Thomas Mac Donagh and the Bonnán Buí
The Bonnán Buí (The Yellow Bittern) it seems lived a very secluded and secretive lifestyle, which moved the Ulster poet Cathal Buidhe Mac Goilla Ghunna (c 1690-1756} to compose his famous piece ``An Bonnán Buí''. Cathal it would appear (in spite of dire warnings from loved ones and friends) was a little too fond of the odd bottle of nourishment.
One day he chanced upon a dead bittern beside an ice bound pool, which spurred him to put pen to paper and produce his crowning piece. Over the years there have been several different translations made of his poem.
Bonnán Buí
Cathal Buidhe Mac Giolla Ghunna
A bhonnáin bhuí, sé mo léan do luí
Is do chnámha sínte tar éis do ghrinn,
Is ní heaspa bídh, ach díobháil dí
A d'fhág in do luí thú ar chúl do chinn.
Is measa liomm féin ná scrois na Traoi
Tú bheith id' luí ar leaca lom' -
Is nach ndearn' tú díth ná dola sa tír
'S nárbh fhearr leat fíon ná uisce poll.
A bhonnáin álainn, sé mo mhíle crá thú,
Do chúl ar lár amuigh romham se tslí ;
'S gurb iomaí lá a chluininn do ghrág
Ar on láib is tú ag ól na dí.
'Sé an ní deir cách le do dheartháir Cathal
Go bhfaighe sé bás mar siúd más fíor;
Ach ní hamhlaidh atá, siúd an préachán breá
Chuaigh in éag ar ball le díth na dí.
A bhonnáin óig, sé mo mhíle brón
Tú bheith sinte fuar í measc na dtom,
'S na lucha móra ag triall ar do thórraimh
A dhéanamh spóirt agus pléisiúir ann;
Is da gcuirthea scéala fá mo dhéinse,
Go raibh tú I ngéibheann no I mboid gan bhrí,
Do bhrisfinn béim duit ar an loch san Bhéasaigh
A fhliuchadh do bhéal is do chorp istigh.
Ní haid n-éanlaith atá mé ag éagnach,
lon, an smólach, nó an chorr ghlas;
Ach mo bhonnán buí, atá lán don chroí,
Is gur cosúil liom féin í i ndath.
Bhíodh sí go síoraí ag ól na dí,
Is deirtear go mbímse mar sin seal;
Níl deor dá bhfighinn nach ligfinn síos,
Ar eagla go bhfighinnse bás den tart.
Sé d'iarr mo stór orm ligint don ól,
Nó nach mbeinnse beo ach seal beag gearr,
Ach dúirt mé léi go dtug sí an bhréag -
Gurbh fhaide mo shaolsa an deoch úd d'fháil.
Nach bhfeiceann sibh éan an phíobáin réidh
A chuaigh in éag don tart ar ball -
Is a chomharsa chléibh, ó fliuchaigí bhur mbéal,
Óir ni bhfaighidh sibh braon i ndiaidh bhur mbáis.
The Yellow Bittern
From the Poem by
Cathal Buidhe Mac Giolla Ghunna
The yellow bittern that never broke out
In a drinking bout, might as well have well have drunk.
His bones are thrown on a naked stone
Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.
O yellow bittern! I pity your lot
Though they say that a sot like myself is cursed-
I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise
For fear I'll die in the end of thirst.
Its not for the common birds that I'd mourn,
The black-bird, the corn crake- or the crane.
But for the bittern that's shy and apart
d drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.
Oh! If I had known you were near your death.
While my breath held out I'd have run to you.
Till a splash from the lake of the son of the bird
Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.
My darling told me to drink no more
Or my life would be o'er in a little short while,
But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength
d will lengthen my road by many a mile.
You see how the bird of the long smooth neck
Could get his death from the thirst at last-
Come son of my soul, and drain your cup,
You'll get no sup when your life is past.
In a wintering island by Constantine's hall's
A bittern calls from a wineless place,
d tells me that hither he cannot come
Till the summer is here and the sunny days.
When he crossed the stream there and wings o'er the sea
Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight-
Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,
d a dram won't stop our thirst this night.
Thomas Mac Donagh was fondly remembered for his work of translating the Bonnán Buí by his friend from Co. Meath, Francis Ledwidge. Like many of his fellow nationalists of the time, Ledwidge had joined the British Army and when home on leave in 1916 he learned of the brutal execution of his two poet friends, Pearse and Mac Donagh.
Before he left for France, this now disillusioned poet composed his lament for Thomas Mac Donagh, completed about a week after they were shot in the bleak stonebreakers yard of Kilmainham Jail 1916.
Thomas Mac Donagh
He shall not hear the Bittern cry
In the wild sky, where he is lain.
Nor the voices of the sweeter birds
Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill.
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the dark cow leaves the moor,
d pastures poor with greedy weed,
Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.
Francis Ledwidge himself perished in the muddy trenches of Belgium on 31 July 1917. No doubt he often recalled his beloved county Meath and river Boyne, where perhaps a Bonnán Buí would have skulked among the reeds in times gone by.
Gay Clery
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