Filíocht Fridays: Why you must learn this poem off by heart

While an obvious choice, there is virtually no other modern poem which encapsulates the spirit of the Gael so well.

Identifying oneself with the nation

Across the lexicon of Irish cultural memory there are many phrases which standout as synonymous with Republicanism, Nationalism and Gaelicism. As with the much parodied and over done ‘Come out ye black and tans’, some of these feel like more historical reference points than living phrases, depending on your vantage point I suppose. Tiocfaidh ár lá, Sinn Féin, Tír gan teanga, etc—while all still true and significant, it's hard to argue there isn't something slightly trite or obvious about them, the point has really been made. With the phrase Mise Éire, however, popularised of course by An Piarsach's famous poem, I believe their is still some unrealised revolutionary potential which has partly been forgotten.

First, there is the ancient nature of this notion. Like ‘an Chailleach Bhéarra’ of the poem, the concept of identifying oneself with Ireland itself, recognising one's own identity in the hills, landscape and soil of this land is as old as the nation itself. When Amergin Glúingel, the first Ollamh Éireann reached this land with his Milesian bands, he famously cried ‘Is mise gaoth ar mhuir’. It is to see the Gael not as a visitor, tourist or renter here, but as an inextricably bound product of the fauna and weltanschauung of this island's ecological soul. When you battle for Ireland, you battle for yourself. Answering the quandary of the ancient Oracle of Delphi, to be Irish and to ‘know thyself’, is simply to know Ireland, to know its rivers, fertile soil and to breathe and live in its air.

In this sense comes the tragedy of Pearse's poem also. When one sees Ireland as an extension of one's own being, as well as the being and animus mundi of our neighbours and extended family, the oppression of this country is internalised as an oppression of our own spirit. The ambivalence many of us express in our day-to-day lives toward the partition and debasement of this great country is an ambivalence to our own suffering. We think of the suffering of all the great patriots who gave up their lives and were executed for Ireland in the early summer of May, and all those lonely nights they spent in Kilmainham, Long Kesh and elsewhere, feeling abandoned by so many Irish people who did not rise up. They must have felt a kinship with the poem's melancholy: ‘Mór mo náir: Mo chlann féin a dhíol a máthair’.

Particularly of those men in Long Kesh, who learned the poem of Mise Éire in their tragic ‘Jailtacht’, I emphasise we must recognise ourselves, and the national spirit in general, with their suffering and struggle. There is power in words, and even more power in names, it is beholden on you that you learn them. There is a distinction between saying ‘God is King’ and ‘Jesus Christ is the King of the Jews'—one expresses a vague monotheism, the other is particular, specific and situates the central personhood of God within one's psyche when one utters those words.

While in a more profane way, there is a cosmic power in uttering and remembering the names of Ireland, the men and women who did fully embody the heart of Ireland in their sacrifice. In this sense, you must repeat to yourself the names of Thomas Clarke, Sean Mac Diarmada, Thomas MacDonagh, P.H. Pearse, Eamon Ceannt, James Connolly and Joseph Plunkett. In the same sense, you must learn and repeat the names of the brave martyrs of 1981: Bobby Sands, Francis Hughes, Ray McCreesh, Patsy O'Hara, Joe McDonnell, Martin Hurson, Kevin Lynch, Kieran Doherty, Thomas McElwee and Michael Devine.

They are Ireland, we are Ireland. And when the Éire Nua is realised all these names will be ingrained in the hearts and tongues of every Irishman and woman once again.

I nGaeilge: Aithint duit féin leis an náisiún

Tá go leor frásaí i léacsicon chuimhne chultúrtha na hÉireann a sheasann amach mar shiombailí de chuid an Phoblachtánachais, an Náisiúnachais agus an Ghaelachais. Cosúil leis an bhfrása atá ró-úsáidte agus ró-aithrise ‘Come out ye black and tans’, braitheann cuid de na frásaí seo níos stairiúla ná beo, ag brath ar do radharc féin, is dócha. Tiocfaidh ár lá, Sinn Féin, Tír gan teanga—cé go bhfuil siad fíor fós agus tábhachtach, is deacair a shéanadh nach bhfuil rud beag cliché nó ró-éasca ag baint leo; tá an pointe déanta cheana féin. Ach leis an bhfrása Mise Éire, ar ndóigh a rinneadh coitianta le dán cáiliúil an Phiarsaigh, creidim go bhfuil cumhacht réabhlóideach fós ann atá beagán dearmadta.

Ar dtús, tá dúlra ársa an choincheapa seo. Cosúil le ‘an Chailleach Bhéarra’ sa dán, tá an smaoineamh duit féin a aithint leis an Éirinn féin, d’fhéiniúlacht a fheiceáil i gcnoc, i dtír agus i gcré na tíre seo, chomh sean leis an náisiún féin. Nuair a tháinig Amergin Glúingel, an chéad Ollamh Éireann, go dtí an tír seo lena bhuíon Míleatach, scairt sé go clúiteach: ‘Is mise gaoth ar mhuir’. Is é sin an Gael a fheiceáil ní mar chuairteoir, mar thurasóir ná mar chíosóir, ach mar thoradh dobhriste ar fhlóra agus ar weltanschauung anama éiceolaíoch na hoileáin seo. Nuair a throidfidh tú ar son na hÉireann, is ar do shon féin a bheidh tú ag troid. Freagra a thabhairt ar cheist shean-Oracle Dheilfi, bheith ina Éireannach agus ‘féin a aithint’, is é sin Éire a aithint, a haibhneacha agus a hithreacha torthúla a thuiscint, agus a hanáil a bheith á halú agat.

Sa chiall seo freisin, tagann tragóid dhán an Phiarsaigh. Nuair a fheiceann tú Éire mar shíneadh ar do bheith féin, chomh maith le beith agus animus mundi do chomharsan agus do ghaolta, déantar géarleanúint na tíre seo a ionramháil mar ghéarleanúint ar ár n-anam féin. An neamhchinnteacht a léiríonn go leor againn i leith críochdheighilte agus íslithe na tíre móire seo, is éard atá ann neamhchinnteacht i leith ár bhfulaingt féin. Smaoinímid ar fhulaingt na bpátríot uilig a thug a mbeatha ar son na hÉireann i mí Bhealtaine, agus ar na hoícheanta uaigneacha a chaith siad i gCill Mhaighneann, i Long Kesh agus in áiteanna eile, ag mothú tréigthe ag Éireannaigh nach d’éirigh amach. Caithfidh go raibh dlúthbhaint acu le cumha an dáin: ‘Mór mo náir: Mo chlann féin a dhíol a máthair’.

Go háirithe i gcás na bhfear sin i Long Kesh, a d’fhoghlaim dán Mise Éire ina ‘Jailtacht’ bhrónach, leagaim béim ar an ngá atá ann sinn féin, agus spiorad na náisiún i gcoitinne, a aithint lena bhfulaingt agus lena streachailt. Tá cumhacht sna focail, agus níos mó cumhacht fós sna hainmneacha—tá sé de dhualgas ort iad a fhoghlaim. Tá difríocht idh rá ‘God is King’ agus ‘Jesus Christ is our King of the Jews’—léiríonn ceann acu aondiachas doiléir, ach tá an ceann eile sonrach, sainithe, agus suite i bpearsantacht lárnach Dé nuair a ndeirtear iad.

Cé gur cumhacht níos neamhnaofa í, tá fuinneamh cosúil le cumhacht chosmeach ag baint le hainmneacha na hÉireann a lua agus a chuimhneamh orthu, na fir agus na mná a rinne ionlán de chroí na hÉireann a léiriú ina n-íobairt. Sa chiall seo, ní mór duit ainmneacha Thomas Clarke, Seán Mac Diarmada, Tomás Mac Donnchadha, Pádraig Mac Piarais, Éamonn Ceannt, Séamas Ó Conghaile agus Seosamh Pluincéid a athrá leat féin. Ar an gcaoi chéanna, ní mór duit ainmneacha cróga mairtírigh 1981 a fhoghlaim agus a athrá: Roibeard Ó Seachnasaigh, Proinsias Ó hAodha, Raymond Mac Raois, Patsy Ó hEadhra, Seosamh Mac Dónaill, Máirtín Ó hUirsín, Caoimhín Ó Loingsigh, Ciarán Ó Dochartaigh, Tomás Mac Giolla Bhuí agus Mícheál Ó Daimhín.

Is iad sin Éire, is sinne Éire. Agus nuair a bheidh an Éire Nua curtha i gcrích, beidh na hainmneacha seo go léir greanta i gcroíthe agus i dteangacha gach Éireannach arís.

Mise Éire

Mise Éire:

Sine mé ná an Chailleach Bhéarra

Mór mo ghlóir:

Mé a rug Cú Chulainn cróga.

Mór mo náir:

Mo chlann féin a dhíol a máthair.

Mór mo phian:

Bithnaimhde do mo shíorchiapadh.

Mór mo bhrón:

D'éag an dream inar chuireas dóchas.

Mise Éire:

Uaigní mé ná an Chailleach Bhéarra.

I Am Ireland

I am Ireland:

I am older than the Hag of Beara.

Great my glory:

I who bore brave Cú Chulainn.

Great my shame:

My own children that sold their mother.

Great my pain:

My irreconcilable enemies who harass me continually.

Great my sorrow:

That crowd, in whom I placed my trust, decayed.

I am Ireland:

I am lonelier than the Hag of Beara.