K. E. Dennis
2007-12-24 03:53:15 UTC
"An Naoidhe Naomh" was the work of Aodh Mac Cathmhaoil - nicknamed Mac
Aingil for his ‘European reputation in his own day as a theologian &
saintly figure’, according to Séan Ó Tuama’s preface to this poem.
A Franciscan priest, he was born in Downpatrick but lived abroad for
many years, & helped found the famous Irish colleges in Rome & Louvain.
He died soon after having been made Archbishop of Armagh, before he
could go home to take up his new post.
Ó Tuama notes that Mac Cathmhaoil was a contemporary of the English poet
& Puritan theologian John Milton, & contrasts this poem’s ‘homeliness &
simplicity’ & Milton’s “Ode on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity” [1629].
You may make the comparison yourself: see
http://www.dartmouth.edu/~milton/reading_room/nativity/index.shtml
All that aside, I think Mac Aingil wrote a charming, sweetly earthy
poem, @ once serious & funny - and so, I thought I'd share it to express
my best wishes to all for a very for a happy Christmas... & for a new
year that (we can dream, ca we not?) brings peace on earth.
~~~~
As: An Naoidhe Naomh
Aodh Mac Cathmhaoil
Dia do bheatha, a naoidhe naoimh,
isin mainséar cé taoi bocht,
meadhrach saidhbhir atá tú
‘s glórmhar id dhún féin a-nocht.
Ar neamh dhíbh gan mháthair riamh,
gan athair ‘nar n-iath a-nos,
it fhírDhia riamh atá tú
is id dhuine ar dtús a-nocht.
Tabhair, a rí, gé nacht ceart,
áit id thuama don treas brúit,
i measc na ngadhar ón tsliabh,
lér chosmhaile riamh ar ndúil.
A Mhuire, a mháthair, a ógh,
oscail doras an chró dhamh
go n-adhrainn ardrí na ndúl –
nach córa dhúinn ná do dhamh?
Do-ghéan seirbhís do Dhia i bhfos,
faire go moch is go mall;
gadhair na mbuachaill ón tsliabh
buailfead ón triath atá fann.
An t-asal fós is an damh
ní leigfead i ngar dom rígh;
do-ghean féin a n-áitsin dó –
asal mé is bó Mhic Dé Bhí.
Do-bhéar uisce liom go moch,
scuabfad urlár bocht Mhic Dé;
do-ghéan teine im anam fhuar
‘s tréigfead tré dhúthracht mo chorp claon.
Nighfead a bhochtbhréide dhó,
is da dtuga, a ógh, cead damh,
mo cheirt féin do bhainfinn diom
da cur mar dhíon ar do mhac.
Biad mar chócaire ‘gan bhiadh
‘s im dhoirseoir do Dhia na ndúl,
‘s ó tá orthu go mór m-fhéidhm,
iarrfad fair mo dhéirc do thriúr.
Ní iarrfad airgead ná ór
acht uair san ló póg dom rígh;
do-bhéar mo chroidhe féin uaim
‘s glacfaidh é mar luach an trír.
A Phádraig ón leanbhsa fuair
bachall Íosa mar bhuaidh grás,
a ghein gan domblas id chlí,
‘s a Bhrighid, bí linn de ghnáth.
A phátrúin oiléan na naomh
faghaidh grása ó Dhia dhúinn;
mar chruimh in uamhaidh Dé a-nocht
glacthar bráithrín bocht ó Dhún.
Mile fáilte a-nocht i gclí
Le mo chroidhe dom rígh fial;
in dá nádúir ó do-chuaidh
póg is fáilte uaim do Dhia.
~~~~
From: The Sacred Child
[trans., Thomas Kinsella]
God greet you, sacred child,
poor in the manger there,
yet happy and rich tonight
in your own stronghold of glory.
Motherless once in Heaven,
fatherless now in our world
True God at all times you are,
but tonight you are human first.
Grant room in your cave, o King,
(though not of right) to this third brute
among the mountain dogs –
for my nature was ever like theirs.
Mary, virgin and mother,
open the stable door
till I worship the King of creation.
Why not I more than the ox?
I will do God’s service here,
watchful early and late.
I will chase the hill-boys’ dogs
away from this helpless prince.
The ass and the ox likewise,
I will not let near my King;
I will take their place beside him,
ass and cow of the living God!
In the morning I’ll bring him water.
I’ll sweep God’s Son’s poor floor.
I’ll light a fire in my cold soul
and curb with zeal my wicked body.
I’ll wash his poor garments for him,
and, Virgin, if you’ll let me,
I’ll shed these rags of mine
as a covering for your son.
And I’ll be the cook for his food.
I’ll be doorman for the God of creation!
On behalf of all three I’ll beg,
Since they need my help to speak.
No silver or gold I’ll ask,
but a daily kiss for my King.
I will give my heart in return
and he’ll take it all from me.
Patrick, who through this child
by grace got Jesus’ crozier
- O born without body’s bile –
and Brigid… be with us always.
Patron of the Isle of Saints,
obtain God’s grace for us.
Receive a poor friar from Dún
as a worm in God’s cave tonight.
A thousand greetings in body tonight
from my heart to my generous King.
In that He assumed two natures,
here’s a kiss and a greeting to God!
~~~~
As: An Naoidhe Naomh / From: The Sacred Child
Aodh Mac Cathmhaoil [~1571-1626 AD]
An Duanaire - 1600-1900: Poems of the Dispossessed
Ed., Séan Ó Tuama w/trans., Thomas Kinsella
1981 The Dolmen Press [Bord na Gaeilge]
~~~~
respectfully submitted,
Aingil for his ‘European reputation in his own day as a theologian &
saintly figure’, according to Séan Ó Tuama’s preface to this poem.
A Franciscan priest, he was born in Downpatrick but lived abroad for
many years, & helped found the famous Irish colleges in Rome & Louvain.
He died soon after having been made Archbishop of Armagh, before he
could go home to take up his new post.
Ó Tuama notes that Mac Cathmhaoil was a contemporary of the English poet
& Puritan theologian John Milton, & contrasts this poem’s ‘homeliness &
simplicity’ & Milton’s “Ode on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity” [1629].
You may make the comparison yourself: see
http://www.dartmouth.edu/~milton/reading_room/nativity/index.shtml
All that aside, I think Mac Aingil wrote a charming, sweetly earthy
poem, @ once serious & funny - and so, I thought I'd share it to express
my best wishes to all for a very for a happy Christmas... & for a new
year that (we can dream, ca we not?) brings peace on earth.
~~~~
As: An Naoidhe Naomh
Aodh Mac Cathmhaoil
Dia do bheatha, a naoidhe naoimh,
isin mainséar cé taoi bocht,
meadhrach saidhbhir atá tú
‘s glórmhar id dhún féin a-nocht.
Ar neamh dhíbh gan mháthair riamh,
gan athair ‘nar n-iath a-nos,
it fhírDhia riamh atá tú
is id dhuine ar dtús a-nocht.
Tabhair, a rí, gé nacht ceart,
áit id thuama don treas brúit,
i measc na ngadhar ón tsliabh,
lér chosmhaile riamh ar ndúil.
A Mhuire, a mháthair, a ógh,
oscail doras an chró dhamh
go n-adhrainn ardrí na ndúl –
nach córa dhúinn ná do dhamh?
Do-ghéan seirbhís do Dhia i bhfos,
faire go moch is go mall;
gadhair na mbuachaill ón tsliabh
buailfead ón triath atá fann.
An t-asal fós is an damh
ní leigfead i ngar dom rígh;
do-ghean féin a n-áitsin dó –
asal mé is bó Mhic Dé Bhí.
Do-bhéar uisce liom go moch,
scuabfad urlár bocht Mhic Dé;
do-ghéan teine im anam fhuar
‘s tréigfead tré dhúthracht mo chorp claon.
Nighfead a bhochtbhréide dhó,
is da dtuga, a ógh, cead damh,
mo cheirt féin do bhainfinn diom
da cur mar dhíon ar do mhac.
Biad mar chócaire ‘gan bhiadh
‘s im dhoirseoir do Dhia na ndúl,
‘s ó tá orthu go mór m-fhéidhm,
iarrfad fair mo dhéirc do thriúr.
Ní iarrfad airgead ná ór
acht uair san ló póg dom rígh;
do-bhéar mo chroidhe féin uaim
‘s glacfaidh é mar luach an trír.
A Phádraig ón leanbhsa fuair
bachall Íosa mar bhuaidh grás,
a ghein gan domblas id chlí,
‘s a Bhrighid, bí linn de ghnáth.
A phátrúin oiléan na naomh
faghaidh grása ó Dhia dhúinn;
mar chruimh in uamhaidh Dé a-nocht
glacthar bráithrín bocht ó Dhún.
Mile fáilte a-nocht i gclí
Le mo chroidhe dom rígh fial;
in dá nádúir ó do-chuaidh
póg is fáilte uaim do Dhia.
~~~~
From: The Sacred Child
[trans., Thomas Kinsella]
God greet you, sacred child,
poor in the manger there,
yet happy and rich tonight
in your own stronghold of glory.
Motherless once in Heaven,
fatherless now in our world
True God at all times you are,
but tonight you are human first.
Grant room in your cave, o King,
(though not of right) to this third brute
among the mountain dogs –
for my nature was ever like theirs.
Mary, virgin and mother,
open the stable door
till I worship the King of creation.
Why not I more than the ox?
I will do God’s service here,
watchful early and late.
I will chase the hill-boys’ dogs
away from this helpless prince.
The ass and the ox likewise,
I will not let near my King;
I will take their place beside him,
ass and cow of the living God!
In the morning I’ll bring him water.
I’ll sweep God’s Son’s poor floor.
I’ll light a fire in my cold soul
and curb with zeal my wicked body.
I’ll wash his poor garments for him,
and, Virgin, if you’ll let me,
I’ll shed these rags of mine
as a covering for your son.
And I’ll be the cook for his food.
I’ll be doorman for the God of creation!
On behalf of all three I’ll beg,
Since they need my help to speak.
No silver or gold I’ll ask,
but a daily kiss for my King.
I will give my heart in return
and he’ll take it all from me.
Patrick, who through this child
by grace got Jesus’ crozier
- O born without body’s bile –
and Brigid… be with us always.
Patron of the Isle of Saints,
obtain God’s grace for us.
Receive a poor friar from Dún
as a worm in God’s cave tonight.
A thousand greetings in body tonight
from my heart to my generous King.
In that He assumed two natures,
here’s a kiss and a greeting to God!
~~~~
As: An Naoidhe Naomh / From: The Sacred Child
Aodh Mac Cathmhaoil [~1571-1626 AD]
An Duanaire - 1600-1900: Poems of the Dispossessed
Ed., Séan Ó Tuama w/trans., Thomas Kinsella
1981 The Dolmen Press [Bord na Gaeilge]
~~~~
respectfully submitted,
--
| K. E. Dennis <***@nj.rr.com>
|
| Maireann lorg an phinn, ach nímhaireann an béal a chan
| The trace of the pen lives on, but not the mouth that sang
|
| http://frontpage.montclair.edu/dennisk/poetry/home/index.html
| K. E. Dennis <***@nj.rr.com>
|
| Maireann lorg an phinn, ach nímhaireann an béal a chan
| The trace of the pen lives on, but not the mouth that sang
|
| http://frontpage.montclair.edu/dennisk/poetry/home/index.html