I have observed, my dear friend, among other grievous misconceptions current among men otherwise well-informed, and which tend to degrade the pretensions2 of my native land, an impression that there exists no such thing as indigenous3 modern Irish composition deserving the name of poetry — a belief which has been thoughtlessly sustained and confirmed by the unconscionable literary perverseness4 of Irishmen themselves, who have preferred the easy task of concocting5 humorous extravaganzas, which caricature with merciless exaggeration the pedantry6, bombast7, and blunders incident to the lowest order of Hibernian ballads9, to the more pleasurable and patriotic10 duty of collecting together the many, many specimens11 of genuine poetic13 feeling, which have grown up, like its wild flowers, from the warm though neglected soil of Ireland.
In fact, the productions which have long been regarded as pure samples of Irish poetic composition, such as ‘The Groves14 of Blarney,’ and ‘The Wedding of Ballyporeen,’ ‘Ally Croker,’ etc., etc., are altogether spurious, and as much like the thing they call themselves ‘as I to Hercules.’
There are to be sure in Ireland, as in all countries, poems which deserve to be laughed at. The native productions of which I speak, frequently abound15 in absurdities16 — absurdities which are often, too, provokingly mixed up with what is beautiful; but I strongly and absolutely deny that the prevailing17 or even the usual character of Irish poetry is that of comicality. No country, no time, is devoid18 of real poetry, or something approaching to it; and surely it were a strange thing if Ireland, abounding19 as she does from shore to shore with all that is beautiful, and grand, and savage20 in scenery, and filled with wild recollections, vivid passions, warm affections, and keen sorrow, could find no language to speak withal, but that of mummery and jest. No, her language is imperfect, but there is strength in its rudeness, and beauty in its wildness; and, above all, strong feeling flows through it, like fresh fountains in rugged22 caverns23.
And yet I will not say that the language of genuine indigenous Irish composition is always vulgar and uncouth24: on the contrary, I am in possession of some specimens, though by no means of the highest order as to poetic merit, which do not possess throughout a single peculiarity25 of diction. The lines which I now proceed to lay before you, by way of illustration, are from the pen of an unfortunate young man, of very humble26 birth, whose early hopes were crossed by the untimely death of her whom he loved. He was a self-educated man, and in after-life rose to high distinctions in the Church to which he devoted27 himself — an act which proves the sincerity28 of spirit with which these verses were written.
‘When moonlight falls on wave and wimple,
And silvers every circling dimple,
That onward29, onward sails:
When fragrant30 hawthorns31 wild and simple
Lend perfume to the gales32,
And the pale moon in heaven abiding33,
O’er midnight mists and mountains riding,
Shines on the river, smoothly34 gliding35
Through quiet dales,
‘I wander there in solitude36,
Charmed by the chiming music rude
Of streams that fret37 and flow.
For by that eddying38 stream SHE stood,
On such a night I trow:
For HER the thorn its breath was lending,
On this same tide HER eye was bending,
And with its voice HER voice was blending
Long, long ago.
Wild stream! I walk by thee once more,
I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar,
I hear thy waters moan,
And night-winds sigh from shore to shore,
With hushed and hollow tone;
But breezes on their light way winging,
And all thy waters heedless singing,
No more to me are gladness bringing —
I am alone.
‘Years after years, their swift way keeping,
Like sere39 leaves down thy current sweeping40,
Are lost for aye, and sped —
And Death the wintry soil is heaping
As fast as flowers are shed.
And she who wandered by my side,
And breathed enchantment41 o’er thy tide,
That makes thee still my friend and guide —
And she is dead.’
These lines I have transcribed42 in order to prove a point which I have heard denied, namely, that an Irish peasant — for their author was no more — may write at least correctly in the matter of measure, language, and rhyme; and I shall add several extracts in further illustration of the same fact, a fact whose assertion, it must be allowed, may appear somewhat paradoxical even to those who are acquainted, though superficially, with Hibernian composition. The rhymes are, it must be granted, in the generality of such productions, very latitudinarian indeed, and as a veteran votary44 of the muse45 once assured me, depend wholly upon the wowls (vowels), as may be seen in the following stanza46 of the famous ‘Shanavan Voicth.’
‘ “What’ll we have for supper?”
Says my Shanavan Voicth;
“We’ll have turkeys and roast BEEF,
And we’ll eat it very SWEET,
And then we’ll take a SLEEP,”
Says my Shanavan Voicth.’
But I am desirous of showing you that, although barbarisms may and do exist in our native ballads, there are still to be found exceptions which furnish examples of strict correctness in rhyme and metre. Whether they be one whit47 the better for this I have my doubts. In order to establish my position, I subjoin a portion of a ballad8 by one Michael Finley, of whom more anon. The GENTLEMAN spoken of in the song is Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
‘The day that traitors49 sould him and inimies bought him,
The day that the red gold and red blood was paid —
Then the green turned pale and thrembled like the dead leaves in Autumn,
And the heart an’ hope iv Ireland in the could grave was laid.
‘The day I saw you first, with the sunshine fallin’ round ye,
My heart fairly opened with the grandeur50 of the view:
For ten thousand Irish boys that day did surround ye,
An’ I swore to stand by them till death, an’ fight for you.
‘Ye wor the bravest gentleman, an’ the best that ever stood,
And your eyelid51 never thrembled for danger nor for dread52,
An’ nobleness was flowin’ in each stream of your blood —
My bleasing on you night au’ day, an’ Glory be your bed.
‘My black an’ bitter curse on the head, an’ heart, an’ hand,
That plotted, wished, an’ worked the fall of this Irish hero bold;
God’s curse upon the Irishman that sould his native land,
An’ hell consume to dust the hand that held the thraitor’s gold.’
Such were the politics and poetry of Michael Finley, in his day, perhaps, the most noted53 song-maker of his country; but as genius is never without its eccentricities54, Finley had his peculiarities55, and among these, perhaps the most amusing was his rooted aversion to pen, ink, and paper, in perfect independence of which, all his compositions were completed. It is impossible to describe the jealousy56 with which he regarded the presence of writing materials of any kind, and his ever wakeful fears lest some literary pirate should transfer his oral poetry to paper — fears which were not altogether without warrant, inasmuch as the recitation and singing of these original pieces were to him a source of wealth and importance. I recollect21 upon one occasion his detecting me in the very act of following his recitation with my pencil and I shall not soon forget his indignant scowl57, as stopping abruptly58 in the midst of a line, he sharply exclaimed:
‘Is my pome a pigsty59, or what, that you want a surveyor’s ground-plan of it?’
Owing to this absurd scruple60, I have been obliged, with one exception, that of the ballad of ‘Phaudhrig Crohoore,’ to rest satisfied with such snatches and fragments of his poetry as my memory could bear away — a fact which must account for the mutilated state in which I have been obliged to present the foregoing specimen12 of his composition.
It was in vain for me to reason with this man of metres upon the unreasonableness61 of this despotic and exclusive assertion of copyright. I well remember his answer to me when, among other arguments, I urged the advisability of some care for the permanence of his reputation, as a motive62 to induce him to consent to have his poems written down, and thus reduced to a palpable and enduring form.
‘I often noticed,’ said he, ‘when a mist id be spreadin’, a little brier to look as big, you’d think, as an oak tree; an’ same way, in the dimmness iv the nightfall, I often seen a man tremblin’ and crassin’ himself as if a sperit was before him, at the sight iv a small thorn bush, that he’d leap over with ase if the daylight and sunshine was in it. An’ that’s the rason why I think it id be better for the likes iv me to be remimbered in tradition than to be written in history.’
Finley has now been dead nearly eleven years, and his fame has not prospered64 by the tactics which he pursued, for his reputation, so far from being magnified, has been wholly obliterated65 by the mists of obscurity.
With no small difficulty, and no inconsiderable manoeuvring, I succeeded in procuring66, at an expense of trouble and conscience which you will no doubt think but poorly rewarded, an accurate ‘report’ of one of his most popular recitations. It celebrates one of the many daring exploits of the once famous Phaudhrig Crohoore (in prosaic67 English, Patrick Connor). I have witnessed powerful effects produced upon large assemblies by Finley’s recitation of this poem which he was wont68, upon pressing invitation, to deliver at weddings, wakes, and the like; of course the power of the narrative69 was greatly enhanced by the fact that many of his auditors70 had seen and well knew the chief actors in the drama.
‘Phaudhrig Crohoore.
Oh, Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth71 of a boy,
And he stood six foot eight,
And his arm was as round as another man’s thigh72,
’Tis Phaudhrig was great —
And his hair was as black as the shadows of night,
And hung over the scars left by many a fight;
And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud,
And his eye like the lightnin’ from under the cloud.
And all the girls liked him, for he could spake civil,
And sweet when he chose it, for he was the divil.
An’ there wasn’t a girl from thirty-five undher,
Divil a matter how crass63, but he could come round her.
But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, but one
Was the girl of his heart, an’ he loved her alone.
An’ warm as the sun, as the rock firm an’ sure,
Was the love of the heart of Phaudhrig Crohoore;
An’ he’d die for one smile from his Kathleen O’Brien,
For his love, like his hatred73, was sthrong as the lion.
‘But Michael O’Hanlon loved Kathleen as well
As he hated Crohoore — an’ that same was like hell.
But O’Brien liked HIM, for they were the same parties,
The O’Briens, O’Hanlons, an’ Murphys, and Cartys —
An’ they all went together an’ hated Crohoore,
For it’s many the batin’ he gave them before;
An’ O’Hanlon made up to O’Brien, an’ says he:
“I’ll marry your daughter, if you’ll give her to me.”
And the match was made up, an’ when Shrovetide came on,
The company assimbled three hundred if one:
There was all the O’Hanlons, an’ Murphys, an’ Cartys,
An’ the young boys an’ girls av all o’ them parties;
An’ the O’Briens, av coorse, gathered strong on day,
An’ the pipers an’ fiddlers were tearin’ away;
There was roarin’, an’ jumpin’, an’ jiggin’, an’ flingin’,
An’ jokin’, an’ blessin’, an’ kissin’, an’ singin’,
An’ they wor all laughin’— why not, to be sure? —
How O’Hanlon came inside of Phaudhrig Crohoore.
An’ they all talked an’ laughed the length of the table,
Atin’ an’ dhrinkin’ all while they wor able,
And with pipin’ an’ fiddlin’ an’ roarin’ like tundher,
Your head you’d think fairly was splittin’ asundher;
And the priest called out, “Silence, ye blackguards, agin!”
An’ he took up his prayer-book, just goin’ to begin,
An’ they all held their tongues from their funnin’ and bawlin’,
So silent you’d notice the smallest pin fallin’;
An’ the priest was just beg’nin’ to read, whin the door
Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore —
Oh! Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy,
Ant he stood six foot eight,
An’ his arm was as round as another man’s thigh,
’Tis Phaudhrig was great —
An’ he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye,
As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky,
An’ none sthrove to stop him, for Phaudhrig was great,
Till he stood all alone, just apposit the sate74
Where O’Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride,
Were sitting so illigant out side by side;
An’ he gave her one look that her heart almost broke,
An’ he turned to O’Brien, her father, and spoke48,
An’ his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong, and loud,
An’ his eye shone like lightnin’ from under the cloud:
“I didn’t come here like a tame, crawlin’ mouse,
But I stand like a man in my inimy’s house;
In the field, on the road, Phaudhrig never knew fear,
Of his foemen, an’ God knows he scorns it here;
So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four,
To spake to the girl I’ll never see more.”
An’ to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone,
For he thought of the days when he called her his own,
An’ his eye blazed like lightnin’ from under the cloud
On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud,
An’ says he: “Kathleen bawn, is it thrue what I hear,
That you marry of your free choice, without threat or fear?
If so, spake the word, an’ I’ll turn and depart,
Chated once, and once only by woman’s false heart.”
Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl dumb,
An’ she thried hard to spake, but the words wouldn’t come,
For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her,
Wint could on her heart as the night wind in winther.
An’ the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin’ to flow,
And pale was her cheek as the moonshine on snow;
Then the heart of bould Phaudhrig swelled75 high in its place,
For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face,
That though sthrangers an’ foemen their pledged hands might sever43,
Her true heart was his, and his only, for ever.
An’ he lifted his voice, like the agle’s hoarse76 call,
An’ says Phaudhrig, “She’s mine still, in spite of yez all!”
Then up jumped O’Hanlon, an’ a tall boy was he,
An’ he looked on bould Phaudhrig as fierce as could be,
An’ says he, “By the hokey! before you go out,
Bould Phaudhrig Crohoore, you,must fight for a bout77.”
Then Phaudhrig made answer: “I’ll do my endeavour,”
An’ with one blow he stretched bould O’Hanlon for ever.
In his arms he took Kathleen, an’ stepped to the door;
And he leaped on his horse, and flung her before;
An’ they all were so bother’d, that not a man stirred
Till the galloping78 hoofs79 on the pavement were heard.
Then up they all started, like bees in the swarm80,
An’ they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm,
An’ they roared, and they ran, and they shouted galore;
But Kathleen and Phaudhrig they never saw more.
‘But them days are gone by, an’ he is no more;
An’ the green-grass is growin’ o’er Phaudhrig Crohoore,
For he couldn’t be aisy or quiet at all;
As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall.
And he took a good pike — for Phaudhrig was great —
And he fought, and he died in the year ninety-eight.
An’ the day that Crohoore in the green field was killed,
A sthrong boy was sthretched, and a sthrong heart was stilled.’
It is due to the memory of Finley to say that the foregoing ballad, though bearing throughout a strong resemblance to Sir Walter Scott’s ‘Lochinvar,’ was nevertheless composed long before that spirited production had seen the light.
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1
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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perverseness
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| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
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concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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8
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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17
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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18
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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20
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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21
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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26
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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27
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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hawthorns
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| n.山楂树( hawthorn的名词复数 ) | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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40
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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41
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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43
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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45
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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46
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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47
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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48
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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49
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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50
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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51
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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52
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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53
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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54
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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56
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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57
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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58
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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59
pigsty
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| n.猪圈，脏房间 | |
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60
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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unreasonableness
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| 无理性； 横逆 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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64
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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66
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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67
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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68
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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69
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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70
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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71
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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78
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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79
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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