Filíocht Fridays: Caitlín Ní Uallacháin as the Mother of the Easter Rising
The mystical blood sacrifice of Éirí Amach na Cásca 1916 could never have been achieved without the metaphysical power of the all-encompassing mother-image: Is mac an ríogh ag Caitilín Ní Uallacháin!
Martyrdom for Mother-Éire: ‘Is mac an ríogh ag Caitilín Ní Uallacháin!’
‘Easter Week made the Great War look like a mindless, despiritualized carnage. Cuchulain’s (and, by extension, Ireland’s) cycle of recurrence became finally complete in the sacrifice of Pearse. What stalked through the Post Office was a new and specifically Irish version of modern, existential heroism.’ (Seamas Deane, Celtic Revivals, p. 46.)
For this week, I decided to honour Éirí Amach na Cásca 1916 with the famous romantic nationalist poem, Caitlín Ní Uallacháin.
The poem begins in a thumping rhythm, as if as a rallying tune for the ancient Fianna, speaking of the ‘sword in hand’ and the ‘strength of the will’. One can imagine young Fenians reciting the lines, pledging their undying loyalty to the defence of their people, represented by their Queen, Caitlín Ní Uallacháin: ‘We soon shall chase the Saxon race from our land’.
Following this, there is a rejection of the common perception of Caitlín as weak and downtrodden. While our heroic figure, much like Ireland, is depicted as a withered ship, abandoned in a similar manner to Odysseus, she has never lost her youthful figure and vitality: ‘Let none believe that lovely Eve outworn or old...her blood is warm, her heart is bold!’. She is demonstrated to be an eternal symbol from a truer, platonic realm, much like An Cailleach Bhara or An Spéirbhean of other poems, she is the embodiment of the sovereignty goddess, stirring the hearts of warriors:
‘The words live in their sounds, not in their sense; it is the subtle, irresistible witchcraft of their music, and not what they say, that steals away the listeners’ brains. Then from this mist of gentle music emerges the Spéir-bhruinneal (the Vision) herself—how can one describe what happens?’ (Daniel Corkery, The Hidden Ireland, p. 137.)
In this, Caitlín represents a beautiful, awe-inspiring resurrection of the Irish spirit. While Banba has long been betrayed and mistreated, the revival of the Irish nation is as inevitable as the victory of the ancient Hebrews. With God guiding us, the sacrifice of the Irish martyrs will give birth to Caitlín's emancipation: ‘mighty Heaven will make us strong: The God who led thro' Ocean Red all Israel on!’.
In this, Ireland is apostrophized as a beautiful young woman – the relict of a pre-Christian deity – invoked under a variety of sobriquets, Ėire, Banbha, Fódhla, to mention only the most familiar ones...she is presented as the one to whom the whole national community, Sean-Ghaill as well as Gaeil, is bound by ties of love and service.
In finishing, the poem reminds the reader of the spiritual purity of the ‘virgin pure’ upon whom ‘Phoebus shines brightly’. Caitlín is not merely Éire, nor the patriot tradition, personified - she is the incarnation of Irishness at its most songful and, ironically, peaceful. This emphasis on brightness, light and a the unifying nature of Caitlín as Mother Éire is an ancient symbol in Irish romanticism:
‘Who was this Brightness of Brightness, drawn in the loveliest of Gaelic lines, fine as the fairest of Irish womanhood? The poet sees, in the image of an Irish maiden, that Idea of which Plato dreamed : and this strange pulchritude also is Eire herself—the secret Ireland of the Gael.’ (Aodh de Blácam, Gaelic Literature Surveyed, p. 313.)
In this sense, the crucifixion of Ireland through world-history is seen not as a point of resentment or hatred, but it is reversed to allow for an overcoming, a purification of our people, a resurrection. Only by understanding this providence, the purpose of our people's suffering, and be willing to give our lives ar son na Saoirse, can we resurrect our nation anew, and celebrate in the freedom of Caitlín Ní Uallacháin.
Mairtíreacht ar mhaithe le Máthair-Éire: ‘Is mac an ríogh ag Caitilín Ní Uallacháin!’
‘Easter Week made the Great War look like a mindless, despiritualized carnage. Cuchulain’s (and, by extension, Ireland’s) cycle of recurrence became finally complete in the sacrifice of Pearse. What stalked through the Post Office was a new and specifically Irish version of modern, existential heroism.’ (Seamas Deane, Celtic Revivals, p. 46.)
Don tseachtain seo, shocraigh mé ómós a thabhairt d’Éirí Amach na Cásca 1916 leis an dán cáiliúil náisiúnta rómánsúil, Caitlín Ní Uallacháin.
Tosaíonn an dán le rithim bhuailteach, amhail amhrán slógaíoch do Fhianna na seanaimsire, ag trácht ar an ‘Ag arm faoibhair’ agus ar ‘lúth ár lámh’. Is féidir samhlú le Fíníní óga na línte seo a rá go fonnmhar, ag gealladh a ndílseacht dhílis do chosaint a muintire, arna sonrú ag a mBanríon, Caitlín Ní Uallacháin: ‘Is tapa cruinn do phreabfaimís 's is buacach árd’.
Ina dhiaidh sin, diúltaítear don dearcadh coitianta gur bean lag í Caitlín atá faoi chois. Cé go bhfuil an laoch againn, cosúil le hÉirinn féin, léirithe mar long sheargtha, tréigthe ar nós Odysseus, níor chaill sí riamh a cruth ógánta ná a fuinneamh: ‘Ná measaidís gur caile chríon ár stuaire stáid…Tá sáith an ríogh i gCaitilín Ní Uallacháin!’. Léirítear í mar shiombal síoraí ó réimse níos fíor, níos platóiní, cosúil leis an gCailleach Bhéara nó an Spéirbhean i ndánta eile - is í corpú an bhandé shóivéarachta í, ag spreagadh croíthe na laoch:
‘The words live in their sounds, not in their sense; it is the subtle, irresistible witchcraft of their music, and not what they say, that steals away the listeners’ brains. Then from this mist of gentle music emerges the Spéir-bhruinneal (the Vision) herself—how can one describe what happens?’ (Daniel Corkery, The Hidden Ireland, p. 137.)
Sa mhéid seo, is é atá i gCaitlín ná athbheochan álainn, inspioráideach de spiorad na nGael. Cé go bhfuil Banba feicthe le fada mar thír an bhrathadóireachta agus na mí-íde, tá athbheochan náisiúin na hÉireann chomh cinnte le bua na nEabhrach ársa. Le treoir Dé linn, beidh fuascailt ag Caitlín mar thoradh ar íobairt na martraí Gaelacha: ‘roimh phobal Ísrael den mhuar-mhuir tráigh, Is go bhfóire Críost ort’.
Ag deireadh an dáin, cuimhnítear ar an léitheoir faoi íonacht spioradál an ‘gné ghlan’ Caitlín ar a bhfuil ‘Phoebus is lonnradh tríd’. Ní hé gur ionann Caitlín agus Éire nó an traidisiún patrítíochta daonna—is í an chorpú í ar an nGaelachas ag a chuid ceoil agus, go híorónta, síochána. Is siombal ársa i rómánsachas na hÉireann é an bhéim seo ar ghealadh, solas agus an t-aonachas a bhaineann le Caitlín mar Mháthair-Éire:
‘Who was this Brightness of Brightness, drawn in the loveliest of Gaelic lines, fine as the fairest of Irish womanhood? The poet sees, in the image of an Irish maiden, that Idea of which Plato dreamed : and this strange pulchritude also is Eire herself—the secret Ireland of the Gael.’ (Aodh de Blácam, Gaelic Literature Surveyed, p. 313.)
Sa chiall seo, ní bhreathnaítear ar chéasadh na hÉireann trí stair an domhain mar chúis le fearg nó gráin, ach mar bhealach chun sárú, chun glanadh ár muintire, chun athbheochan. Ní féidir ár náisiún a athbheochan gan tuigbheál don chinniúint seo, don chuspóir atá le fulang ár muintire, agus gan toil a bheith againn ár mbeatha a thabhairt ar son na Saoirse. Ansin amháin, beidh muid in ann ceiliúradh a dhéanamh i saoirse Chaitlín Ní Uallacháin.
CAITILÍN NÍ UALLACHÁIN
I
Ó measaimíd nách calm rinn den bhuairt seo i Spáinn
Acht mealladh slighe chum catha cloidhimh do thabhairt i dtráth;
Beid galla arís dá leagadh síos le lúth ár lámh,
Is mac an ríogh ag Caitilín Ní Uallacháin!
II
Geallaim díbh nách fada arís gur buartha an gháir,
Ag arm faoibhair dá gceapadh linn is fuadar lámhaigh;
Is tapa cruinn do phreabfaimís 's is buacach árd,
Dá mbeadh mac an ríogh ag Caitilín Ní Uallacháin!
III
Is fada sinn ag faire arís le fuascailt dfhagháil
'N-ár stallairí gan balcaisí ná a luagh 'n-ár láimh;
Beid barca líonta ar barra taoide is fuaim ar sáil,
Le mac an ríogh chum Caitilín Ní Uallacháin!
IV
Ná measaidís gur caile chríon ár stuaire stáid,
Ná caillichín n-a gcrapfaidís a cuail bheag cnámha;
Cé fada ag luighe dhi le fearaibh coimhtheach gan suaimhneas dfhagháil,
Tá sáith an ríogh i gCaitilín Ní Uallacháin!
V
Is fada a dlaoithe casta cíortha is a scuab-fholt bán,
Is a dearca righne ag amharc Gaoidheal cois cuanta breágh;
Is blasta binn a chanann sí gur buan bhéas páirt
Idir mhac an ríogh agus Caitilín Ní Uallacháin!
VI
Ná measaidís na spreallairí gur buan ár bpáis,
Is gur gearra bhíd na glasa á scaoile nuair is cruaidhe an cás;
Go ndearna Maois roimh phobal Ísrael den mhuar-mhuir tráigh
Is go bhfóire Críost ort, a Chaitilín Ní Uallacháin!
VII
A Mhuire dhílis, a chara chaoin-ruisc, gach uair 'n-ár bpáirt
Agall Íosa ar son na nGaoidheal mbocht - is cruaidh é a gcás -
Lucht an íspirt do chur ar díbirt, is ár stuaire mná
Is a céile fíor-cheart do théacht tar taoide gan buairt 'n-a dáil.
Ceangal
Tá gné ghlan ar Phoebus is lonnradh tríd,
Tá an ré agus na réalta i gcúrsa chruinn,
Tá na spéartha fé scéimh ghlan, gan smúit gan teimheal
Roimh réx ceart na Féinne is a thrúp thar tuinn.
.
Tá ár gcléire i gcaomh-ghuth ag súil le Críost
Is ár n-éigse go réimeach 's a gcumha ag dul díobh,
Gaedhil bhocht Inis Éilge go súgach síoch
Roimh Shéamus Mac Shéamuis is an Diúic tar tuinn.
Kathleen Ni Houlahan (leagan Mangan)
I
In vain, in vain, we turn to Spain; she heeds us not;
Yet may we still, by strength of will, amend our lot;
O yes! our foe shall yet lie low; our swords are drawn
For her, our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
II
Yield not to fear, the time is near. With sword in hand
We soon shall chase the Saxon race far from our land.
What glory then to stand as men on field and bawn
And see, all sheen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
III
How tossed, how lost, with hopes all crossed, we long have been;
Our gold is gone; gear have we none, as all have seen.
But ships shall brave the ocean wave, and morn shall dawn
On Éire green, on Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
IV
Let none believe that lovely Eve outworn or old;
Fair is her form, her blood is warm, her heart is bold!
Tho' strangers long have wrought her wrong, she will not fawn,
Will not prove mean, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
V
Her stately air, her flowing hair, her eyes that far
Pierce thro' the gloom of Banba's doom, each like a star;
Her songful voice that makes rejoice hearts grief hath gnawn,
Prove her our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
VI
We will not bear the chains we wear, not bear them long!
We seem bereaven, but mighty Heaven will make us strong:
The God who led thro' Ocean Red all Israel on!
Will aid our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
VIII
O, Virgin pure ! our true and sure defence thou art !
Pray thou thy Son to help us on in hand and heart !
Our Prince, our Light, shall banish night—then beameth Dawn—
Then shall be seen our Caitilin Ni Uallachain !
SUMMING-UP1
Phoebus shines brightly with his rays so pure,
The moon and stars their courses run ;
The firmament is not darkened by clouds or mist,
As our true king with his troops over the ocean comes.
.
Our priests are as one man imploring Christ,
Our bards are songful, and their gloom dispelled;
The poor Gael of Inis-Eilge in calm now rest
Before James, the son of James, and the Duke who over ocean comes.
(Mangan did not translate these lines)