Eachtra Ghiolla an Amaráin (1745)

Donnchadh Ruadh Mac Conmara, composed during his attempt to travel to the New World.

This epic poem of Donnchadh Ruadh Mac Conmara is the first of his New World poems. Donnchadh spent a large portion of his life as a teacher in the Decies, Co. Waterford, where he married Máire Ní hÓgáin, around 1744, and had at least a son and a daughter. The marriage did not succeed and, according to his grandson, Donnchadh was paid off by the Hogan family to journey overseas to Newfoundland.

Written in 1745, the poem describes his decision to try his luck in the English colonies in North America. In the poem, he talks about how kind his neighbours were, all the donated supplies they provided him, and what life was like on the ship. The second part of the poem is a dream vision. Donnachadh Ruadh falls asleep and is taken by the Queen of the Sí of Munster, Aoibheall na Créige Léithe, down into the otherworld where he meets famous people like Virgil and Homer. The boatman on the river of the dead here is Conán Maol, trickster of the Fianna, which lets his Gaelic listeners in on the joke.

But here's the secret: Some people say Donnchadh Ruadh actually wrote the poem without ever going to North America. They think he spent all the money people gave him and needed a good excuse for coming back home so soon.

Donnchadh Ruadh made an actual journey to the New World later in 1745 and again in the 1770s. He stayed in St. John's Newfoundland for a long time and wrote more pieces about his life there.

Unknown. 1821. A Margate Packet. G. Humphrey: London.

An Chéad Roinn

Do riarfainn sceól dom chomharsa ar aon rud,

Ar mbriathraibh beoil dob eól do chéadta;

Ar Bhrian Bhóirmhe - ar slógh na Féinne -

‘S ar chléir mhac Lóbuis, Mhóir, is Mhaonuir.

I would serve a tale to my neighbours on anything,

In the spoken words that many would understand;

On Brian Ború - on the slew of Fenians -

On the company of Mac Lobus, Mor, and Magnus.

Níor chóra dhom teacht thar ghreas dá saothar,

Ná ar nuacht do bhuain dom deasca ‘n tsaoil:

Do bhrí go rabhas-sa gann fá ghréithribh,

‘S gur fríth go fannlag dream na hÉireann;

Gan chíos, gan chabhair, ach speansas bréige,

Dá gcíoradh ag clannaibh Gall is tréine,

Ag múineadh scoile dob obair dom laethibh,

‘S ba rún don phobal go mb’fholamh an chéird sin;

Nuair thugadh mo chomharsa cóir is gléas dom,

Cuideachta ‘s spórt ó neoin go chéile;

Níor chumas dom comhar do choimeád do aon díobh,

Ná scilling d’ól cé gur dhóite an chéim sin.

It would not be right for me to encroach their battle deeds,

Nor the story to harvest as consequence of my life:

Because I was wanting for any valuables,

And was found debilitated the people of Ireland;

Without rent-money, without help, but fake expenses,

Being hair-pulled by the most powerful English clans,

Teaching school was work for me some days,

And a public secret is how empty that trade is;

When my neighbours would give me necessities and tools,

Companionship and sport from noon together;

I could not keep account of the help of each one of you,

Nor a shilling to drink although that is a bitter step.

Insan oíche im’ luí ‘s mé i m’aonar,

Bhíos ag smaoineamh ar ghníomhartha an tsaoil;

Ar chaitheamh mo bheatha gan earra, gan éadach,

‘S gur mhór go mb’fhearr a bheith tamall mar Mhaol bheag,

I gcomhar na gcapall nó ag cartadh na cré seal,

Nó ag ól bainne i dtigh Mhaoilsheachlainn Uí Mhaonaidh:

Nó óigbhean chailce do ghlacadh mar chéile,

Nó fós dá raghainn as talamh na hÉireann,

‘S go mb’eól dom sealad do chaitheamh im’ chléireach,

‘S go raghainn fá sheól le feoithne ar séideadh,

Go Sacsana nua, más dóigh go mb’fhéidir.

In the night lying down by myself,

I was thinking on the deeds of the world;

On wasting my life without goods, without clothes,

And it would be better for a while to be like little Maol,

Working with the horses or clearing the soil for a time,

Or drinking milk at Mhaoilsheachlainn Uí Mhaonaidh’s:

Or a thrifty/limited young woman to accept as partner,

Or yet if I would go from the land of Ireland,

And I would know to spend a while as a clerk,

And that I would go under sail with the breeze blowing,

To New England, if there is a way possible.

Ar theacht na maidine do phreabas go héadrom

As mo leabaidh le taithneamh an scéil sin;

Beirim ar mo bhata, ‘s ní stadfainn ar aon chor.

At the coming of morning I leapt lightly

Out of my bed with the delight of that story;

I bear upon my stick, and I would not stop for anything.

Bhí feirc i mo hata sa bhfaisean, is faobhar air,

Do rinneadh dhom “jackets” beag’, gearra, le sméideadh,

Is léinteacha breaca go barra mo mhéara.

There was a peak in my hat in the fashion, and a brim on it,

Little “jackets” were made for me, short, in a blink,

And variegated shirts to the ends of my fingers.

Do chuireas slán lem’ chairde in éineacht,

‘S le cuid níor fhágas slán le foréigean;

Dá gcasfadh dhom árthach d’fháil in Éirinn,

Do raghainn thar sáile in áit nár bhaol dom.

I put a farewell on my friends altogether,

And on those who I wouldn’t leave under violence;

If I happened upon an available vessel in Ireland,

I would go overseas to a place I am not in danger.

Bíodh a fhios ag an talamh, ‘s ag maithibh geal’ Paorach,

A luacht beatha, mion-earra, is gréithre,

Thug an pobal i bhfochair a chéile,

Chun mo chothaithe i gcogadh nó i spéirling.

Let the land know, and the good people of Lord de Paor,

their life savings, small possessions, and valuables,

The people brought all together,

For my sustenance in war and in strife.

Stór ná caillfeadh suim do laethibh,

‘S cófra doimhin ‘na dtoillfinn féin ann;

Do bhí seacht bhfichid ubh ceirce ‘s a n-anlann éisc ann,

Le haghaidh a n-ite chomh minic ‘s ba mhéin liom:

Cróca ime do dingeadh le saothar,

‘S spóla sóile ba throime don mhéithmhart;

Bhí seacht gclocha mhin choirce ghlain créithre ann,

‘S dríodair chroíte na loiste le chéile;

Bhí lán bairille dob fhearr a bhí in Éirinn

Do photátaí leathana ar eagla géarbhroid:

Do thugas ceaig leanna ann do lasfadh le sméideadh,

‘S do chuirfeadh na mairbh ‘na mbeatha, dá mb’fhéidir.

An amount whose sum wouldn’t be used for days,

And a deep chest which I myself could fit in;

There were seven score of hen eggs and fish sauce for them,

For their eating as often as I would desire:

A crock of butter packed with effort,

And a tasty most-heavy mass of beef fat;

There were seven stone of oatmeal free of siftings,

And the dregs of the dough-tray altogether;

The best full barrel that was in Ireland

Of wide potatoes in apprehension of dire distress:

I brought a keg of ale that would inflame in a blink,

And would put the dead alive, if it were possible.

Leaba is clúda i gciumhais a chéile,

Ceangailte ar dhrom mo thrunc le téada:

Bhí bróga istigh ann, “wig” as “beaver,”

Is stór mar sin anois ná déarfad.

A bed and blankets together as one,

Connected to the back of my trunk with a string:

There were shoes inside it, a “wig” of “beaver,”

And a stock like that which I won’t mention.

Go Port Láirge don stair sin téimhse,

Chomh fíoránta le Conán na Féinne:

Ghlacas mo lóistín, bord bídh is féasta,

Farais an óg-mhnaoi ba chóraí bhí in Éirinn.

To renowned Waterford for that period,

As capable-looking as Conán of the Fenians:

I took my lodgings, a table for food and feasts,

Along with the most shapely young woman in Ireland.

Do bhí sí fáinneach, fáilteach, féastach,

Ba chiúin, tais, náireach an “drawer” le glaoch í;

Gach sórt dá dtagadh, a blaiseadh ní shéanfadh,

D’ineosadh eachtra, stártha, is scéalta:

Ní ghlacfadh sí fala ná fearg go héag leat,

An fhaid bhraithfeadh sí airgead agat gan traochadh.

She was ringleted, welcoming, and fond of feasting,

A quiet, mild, bashful “drawer” (of beer) she was upon call;

Every sort that came, her tasting would not be denied,

Adventures would be told, histories, and stories:

She wouldn’t take spite or anger with you until death,

As long as she perceived that you had money not spent.

Do léigfeadh do lámh ar áit sa tsaol di,

Ó imeall a sál go barr a céibhe:

‘S i gcúrsa mná ní thráchtaim féin air,

Ach cúis a gáire fáth mo sméideadh!

She would allow your hand anywhere upon her,

From the bottom of her sole to the top of her hair:

And those places of women I will not give account of myself,

But the cause of her laugh is the reason of my winking!

Do rinne sí mo chlú, dá mb’fhiú mo shaothar,

‘S do chuireadh sí im’ chúlsa púdar gléigeal:

Bhíodh deoch ar maidin, ‘s mé im’ leabaidh, dághléas dom,

Ó bhonn go bathas ‘sí bhearradh go léir mé,

‘S feabhas a buime chun pingine d’éileamh;

Ní mhaithfeadh a máthair cáirt ná braon dom,

Do chaithfeadh an táibhle d’fháil gan phlé uaim.

She made my reputation, if worth my hard work,

And she put in my reserve some bright-white snuff:

We had a morning drink, and me in my bed, disheveled,

From bottom to top, she shave me entirely,

And the excellence of a nursemaid for the price of a penny;

Her mother wouldn’t pardon a quart or drop for me,

The battlements were up to get no discussion from me.

D’fhanas ‘na bhfeighil sin suim do laethibh,

Ag faire ar loing do raghadh as Éirinn:

Bhí captaen Allen, fear meanmnach, aerach,

Ag teacht fán mbaile,‘s níorbh fhada gur réidheas leis.

I stayed in their company for a sum of days,

Watching for ships that would leave from Ireland:

Captain Allen – a high-minded, light-hearted man,

Was coming to the city, and I soon arranged with him.

Gléasaim orm go hobann le féirsce,

Mé féin ‘s mo chostas ar sodar in éineacht;

Do chuas don Phasáiste ar ghearán le carraera,

‘S ualach scadán dom’ mheáchan ar thaobh dhe.

I prepared myself suddenly with a rush,

Myself and my expenses together in a hurry;

I went to the Passage on a horse with a carman,

And the load of herring weighing me down on one side.

Do chuaigh mo chófra ar bord go héasca,

Is uaisle an phóirt ag ól gan traochadh:

Fiafraid go haibí an labhrainn Béarla,

‘S d’féadas a bhfreagairt i Laidin ar éigin.

My chest went on board easily,

And the nobles of the port drinking without exhaustion:

They asked quickly did I speak English,

And I made a response in some Latin.

Níorbh fholáir dom m’ainm do thabhairt don chléireach,

‘S Mac Conmara chur trasna sa “day-book”

Dob éigean mo chófra sheoladh ar thaobh dhíom,

‘S mé ag déanamh ceoil is spóirt san “state-room.”

I had to give my name to the clerk,

And Mac Conmara was put across the “day-book”

My chest had to be delivered beside me,

And me making music and fun in the “state-room.”

Scaoiltear seólta ar neoin do Phoebus,

Do bhí Aeolus leó, agus Tétis,

Scinnid amach do phreab sa tréanmhuir,

Is druidid i bhfad as teas na gréine,

Níorbh fhada gur ghoill ar an gclainn sin Mhaonais

An fharraige dhoimhin, is radharc na spéire;

Bhí beatha gan roinn ag Tadhg Ó Laoghaire,

‘S ní bhlaisfeadh sé greim le treighid, ná braon dí;

Bhí Caoilte Ó Caoimh ag caoineadh a chéile,

‘S ní bhfaigheadh sé a bhríste scaoileadh ar aon chor;

Bhí Peadair Ó Dubhda i gcúinne in’ aonar,

Is é ag úrluíochán ar shúsa le Féidhlim;

Bhí Cairbre, ‘s Tiobóid, ‘s Gearóid, ar saothar,

Ag tarraing mo phlocóid in onóir na scléipe;

Bhí buachaillí Uí Leathlobhair ag altú a mbéile,

‘S cé bhuailfeadh é sa leathshúil ach Calbhach le scairdeadh;

Bhí Gearailt Ó Dobhair is Flann ag taoscadh,

Cathal is Conn i ngabhal a chéile;

Bhí Seán ó Troighthe sa ruibe dá thraochadh,

‘S dhá cheann a ghoile ag cur air in éineacht;

Do bhí sliocht mhic Amhlaoibh i dteanntaibh géar’ ann,

Ag aiseag ‘s ag brúchtáil ar shúsaíbh a chéile;

Gur dhearbhaigh Diarmaid thiar, is faobhar air,

Ná mairfeadh i dtrian dá dtriall ó Éirinn.

The sails were let loose at noon on the Phoebus,

The Aeolus and the Thetis were with them,

They darted out at a leap into the strong ocean,

And they closed far out from the heat of the sun,

It was not long until distress came on that clan of Maonas

The deep ocean, and the view of the sky;

Food was left unshared by Tadhg Ó Laoire,

And he wouldn’t taste a bite, with shooting pain, nor a drop;

Caoilte Ó Caoimh was lamenting along with him,

And he wouldn’t get his britches to loosen at all;

Peadair Ó Dubhda was in a corner by himself,

And him vomiting on Féidhlim’s blanket;

Cairbre, and Tiobóid, and Gearóid were toiling,

Pulling out my barrel stop in honour of the show;

The Ó Leathlobhair boy was saying grace for their meal,

And who hit him in the one-eye but Calbach spewing;

Gearailt Ó Dobhair and Flann were draining,

Cathal and Conn thrown together in confusion;

Seán Ó Troighthe was ensnared by exhaustion,

And both vomiting and diarrhoea affecting him at once;

The Mac Amhlaoibh people were sharply together there,

Regurgitating and retching on the blankets of each other;

Until Diarmaid from behind declared with his sharp tongue,

that a third would not survive their journey from Ireland.

Sin mar chaitheadar tamall go taomnach,

Brúite, fadtuirseach, treascartha, traochta,

Agus bíodh ar m’fhallaing nár thaise dhom féin é,

Sínte trasna chomh hainnis le haon-neach;

D’fhanas im’ mhart gan phreab, gan faothú,

Mar do bheadh sac, gan fead, gan glao ionam.

That is how they spent a while fitfully,

Crushed, worn out, laid low, subjugated,

And upon my cloak it was no gentler for myself,

Stretched across as wretchedly as anyone else;

I stayed like a beef carcass without a stir or improvement,

As would be a sack, without a whistle or call in me.

Mo chreach fhada! Níor mhagadh ba mhéin liom;

Ba mé an cleas margaidh, nó an lastram aonaigh,

Ach bacann an náire trácht ar éigeart;

Aisíoc mo shláinte go ndearna mé ar fad,

Ba mhinic mé ag iarraidh ar Dhia dá mb’fhéidir,

Stoirm dárbh fhiaradh aniar go hÉirinn.

My long-enduring woe! Not mocking that I wanted;

I would be the joke of the market, or the butt of the fair,

But shame prevents me from commenting on the injustice;

Until my health was entirely restored,

Often I asked God, if it would be possible,

For a storm to veer us back from the west to Ireland.

Dob fhearr liom ná a bhfacas do mhaitheas an tsaoil,

‘S a fháil - cé fairsing - a raibh i dtaisce ar Chroesus,

Ná’n lomra órga thóg mac Aeson,

‘S ná sochar na Scótach, is Mhóir Dháil-Riada;

Nó dá bhfaighinn ‘san imirt an fhinnebhean Déirdre,

Le’r cailleadh clann chumasach Uisnigh na dtréineach;

Nó an dhearmad Seón ‘na chófra do dhaorstuif,

‘S é ag teitheadh ó na namhaid go hEochaill ar éigin.

A ndeirim do thabharfainn mar mhalairt le buíochas,

Ar bheith sa mbaile, nó i gcalafort éigin;

Ar bheith san mBarúntacht, im’ neartú idir Ghaelaibh,

Ag reic mo cheathramhán, ‘s ag smachtú mo thréada;

Nó in aice an tsagairt, thugadh teagasc go séimh dhom,

‘S blaiseadh na leanna go fairsing gan éileamh;

Nó i mBaile Sheoirse, i gcomhar an tséimhfhir,

Risteád bán, dob fhearr do Phaoraibh;

Nó insan gCreatalaigh i gcleachtadh mo ghaolta,

Nó i Luimneach for Sionainn na gcaolbhárc;

Nó ar Shliabh gheal gCua, rug bua na féile,

Ag riar lucht duanta, druadh, is cléire;

Nó i bhfochair Uilliam Uí Mhóráin, fonn ardléannta,

Do dhéanfadh seandán os cionn cláir m’eagla.

I would rather than all I have seen of the world’s wealth,

And its attainment - however expansive - of Croesus’s store,

Than the golden fleece that Jason took,

Or than the dues of the Scots, and of Great Dál Riada;

Than if I would get in the wooing the fine woman Déirdre,

For who was lost the powerful children of Uisneach;

Or that abandoned by King George II in his coffers,

When he was forced to flee from the enemies to Eochaill.

That I declare I would give as an exchange with thanks,

To be at home, or in some port;

To be in the Barony in support among Gaels,

Reciting my quatrains and controlling my flocks;

Or beside the priest, who gave gentle teaching to me,

And the tasting of ale amply without demand;

Or in Georgestown, with the gentle man,

White Risteád, the best of the de Paors;

Or in Creatlach in the company of my relations,

Or in Limerick by the Shannon of the narrow ships;

Or on bright Sliabh gCua, best of hospitality,

Serving the poets, druids, and clerics;

Or along with Uilliam Ó Móráin, desirous of high learning,

Who would recite an ancient poem against my fear.

Céad ní fairis nach dtagann im’ bhéalsa,

Béas do chleachtan lucht fadtuirse i ngéibhean.

A hundred things as well that don’t come to my own mouth,

A manner which happens to those exhausted in bondage.

An Dara Roinn

The Second Section

Éistigh tamall go n-aithrisim scéal díbh,

Is tar éis na spairne geallaim nach bréag sin.

Listen a while while I relate a tale to you,

And after the fight I promise it is no lie.

Ar lár mo smaointe, is m’intinn traochta,

Do tháinig an tsíbhean mhíonla, mhaorga;

Bhí a cuacha scaoilte síos go féar léi,

Is a grua mar chaor ag suíomh a scéimhe;

Ar fhioghair a fearsan d’aithin mé ar éigin,

Aoibheall Chleasach na Carriage Léithe!

In the centre of my thoughts, and my mind weary,

The gentle, majestic sí-woman came;

Her curled hair loose down to the grass,

And her cheek like a red berry on her fair face;

On the form of her verse I recognized her somehow,

Artful Aoibheall of Carraig Liath!

Do chuir sí lámh ar chlár lag m’éadan,

Is do thóg sí in airde as m’áras féin mé;

Do tharraing an fháidhbhean mhánla léi mé,

Gur stadadh linn láimh le banraí réitigh.

She put her hand on my weak forehead,

And she took me up out of my own abode;

The gentle faewoman pulled me with her,

Until we stopped next to flat fields.

D’amharcas uaim i ngluaiseacht gaoth as,

Sceach ar a bruach leastuas is fraoch glas.

Do mhachtnadh mé an cás go hard ach éadmhar,

Cén t-achrann fáin inarbh ail léi mé chur.

I looked out at the movement of the wind,

A thornbush on its upper edge and grey heather.

I reflected hard on the situation but enviously,

In which wandering strife she would desire to put me.

Do thug sí go haibí orm freagra in éiric,

“Ná cuireadh beart ar bith fearg ná fraoch ort,

Ná déin ionannas do nithibh an tsaoil,

Ná tréig mise go bhfillir ‘s ní baol duit;

Radharc nach bhfuair fir Thuadh Mhumhan le chéile,

Do ghabhairse uaim, is luach do shaothair.”

She gave me quickly an answer in recompense,

“Nothing will put anger or confusion on you,

Don’t do the like to things of this world,

Don’t abandon me until you return and there is no danger;

A view that the men of North Munster didn’t get,

You received from me, and the worth of your work.”

Do ghluaiseas léi go héadrom éasca,

‘San uaimh sin síos ar shoilse an lae ghil;

Go bhfacamar uainn ann cuanta ‘s géarmhuir,

Ar Aceron fuar ag gluaiseacht taobh linn.

I moved with her lightly and easily,

Into that cave down on the bright daylight;

Until we saw harbours and ocean,

On the cold Acheron flowing beside us.

So an t-eanach ‘na ngabhaid an drong nocht d’eagán,

Gach anam easumhal a ngeall do dhaorthar.

Here the swamp in which was the naked throng of the pit,

Every disobedient soul that was yielded to enslavement.

Na mílte ceann do bhí ann go déarach,

Nach bhfaigheadh dul anonn thar abhainn don chéim sin,

Ní hionann mar do thiteann le Virgil san Æneid,

Gur le huireasa a gcortha ar an saol so;

Ach sluaite chaitheann le rabairne a saothar,

Ag ól ‘s ag carbhas go bhfanaid gan aon rud,

Gan chabhcainne acu ná ’n leathphingin déanach,

Le tabhairt don chalaidh muna bhfacaid mar dheireadh í.

The thousands were there tearfully,

Who couldn’t go back across the river that way,

Not the same as happened to Virgil in the Æneid,

Who were lacking their rights upon this life;

But people who wasted with extravagance their labour,

Drinking and carousing until left with nothing,

Without any money or the last halfpenny,

To give to the port if they didn’t see it as the end.

Is é cluinim dá rá ag lucht ráite ‘s léinn,

Gurb é duine bhí i mbád ann Cáron méirscreach;

A deirimse leo gur dóibh is bréag sin,

Ach cleithire mór de phór na hÉireann.

It’s what I hear said by those of speeches and learning,

That the boatman was scarred Charon;

I say to them that that is a falsehood,

It is a tall lean man of the seed of Ireland.

Do chímís an seanbhád á thiomáin go saothrach,

Ag an díthreabhach galánta, Conán na Féinne;

Bhí craiceann dubhfhóisce ar a thóin mar éadach,

Is níor bheag linn go deo air mar chomhartha an méid sin;

Ní thabharfadh Sacsanach trasna gan réal gheal,

Is ní labharfadh dada leo ach Laidin nó Gaeilg.

We saw the old boat being driven laboriously,

By the gallant recluse, Conán of the Fenians;

The skin of a black yearling ewe as cloth on his bottom,

And we had enough of that forever as a symbol for us;

A Saxon would not be given passage without a sixpence,

And nothing said to them except Latin or Irish.

An uair chonaic sé Aoibheall bhinn is mé aice,

Do chrith a mhaoil, is ba scíosmhar a fhéachaint;

A dúirt mar tharbh, go feargach, fraochta,

“A chrústa mhallaithe, a chailleach, ‘s a mheirdreach,

Is dána thugairse duine i gcruth dhaonna

In áit nach tagann aon sciolla de chré ar bith;

Is dá mb’fhiú liom mursantacht cumais do dhéanamh,

Do rúiscfinn thusa ‘s do ghiolla mar aon leat!”

When he saw sweet Aoibheall next to me,

His bald head shook and weary was his look;

He said like a bull, angrily, confusedly,

“Oh accursed mean person, oh hag, oh harlot,

It’s bold that you bring a person in human form

In a place where no small thing of the clay comes at all;

And if it is worth it for me to be powerfully tyrannical,

I would trounce you and your servant along with you!”

“Fóill a churadh,” ar an mhiocaire mhaorga,

“Tóg do chuthach, ‘s glac iomarca réitigh;

Duine gan bhuairt do fuair mé i ngéarbhroid,

Den chine mhór, is d’uaislibh Éireann.”

“Wait oh warrior,” said the majestic tender one,

“Take your rage, and take an overabundance of settlement;

A happy-go-lucky person I found in dire distress,

Of the great people, and of the nobles of Ireland.”

Do rug an macaomh ar bharr mo mhéaraibh,

Is do rinne sé gáir os ard, is béiceach;

Le fuaim a ghutha do chritheadh na spéartha,

Do chuala an chruinne ‘s chuir ifreann géim as.

The youth caught on my fingertips,

And he made a shout on high, and a yell;

With the sound of his voice the skies shook,

Heard by the world and hell let out a roar.

Tagaim thar sruthán san gcurachán chaolghoib,

Is déanaim aicearr’ go cnocán beag aerach,

Go ráiníomar anaí ‘na raibh geataí gan aonghlais,

In áit ‘na mbíodh maistín ag glamáil gan traochadh.

I come over the river in the little, narrow-prowed boat,

And I make a short-cut to a small, care-free hill,

Until we reached where the gates have no locks,

In a place where the mastiff was barking without tiring.

Ní bréag go Virgil a deir ina bhéarsa,

Gurab é so Cerberus do cibé an réiteach;

‘Na chodladh bhí ar cheartlár an chosáin, ‘s gan fé ann

Ach soparnach piseáin, ‘s é ag sronán ‘s ag séideadh.

It was no lie of Virgil who said in his verse,

That this was Cerberus for whoever could clear the path;

Asleep he was in the middle of the path, with nothing below

But straw bedding, and him snoring and blowing.

Do rug an fear foirnirt de phórshliocht Éibhir

Go dubh ar a scórnaí le fórsa a ghéaga,

Níor lig don mhadra feacadh ná staonadh,

Gur ritheamar thairis faoi eagla ár ndóthain.

The man of the vigour of the descendants of Éibhear caught

Intensely on its throat with the force of his limb,

He didn’t allow the dog to twist or to relent,

Until we had run by it under our fair share of fear.

Níor fanadh linn go barr a’ chnoic den réim sin,

Mar ar stadamar ag machnamh ‘s ag féachaint;

Gur amharcas uaim an slua ar gach taobh dhíom,

Ag tarraing máguaird, ‘s ag ruaigeadh a chéile.

We didn’t cease until the top of the hill on that course,

Where we stopped, reflecting and watching;

Until I observed before me the people on every side of me,

Drawing near, and chasing each other.

A dúirt liom suí go n-insint scéal dom,

Cúntas díreach buíne ‘s béasa.

It was said to me to sit that a story would be told to me,

A straight account of the host and their manners.

“Féachsa thall uait clann Ghadélus,

Agus bantracht mhodhúil na hÉireann;

Féach mar a leanaí an aicme ‘na dtréanrith,

Agus buain préach as an talamh, dá gcartadh, ‘s dá gcaochadh.”

“Look over there from you is the clan of Gadélus,

And the mannerly women of Ireland;

Look at their children, the people of swift running,

Pulling roots from the earth, removing them and withering them.”

“An bhfeicir an raideadh tá ‘dir fhir Phersia is Féineas,

Is Tuatha de Danann ag screadadh ‘s ag scréachadh;

An bhfeicirse Donn, is a lann go faobhrach,

Ag teilgean ceann i ngabhal a chéile?”

“Do you see the conflict between the Persians and Féineas,

And the Tuatha Dé Danann screaming and screeching;

Do you see Donn, and his sharp-edged blade,

Casting heads intertwined together?”

“An bhfeicir fir ghroí na Traoi ‘s na Gréige,

Hector ‘s a chlaíomh ag maíomh a laochais;

An seanduine Ancíses, críon le laethibh,

A mhac lena thaoibh, is a shinsear éachtach?”

“Do you see the strong men of Troy of Greece,

Hector and his sword boasting his heroism;

The old man Anchises, wizened by time,

His son beside him, and his adventurous ancestors?”

“An bhfeicir an obair úd ag Romulus ‘s ag Rémus,

Ag cur clocha nirt mar chosnamh cine réimigh?

An gcluinirse an glór so ag slógh na Féinne,

“Ag seinm a gceoil, ag spórt, ‘s ag pléireacht?”

“Do you see that work yonder at Romulus and Remus,

Doing what they can to protect their ruling people?

Do you hear these voices at the Fenian host,

Playing their music, carousing, and revelling?”

“Tá Horas ann ag mealladh suilt Maecénas,

Is dá ghearradh sin glan lagadh ar bith le géire;

Obhid ‘na shuí ar bheinnse féir ghlais,

Nóta ‘ge dá scríobh go foigheach chun Caesar:

Iubhenal, ‘s a pheann idir a mhéaraibh,

Domblas mar dhubh aige, is géarnimh.”

“Horace is there enticing the enjoyment of Maecenas,

And scolding the complete weakening with keenness;

Ovid sitting on a bench of green grass,

A note being written begging to Caesar:

Juvenal, and his pen between his fingers,

Bitterness as his ink, and venom.”

“Aodh buí Mac Cruitín ó Éirinn,

Ag filíocht go gobchaoin i nGaeilg;

An prionsa suilt go ceannsa glic dá mbréagadh,

Is le fonn a ghoib go dtabharfadh duine ón éag leis.”

“Tanned Aodh Mac Cruitín from Ireland,

Reciting poetry gently from his mouth in Irish;

The joyful prince gently shrewd in cajoling them,

And by his tune that would bring a person from death.”

“An bhfeicir na coillfhir ‘na luí seach gach aon lucht,

Go mbeirid a gcinn thar na Cíoclops le chéile?”

“Do you see the woodsmen lying beyond any other people,

So they may bring their heads past the Cyclops together?”

“Atáid ann súd, och! Trúip na Féinne,

Go harracht, lúfar, lúbach, léimneach;

Och a Fhinn mhic Chumhail! A chinn na Féinne!”

“They are there, oh! The Fenian troop,

Fearsome, swift, supple, nimble;

Oh Finn mac Cumhail! Leader of the Fenians!”

“Gan mé ‘gus tú ‘nár ndúiche gaolmhar,

Go dtabharfamaís abhaile arís an faraire Séarlas,

Is bheadh cabhair len’ aghaidh in Albain, nó mealladh mise

Machnaigh-se Lúter d’iompaigh an téarma, in Éirinn.”

“Without you and I in the district of our kin,

May we bring home again the warrior Charles,

And help with his advance in Scotland, or I was deceived

Think on Luther, who changed the term in Ireland.”

“Is Calbhin, an crústa, ag cúradh méithris;

“An t-ochtú Hanraí, ‘s an bhanríon bhréagach,

“Crochta as bhranraíbh le slabhraíbh géara.”

“And Calvin, the miser, chastising fatness;

Henry VIII, and his lying queen,

Hanged from the stocks by sharp chains.”

“Gach Sacsanach dá ngabhann an ball so pléasgan

An ceathrar cam so d’iompaigh ón gcléir chirt.

Iad so tá scaoilte, chír gan aon locht,

Béarfar arís go ríocht mhic Dé isteach.”

“Each Saxon that accepts this fractured membership

These four crooked people turned from the proper clergy.”

They are loose, you see without any fault,

They will be brought again unto the kingdom of God’s son.”

“Imighse abhaile,” ar an faraire tréanmhar,

“A dhuine so thagann mar theachtaire ó Éirinn;

Is fada bheidh síolrach muintear Shéamais

Go hanacrach, scíosmhar, cloíte i ngéarbhroid,

Go n-éirígí planda do shean-tsliocht Éibhir,

Déanfaidh concas mar gheall ar éigeart;

Bainfidh an choróin den chóip so in éiric,

Is leanfaidh go deo do phór Mhilésius.”

“Go home,” said the strong warrior,

“Oh person here that comes as a messenger from Ireland;

Long will be the descendants of the James’ people

Distressed, weary, subdued in dire distress,

That you scions of the ancient race of Éibhir may rise up,

Make a conquest due to the injustice;

Remove the crown from this gang as blood-money,

And continue forever for the descendants of Milésius.”

“Seachainse an t-olc do loit síol Ébha ar fad,

Gabh paidir, is troscadh, is cros mhic Dé ort;

Bí déirceach, carthanach, ar lasadh le daonnacht,

Is réim na bhflaitheas do gheabhair más féidir.”

“Shun the evil that ravaged the seed of Eve entirely,

Accept a prayer, a fast, and the cross of God’s son on you;

Be charitable, friendly, inflamed with humaneness,

And the realm of paradise you will attain if possible.”

“Raghadsa ar siúl, tá liú is glao orm,

An aicme so Lúter do bhrúdar m’aodh ionam;

Do mhairbh na Francach an domhan ‘s an saol díobh,

Is caithfeadsa á dtabhairt anall má fhéadaim.”

“I will go walking, I have been yelled and called for,

These Lutherans have crushed my attention;

The French have murdered the world and life for them,

And I must bring them across if I can.”

Go rófhada scinn óm radharc don léim sin,

Gur thóg Aoibheall íogair léi mé.

For too far my vision flew past with that leap,

That solemn Aoibheall took me with her.

Do thángamar aníos in inneall nach léir dom,

Mar sháitear libh coinín as phoillín le spéice.

We came up from below in some way unclear to me,

Like you would thrust a rabbit from a hole with a spike.

Gan stad óm smúit do mhúscail mé ansin,

Mo leaba dheas fúm, mo thrunc is m’éadach;

Is amhlaidh bhraitheas mé trasna gan aon phreab,

‘S an long ag tarraing ar Shacsan le foréigean.

Without the smoke stopping, I awoke then,

My nice bed below me, my truck and my clothes;

It is thus that I got the impression without any start,

That the ship was drawing upon the English with violence.

Is é chráigh mo chroí, nuair smaoinigh mé ansin,

Gach gábha ar ghabhas tríd gur taibhreamh bréige é.

It is the anguish of my heart, when I thought then,

Every peril I had gone through, that it was a false dream.

Níorbh fhada gur labhair an long, “sail-a-hoy!

Your tackles and shrouds haul round for play, boys!”

It wasn’t long until the ship said, “sail-a-hoy!

Your tackles and shrouds haul round for play, boys!”

Féach frigate beag Francach, lom, mear, gléasta,

Do chuir sinn i bponc faoi scanradh ár ndóthain;

Do chaith sí urchar faoi imeall ár n-éadan,

Is daichead glanghunna do ligeadh gach féile.

See a little French frigate, bare, nimble, equipped,

That put us in a fix under our share of dread;

It cast a shot under the edge of our prow,

And forty bright guns that would commence any feast day.

Go mb’éigean dúinn casadh chomh tapa ‘s dob fhéidir,

Is b’é againn ba mheasa chun reatha bhíodh fé dhe.

So that we had to turn as fast as we could,

And we would have it worse for running about it.

Mar bheadh i gcúrsa cú ‘s gearrfhia aice,

Á gcasadh ann gach ponc, ‘san cúpla ar saothar,

Go gcaithfeadh sí stad le neart a bheith traochta;

Ba mar sin dár gcaithne ag teacht ar éigin.

As would be the course of a hound and a hare beside,

Twisting in every fix and both upon their work,

Until she would have to forcefully stop with being weary;

That was thus our shooting coming with difficulty.

Do marbhadh daichead dár bhfoireann ‘san scléip sin,

Ní áirím tuilleadh do milleadh bhí créachtach:

Do chailleamar triúr i dtúis an lae ghil,

Bhí gearradh ‘gus brú ar chúig fhir déag díobh;

Bhain urchar do dhailtín an Chaptaen, ‘s níor léan liom,

Do ghoid sé mo chaipín, ‘s níor dhanaid leis maol mé.

Forty were killed of our crew in that quarrel,

I won’t recount the more who were disfigured by wounds:

We lost three men at the start of the bright day,

There was cutting and bruising on fifteen men of them;

A shot hit the captain’s brat, no deep anguish for me,

He stole my cap, and he didn’t regret that I was bareheaded.

Do rangamar an Pasáiste go batrálta tréithlag,

Is thángas-sa go Portláirge ar chois anairde im’ aonar;

Tagaim abhaile gan faic, ‘s ba dhéirc liom,

Is dar mo bhaiste ní bladar ná bréag sin.

We reached the Passage battered and exhausted,

And I came to Waterford at full speed by myself;

I come home with nothing of the charity I had,

And by my baptism that’s wheedling no or lie.

Ar long ní raghad fad mhairfead, má fhéadaim,

Muna raghainn le banda, nó ar gceangal le téadaibh.

Upon a ship I will not go as long as I live, if I can,

Unless I go in bonds or tied by ropes.

Mar bharr ar gach ní le Críost bíodh buíochas,

A charad bí im’ dhíon, a Rí ná tréig mé;

Tógsa t’fhearg dhinn, neartaigh is saor sinn,

Fóir ar m’anam, sin agaibh mo scéalta.

To top off all things from Christ give thanks,

Friends, be my protector, oh King don’t abandon me;

Take your anger from us, strengthen and free us,

Save my soul, that is my story for you all.

Adapted from: Doyle, Danny. 2015. Míle Míle i gCéin: The Irish Language in Canada. Borealis Press: Ottawa.

For citation, please use: Mac Conmara, Donnchadh. 1745. “Eachtra Ghiolla an Amaráin.” Ó Dubhghaill, Dónall. 2024. Na Gaeil san Áit Ró-Fhuar. Gaeltacht an Oileáin Úir: www.gaeilge.ca.