá.
Níor thánig ár major i dtús an lae chughainn,
Is ní rabhamar féinig i gcóir ná i gceart,
Ach mar a sheolfaí tréada de bha gan aoire
Ar thaobh na gréine de Sliabh na mBan.
Mo léan léir ar an dream gan éifeacht
Nár fhan le héirim istoíche is stad,
Go mbeadh dúthaí Déiseach is iarthar Éireann
Ag teacht lena chéile ón tír aneas.
Go mbeadh ár gcampaí déanta le fórsaí tréana,
Bheadh cúnamh Dé linn is an saol ar fad,
Is ní dhíolfadh meirleach darbh ainm Néill sinn
Is bhuafaí an réim linn ar Shliabh na mBan.
Is é Ros do bhreoigh is do chloígh go deo sinn,
Mar ar fágadh mórchuid dínn sínte lag;
Leanaí óga ‘na smóla dóite
Is an méid a fhan beo dhíobh cois claí nó scairt;
Ach geallaim féin díbh an té dhein an foghla,
Go mbeamna i gcóir dó le píc is le sleá,
Is go gcuirfeam yeomen ar crith ‘na mbróga,
Ag díol a gcomhair leo ar Shliabh na mBan.
Tá na cóbaigh mhóra ag iarraidh eolais,
Tá an aimsir óg is an chabhair ag teacht;
An Té mhill na gnótha is É a leigheasfaidh fós iad,
Is ní dhíolfam feoirling leo, cíos ná sleá.
Píosa corónach, an chuid ba mhó dhe,
Luach éiric bó nó teaghlach deas,
Beidh rince ar bhóthre is soilse á ndó ‘gainn,
Beidh meidhir is mórtas ar Shliabh na mBan.
Is mó fear aosta is crobhaire gléigeal,
Ó am go chéile a chuaigh that lear,
A bhfuail córdaí caola ag baint lúth a ngéag díobh,
I ndoinsiúin dhaora go doimhin faoi ghlas;
Gardaí taobh leo ná leomhfadh sméid’ orthu,
Do dhéanfadh plé dóibh i dtíortha thar lear;
Á dtabhairt saor óna namhaid gan bhuíochas,
In am an tsaothair ar Shliabh na mBan.
Is tá an Francach faobhrach is a loingeas gléasta,
Le cranna géara acu ar muir le seal;
‘Sé an síorscéal go bhfuail a dtriall ar Éirinn,
Is go gcuirfid Gaeil bhocht’ aris ‘na gceart.
Dá mba dhóigh liom féinig go mb’fhíor an scéal úd,
Bheadh mo chroí chomh héadrom le lon ar sceach,
Go mbeadh cloí ar mheirligh is an adharc á séideach,
Ar thaobh na gréine de Shliabh na mBan.
Seo é leagan Béarla ar an véarsa deireanach:
For on the ocean are ships in motion,
And glad devotion on France’s shore,
And rumour’s telling; "they’ll now be sailing
To help the Gael in the Right once more."
O! if true’s that story, by my hopes of glory,
Like the glad bird o’er me I’ll lilt my rann!
Were the robber routed! the Saxon flouted!
How we would shout it, old Sliabh na mBan!
1798 Homepage