My last post mentioned hurling in Cushendall. Being the old romantic that I am, it reminded me of the song Aird Ui Chumain in which an Irish farm labourer working in Scotland sees the coast of Ireland across the sea and pines for the Sunday mornings he formerly spent hurling with his friends on the beach in Cushendun. Here are the lyrics in the original Irish, followed by a translation. Back in the day, a friend used to sing this. Happy memories.
Dá mbeinn féin in Aird Uí Chumhain
In aice an tsléibhe ud ‘tá i bhfad uaim
Ba annamh liom gan dul ar cuairt
Go gleann na gcuach dé DomhnaighCurfá:
Agus och och Eire lig is ó
Eire líonndubh agus ó
‘Sé mo chroí tá trom agus bronachIs iomai Nollag a bhí mé féin
I mBun Abhainn Doine is mé gan chéill
Ag iomainn ar a trá bán
‘S mo chaman bán ins mo dhorn liomCurfá
Dá mbeadh agam coite ’s rámh
D’iomairfinn liom ar dhroim a’ tsnáimh
‘S mé ‘dúil as Dia go sroichfinn slán
‘S go bhfaighinn bás in éirinnCurfá
Translation:
(like most translations of Irish lyrics/poetry into English, this comes nowhere near matching the simple yet elegant mood of the original)
If I were in Aird Uí Chumhain
Beside that distant mountain
There’s seldom a Sunday
That I wouldn’t visit the cuckoo’s glen
Chorus (after each verse):
Agus och och Eire lig is ó
Eire líonndubh agus ó
My heart is heavy and sad
Chorus
Many’s the Christmas
I spent in Cushendun
Playing hurley on the strand
My white caman in my fist
Chorus
If I had a boat and oars
I’d row over the crest of the tide
Trusting to God that I’d arrive safe
And that I’d die in Ireland
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