The Project Gutenberg eBook of Samhain, Issue 1, October 1901

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Title: Samhain, Issue 1, October 1901

Editor: W. B. Yeats

Contributor: Douglas Hyde

Edward Martyn

George Moore

Translator: Lady Gregory

Release date: April 22, 2026 [eBook #78522]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Frank Cass and Company Limited, 1901

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78522

Credits: Chris Hapka and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAMHAIN, ISSUE 1, OCTOBER 1901 ***

SAMHAIN

Edited for the Irish Literary

Theatre by W. B. Yeats and

containing a Play in Irish by

Douglas Hyde with English

translation by Lady Gregory

and Articles by George Moore

and by Edward Martyn.

Published in October 1901

by Sealy Bryers & Walker

in Dublin and by T. Fisher

Unwin in London and sold

at Sixpence.

SAMHAIN Edited

for the Irish Literary Theatre

by W. B. Yeats.

Published in October 1901 by

Sealy Bryers & Walker and

by T. Fisher Unwin.

PRINTED BY

SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER,

MIDDLE ABBEY STREET,

DUBLIN.

Windlestraws.

When Lady Gregory, Mr. Edward Martyn, and myself planned the Irish Literary Theatre, we decided that it should be carried on in the form we had projected for three years. We thought that three years would show whether the country desired to take up the project, and make it a part of the national life, and that we, at any rate, could return to our proper work, in which we did not include theatrical management, at the end of that time. A little later, Mr. George Moore joined us; and, looking back now upon our work, I doubt if it could have been done at all without his great knowledge of the stage; and certainly if the performances of this present year bring our adventure to a successful close, a chief part of the credit will be his. Many, however, have helped us in various degrees, for in Ireland just now one has only to discover an idea that seems of service to the country, for friends and helpers to start up on every hand. While we needed guarantors we had them in plenty, and though Mr. Edward Martyn’s public spirit made it unnecessary to call upon them, we thank them none the less. We must also thank those who are doing, this year, as in previous years, and without seeking public recognition, the thousand and one things an adventure like ours makes necessary.

Whether the Irish Literary Theatre has a successor made on its own model or not, we can claim that a dramatic movement which will not die has been started. When we began our work, we tried in vain to get a play in Gaelic. We could not even get a condensed version of the dialogue of Usheen and Patrick. We wrote to Gaelic enthusiasts in vain, for their imagination had not yet turned towards the stage, and now there are excellent Gaelic plays by Dr. Douglas Hyde, by Father O’Leary, by Father Dineen, and by Mr. MacGinlay; and the Gaelic League has had a competition for a one-act play in Gaelic, with what results I do not know. There have been successful performances of plays in Gaelic at Dublin and at Macroom, and at Letterkenny, and I think at other places; and Mr. Fay has got together an excellent little company which plays both in Gaelic and English. I may say, for I am perhaps writing an epitaph, and epitaphs should be written in a genial spirit, that we have turned a great deal of Irish imagination towards the stage. We could not have done this if our movement had not opened a way of expression for an impulse that was in the people themselves. The truth is that the Irish people are at that precise stage of their history when imagination, shaped by many stirring events, desires dramatic expression. One has only to listen to a recitation of Raftery’s Argument with Death at some country Feis to understand this. When Death makes a good point, or Raftery a good point, the audience applaud delightedly, and applaud, not as a London audience would, some verbal dexterity, some piece of smartness, but the movements of a simple and fundamental comedy. One sees it too in the reciters themselves, whose acting is at times all but perfect in its vivid simplicity. I heard a little Claddagh girl tell a folk story at Galway Feis with a restraint and a delightful energy that could hardly have been bettered by the most careful training.

The organization of this movement is of immediate importance. Some of our friends propose that somebody begin at once to get a small stock company together, and that he invite, let us say, Mr. Benson, to find us certain well-trained actors, Irish if possible, but well trained of a certainty, who will train our actors, and take the more difficult parts at the beginning. These friends contend that it is necessary to import our experts at the beginning, for our company must be able to compete with travelling English companies, but that a few years will be enough to make many competent Irish actors. The Corporation of Dublin should be asked, they say, to give a small annual sum of money, such as they give to the Academy of Music; and the Corporations of Cork and Limerick and Waterford, and other provincial towns, to give small endowments in the shape of a hall and attendants and lighting for a week or two out of every year; and the Technical Board to give a small annual sum of money to a school of acting which would teach fencing and declamation, and gesture and the like. The stock company would perform in Dublin perhaps three weeks in spring, and three weeks in autumn, and go on tour the rest of the time through Ireland, and through the English towns where there is a large Irish population. It would perform plays in Irish and English, and also, it is proposed, the masterpieces of the world, making a point of performing Spanish and Scandinavian, and French, and perhaps Greek masterpieces rather more than Shakespeare, for Shakespeare one sees, not well done indeed, but not unendurably ill done in the Theatre of Commerce. It would do its best to give Ireland a hardy and shapely national character by opening the doors to the four winds of the world, instead of leaving the door that is towards the east wind open alone. Certainly, the national character, which is so essentially different from the English that Spanish and French influences may well be most healthy, is at present like one of those miserable thorn bushes one sees twisted towards one side by some prevailing wind.

It is contended that there is no reason why the company should not be as successful as similar companies in Germany and Scandinavia, and that it would be even of commercial advantage to Dublin by making it a pleasanter place to live in, besides doing incalculable good to the whole intellect of the country. One, at any rate, of those who press the project on us has much practical knowledge of the stage and of theatrical management, and knows what is possible and what is not possible.

Others among our friends, and among these are some who have had more than their share of the hard work which has built up the intellectual movement in Ireland, argue that a theatre of this kind would require too much money to be free, that it could not touch on politics, the most vital passion and vital interest of the country, as they say, and that the attitude of continual compromise between conviction and interest, which it would necessitate, would become demoralising to everybody concerned, especially at moments of political excitement. They tell us that the war between an Irish Ireland and an English Ireland is about to become much fiercer, to divide families and friends it may be, and that the organisations that will lead in the war must be able to say everything the people are thinking. They would have Irishmen give their plays to a company like Mr. Fay’s, when they are within its power, and if not, to Mr. Benson or to any other travelling company which will play them in Ireland without committees, where everybody compromises a little. In this way they contend, we would soon build up an Irish theatre from the ground, escaping to some extent the conventions of the ordinary theatre, and English voices which gave a foreign air to one’s words. And though we might have to wait some years we would get even the masterpieces of the world in good time. Let us, they think, be poor enough to whistle at the thief who would take away some of our thoughts, and after Mr. Fay has taken his company, as he plans, through the villages and the country towns, he will get the little endowment that is necessary, or if he does not some other will.

I do not know what Lady Gregory or Mr. Moore think of these projects. I am not going to say what I think. I have spent much of my time and more of my thought these last ten years on Irish organisation, and now that the Irish Literary Theatre has completed the plan I had in my head ten years ago, and that others may have had in their heads for all I know, I want to get back to primary ideas. I want to put old stories into verse, and if I put them into dramatic verse it will matter less to me henceforward who plays them than what they play, and how they play it. I hope to get our heroic age into verse, and to solve, for all Mr. Moore’s unbelief, some problems of the speaking of verse to musical notes.

There is only one question which is raised by the two projects I have described on which I will give an opinion. It is of the first importance that those among us who want to write for the stage, study the dramatic masterpieces of the world. If they can get them on the stage so much the better, but study them they must if Irish drama is to mean anything to Irish intellect. At the present moment, Shakespeare being the only great dramatist known to Irish writers, has made them cast their work too much on the English model. Miss Milligan’s Red Hugh, which was successfully acted in Dublin the other day, had no business to be in two scenes; and Father O’Leary’s Tadg Saor, despite its most vivid and picturesque, though far too rambling dialogue, shows in its half dozen changes of scene the influence of the same English convention which arose when there was no scene painting, and is often a difficulty where there is, and is always an absurdity, breaking up the emotion and sending one’s thoughts astray, in a farce of thirty minutes. Mr. MacGinlay’s Elis agus an bhean deirce has not this defect and though I had not Irish enough to follow it when I saw it played, and excellently played, by Mr. Fay’s company, I could see from the continual laughter of the audience that it held them with an unbroken emotion. The best Gaelic play, after Dr. Hyde’s is, I think, Father Dineen’s Creideamh agus gorta, and though it changes the scene a little oftener than is desirable under modern conditions, it does not remind me of an English model. It reminds me of Calderon by its treatment of a religious subject, and by something in Father Dineen’s sympathy with the people that is like his. But I think if Father Dineen had studied that great Catholic dramatist he would not have failed, as he has done once or twice, to remember some necessary detail of a situation. In the first scene he makes a servant ask his fellow-servants about things he must have known as well as they; and he loses a dramatic moment in his third scene by forgetting that Seagan Gorm has a pocket-full of money which he would certainly, being the man he was, have offered to the woman he was urging into temptation. The play towards the end changes from prose to verse, and the reverence and simplicity of the verse makes one think of a mediæval miracle play. The subject has been so much a part of Irish life that it was bound to be used by an Irish dramatist, though certainly I shall always prefer plays which attack a more eternal devil than the proselytiser. He has been defeated, and the arts are at their best when they are busy with battles that can never be won. It is possible, however, that we may have to deal with passing issues until we have re-created the imaginative tradition of Ireland, and filled the popular imagination again with saints and heroes. These short plays (though they would be better if their writers knew the masters of their craft) are very dramatic as they are, but there is no chance of our writers of Gaelic, or our writers of English, doing good plays of any length if they do not study the masters. If Irish dramatists had studied the romantic plays of Ibsen, the one great master the modern stage has produced, they would not have sent the Irish Literary Theatre imitations of Boucicault, who had no relation to literature, and Father O’Leary would have put his gift for dialogue, a gift certainly greater than, let us say Mr. Jones’ or Mr. Grundy’s, to better use than the writing of that long rambling dramatisation of the Tain bo Cuailgne, in which I hear in the midst of the exuberant Gaelic dialogue the worn-out conventions of English poetic drama. The moment we leave even a little the folk tradition of the peasant, as we must in drama, if we do not know the best that has been said and written in the world, we do not even know ourselves. It is no great labour to know the best dramatic literature, for there is very little of it. We Irish must know it all, for we have, I think, far greater need of the severe discipline of French and Scandinavian drama than of Shakespeare’s luxuriance.

If the Diarmuid and Grania and the Casadh an t-sugain are not well constructed, it is not because Mr. Moore and Dr. Hyde and myself do not understand the importance of construction, and Mr. Martyn has shown by the triumphant construction of The Heather Field how much thought he has given to the matter; but for the most part our Irish plays read as if they were made without a plan, without a “scenario,” as it is called. European drama began so, but the European drama had centuries for its growth, while our art must grow to perfection in a generation or two if it is not to be smothered before it is well above the earth by the commercial art of England.

Let us learn construction from the masters, and dialogue from ourselves. A relation of mine has just written me a letter, in which he says: “It is natural to an Irishman to write plays, he has an inborn love of dialogue and sound about him, of a dialogue as lively, gallant, and passionate as in the times of great Eliza. In these days an Englishman’s dialogue is that of an amateur, that is to say, it is never spontaneous. I mean in real life. Compare it with an Irishman’s, above all a poor Irishman’s, reckless abandonment and naturalness, or compare it with the only fragment that has come down to us of Shakespeare’s own conversation.” (He is thinking of a passage in, I think, Ben Johnson’s Underwoods.) “Petty commerce and puritanism have brought to the front the wrong type of Englishman; the lively, joyous, yet tenacious man has transferred himself to Ireland. We have him and we will keep him unless the combined nonsense of … and … and … succeed in suffocating him.”

The names I have crossed out are the names of three eminent authorities on education. They no longer matter to us Irish, for we have for good and all taken over the intellectual government of our country, and if the degeneration of England goes on as quickly as it has these last years, we shall take over for certain generations the intellectual government of that country also whether we will or no; and because we believe, when others have ceased to believe, we have, I think, taken up the wheel of life in our hands that we may set it to whirl upon a new axle tree.

In Dublin the other day I saw a poster advertising a play by a Miss Lefanu, under the patronage of certain lords and marquises. I had little hope of finding any reality in it, but I sat out two acts. Its dialogue was above the average, although the characters were the old rattle-traps of the stage, the wild Irish girl, and the Irish servant, and the bowing Frenchman, and the situations had all been squeezed dry generations ago. One saw everywhere the shadowy mind of a woman of the Irish upper classes, but under it all there was a kind of life, though it was but the life of a string and a wire. I do not know who Miss Lefanu is, but I know that she is young, for I saw her portrait in a weekly paper, and I think that she is clever enough to make her work of some importance. If she goes on doing bad work she will make money, perhaps a great deal of money, but she will do a little harm to her country. If, on the other hand, she gets into an original relation with life, she will, perhaps, make no money, and she will certainly have her class against her.

The Irish upper classes put everything into a money measure. When anyone among them begins to write or paint they ask him ‘How much money have you made?’ ‘Will it pay?’ Or they say ‘If you do this or that you will make more money.’ The poor Irish clerk or shop boy, who writes verses or articles in his brief leisure, writes for the glory of God and of his country, and because his motive is high, there is not one vulgar thought in the countless little ballad books that have been written from Callinan’s day to this. They are often clumsily written for they are in English and if you have not read a great deal, it is difficult to write well in a language which has been long separated from the ‘folk-speech’; but they have not a thought, a proud and simple man would not have written. The writers were poor men, but they left that money measure to the Irish upper classes. All Irish writers have to choose whether they will write as the upper classes have done, not to express but to exploit this country; or join the intellectual movement which has raised the cry that was heard in Russia in the seventies, the cry ‘to the people.’

Moses was little good to his people until he had killed an Egyptian; and for the most part a writer or public man of the upper classes is useless to this country till he has done something that separates him from his class. We wish to grow peaceful crops, but we must dig our furrows with the sword.

Our plays this year will be produced by Mr. Benson at the Gaiety Theatre on October the 21st., and on some of the succeeding days. They are Dr. Douglas Hyde’s Casadh an t-Sugain, which is founded on a well known Irish story of a wandering poet; and Diarmuid and Grania, a play in three acts and in prose by Mr. George Moore and myself, which is founded on the most famous of all Irish stories, the story of the lovers whose beds were the cromlechs. The first scene is in the great banqueting hall of Tara, and the second and third on the slopes of Ben Bulben in Sligo. We do not think there is anything in either play to offend anybody, but we make no promises. We thought our plays inoffensive last year and the year before, but we were accused the one year of sedition, and the other of heresy. We await the next accusation with a cheerful curiosity.

As Dr. Douglas Hyde does not reserve the Irish acting rights of his play, any friends of the language who like may play it after October 26th.

I have called this little collection of writings Samhain, the old name for the beginning of winter, because our plays this year are in October, and because our Theatre is coming to an end in its present shape. The profits on the sale of Samhain will be given to the Gaelic League. The three numbers of Beltaine may still be had from the Unicorn Press, bound together into one volume. They contain a record of our first two years, and a good deal of dramatic criticism.

W. B. YEATS.

The Irish Literary Theatre.

It is now nearly three years since Mr. Yeats and Mr. Martyn explained to me their project of The Irish Literary Theatre. I imagine that they were moved by a disinterested love of Ireland; by a desire to create a sort of rallying point for the many literary enthusiasms and aspirations they saw beginning in Ireland. I was moved to join them because I had come to know the hopelessness of all artistic effort in England. I discovered the English decadence before I discovered my conscience; at that time I merely despaired of any new literary movement ever rising in England. I saw nothing about me but intellectual decay and moral degradation, so I said: “Well, my friends, let us try.” I knew Mr. Edward Martyn’s play, The Heather Field, and his Maive, and I knew Mr. Yeats’ Countess Cathleen; “these,” I said, “will do for a start, but what have we got to follow them?” They answered. “You will write us a play, and somebody else will write after you. One must not look too far ahead.”

And then began the most disagreeable part of the adventure: excursions to theatrical clubs in the Strand and in the streets leading from the Strand; the long drives to ladies who lived in flats in picturesque neighbourhoods, and arranging for these men and women to come to Dublin. I took upon myself the greater part of these petty annoyances—Mr. Martyn taking upon himself, perhaps, the greatest annoyance, distributing of tickets, and keeping the accounts. I think that this kind of theatrical management must be very like the endeavour of kind-hearted ladies to bring some fifty and odd children into the country for a holiday. In both, there is a great deal of “Has Johnny lost his cap?” and “Will Jimmy arrive in time?”

During the rehearsal, I often asked myself why I had consented to waste my time in this fashion; the reason was hidden from me; even now I know, only through faith, that I acted rightly and that if the collecting of the actors and the rehearsals of the plays had proved ten times more troublesome, it would still have been worth the trouble. And this, for some reason that is still hidden from me, and not altogether because The Heather Field has been admitted to be the most thoughtful of modern prose plays written in English, the best constructed, the most endurable to a thoughtful audience. It was played in a hall, on a platform amid ludicrous scenery. But, being a prose play, it did not suffer so much from want of space as The Countess Cathleen, and it was the better acted play, for it is always easier to find actors who can act plays of modern life than it is to find actors who can speak verse and embody vast sentiments. For the adequate representation of such a play, something like a gulf should separate the actors from the audience, and there should be a large, deep stage full of vague shadows. Green landscapes are not required in Rembrandt’s portraits, and I have often wondered why they are used as a background for actors. The more elaborate the scenery, the worse it is for the purpose of the poet and the actor; and new scenery, harsh as a newly-painted signboard, like that amid which The Countess Cathleen was played, is the worst scenery of all. The Countess Cathleen met with every disadvantage. Here is a list which must not, however, be considered exhaustive:—First, the author’s theory that verse should be chanted[1] and not spoken; second, the low platform insufficiently separated from the audience; third, a set of actors and actresses unaccustomed to speak verse; fourth, harsh, ridiculous scenery; fifth, absurd costumes.

The theories of the author regarding the speaking of verse I hold to be mistaken; I do not think they are capable to realization even by trained actors and actresses, but the attempt of our “poor mummers of a time-worn spring,” was, indeed, lamentable. Many times I prayed during the last act that the curtain might come down at once. Nevertheless, the performance of The Countess Cathleen was not in vain. The beauty of the play was so intense that it was seen through the ridiculous representation as the outline of a Greek statue through the earth it is being dug out of. The Countess Cathleen awakened in all who saw it a sense of beauty. I think a sense of beauty once awakened is immortal. I do not think anyone who ponders over a piece of antique sculpture, shall we say a broken bas-relief from Pompeii, ever forgets that keen sense of beauty which arises in his heart, and the imperfect and broken representations of The Countess Cathleen awakened in me just such a sense of beauty as I have experienced in dim museums, looking at some worn and broken bas-relief.

The performances of our plays were so successful that the managers of the Gaiety Theatre asked us to produce our next plays in their theatre, and so confident were they of the ultimate success of our enterprise that they offered us their theatre on the same terms they gave to an ordinary troop of mummers. It is more difficult for me to speak of the second performances than of the first, because I undertook to re-write Mr. Martyn’s play, A Tale of a Town, a play which the Irish Literary Theatre did not think advisable to produce. The public will soon have an opportunity of judging our judgment, for Mr. Martyn has decided to publish the original text of his play. So much of the character of his play was lost in my rewriting that the two plays have very little in common, except the names of the personages and the number of acts. The Comedy, entitled, The Bending of the Bough, was written in two months, and two months are really not sufficient time to write a five act comedy in; and, at Mr. Martyn’s request, my name alone was put on the title page. Mr. Martyn’s Maive did not gain by representation, it was inadequately acted, and the idea of the play is clearer in the printed text than it was on the stage. But all who saw the play will remember it; it will flash across their minds, and will become more and more realizable with time.

This year Diarmuid and Grania will be given, and though it is longer by two acts than Dr. Hyde’s play, it is not so important, for the three act play is written in English, and the one act play is written in Irish. Dr. Hyde’s play will be the first Irish play produced in a Dublin theatre: I thought till the other day that it would be the first Irish play produced in Dublin, but now I hear that the organization called Inghean na h-Eireann has produced at the Antient Concert Rooms (it was in this room that The Countess Cathleen and The Heather Field were performed), a play in Irish. In a way it would have pleased our vanity to have been the first in Dublin with an Irish play, but this would have been a base vanity, and unworthy a Gaelic Leaguer. There has been no more disinterested movement than the Gaelic League. It has worked for the sake of the language without hope of reward or praise; and if I were asked why I put my faith in the movement I would answer that to believe that a movement distinguished by so much self sacrifice could fail, would be like believing in the failure of goodness itself.

Since we began our work plays have been written, some in Irish and some in English, and we shall be forgiven if we take a little credit for having helped to awaken intellectual life in Ireland. Many will think I am guilty of exaggeration when I say that The Irish Literary Theatre has done more to awaken intellectual life in Ireland than Trinity College. The Irish Literary Theatre is the centre of a literary movement, and our three years have shown that an endowed theatre may be of more intellectual service to a community than a university or a public library.

GEORGE MOORE.

1. I do not want dramatic blank verse to be chanted, as people understand that word, but I do not want actors to speak as prose what I have taken much trouble to write as verse. Lyrical verse is another matter, and that I hope to hear spoken to musical notes in some theatre some day.—Editor of SAMHAIN.

A Plea for a National Theatre in Ireland.

There are many movements now for the encouragement of Irish manufacture in all its branches and for preventing the scandalous outpouring of Irish money into the pockets of Englishmen and other foreigners. Quite recently a movement has been started to turn the enormous demand for church art from the workshop of the foreign tradesman, and to get it supplied by the native Irish artist. It is impossible to calculate the sum of money that this will save the country. It will be enormous. Two such able and practical men as Mr. Horace Plunkett, and Mr. T. P. Gill are so convinced of this that they have decided to form a school for teaching the making of stained glass as a branch of the School of Art in Dublin, and have procured a teacher from probably the greatest master of the art in modern times. We shall thus have stained glass of the highest excellence executed by Irishmen in Ireland.

But there is another form of art besides church art in Ireland which needs reform, and for which there is an equally large demand, supplied, as usual, by the foreigner, and, as usual, badly supplied, almost invariably. I refer to the plays supplied to our theatres by strolling English companies of actors. It would be interesting to know how much money yearly those companies take out of Ireland as a reward for Anglicising and corrupting the taste of the Irish people. It must be as enormous even as the sum we pay the foreign purveyor of church art for disfiguring our churches. We have grappled with and, I think, solved the problem of nationalising church art. Is it not time that our dramatic art also should be placed on a national basis? Are we so degenerate that we cannot meet this demand also by a supply of national art? The first requisite is to provide a stock company of native artists because the foreign strollers are too wedded to the debased art of England to fall in with the change. This can only be done by instituting a school for the training of actors and actresses, a most important branch of which should be devoted to teaching them to act plays in the Irish language. Now it is quite legal and feasible to obtain a grant from the Department of Technical Instruction for this purpose which is the same in principle as the teaching of stained glass manufacture. It is a home industry in the best sense, and means a vast economic saving to the country, besides being a most refining educational influence upon the artistic and moral character of the nation. I think it will not be difficult to make the enlightened Vice-President and Secretary of the Department understand this.

With a company of artists such as I have described we might put before the people of Ireland native works, also translations of the dramatic masterworks of all lands, for it is only by accustoming a public to the highest art that it can be led to appreciate art, and that dramatists may be inspired to work in the great art tradition.

EDWARD MARTYN.

The Legend of Diarmuid and Grania.

At the time that Finn MacCumhail was getting to be old, and Oisin his son was a strong grown man, it came into his mind to find another wife, for it was a long time since his wife that was daughter of Maighneis Mac Moirne had died from him. And the one he set his mind on was Grania, daughter of Cormac, King of Tara, the most beautiful of the women of Ireland. Her father was willing to give her, for Finn had a great name in Ireland, and all was settled, and a feast was made ready.

But when Finn, and the chief men of the Fianna, came for the wedding, and Grania saw him, and that he looked to be older than her father, Cormac, with the hardships and the fighting he had gone through, she had no mind to marry him, but she looked around at the men that were with him, and she set her mind there and then upon Diarmuid, grand-son of Duibhne, that was young and comely, and that was called the best lover of woman to be found in the whole world.

So she called for a vessel of ale, and she put an enchantment of sleep in the ale, and then she gave a drink of it to Finn, and to the most of the men that were there, and they had no sooner tasted it than a deep sleep came upon them.

But she gave none of the ale to Diarmuid, but she bade him to bring her away out of the house before Finn and her father would awake. And he was not willing at first to meddle with a woman that was promised to Finn MacCumhail, but in the end he brought her away, and all in the house lying in their sleep, but only Oisin and Caoilte and Oscar.

When Finn awoke from his sleep there was great anger on him, and he sent his men to follow the tracks of Diarmuid and Grania, and it is what he told them, that if they did not come up with them at the first ford, he would hang them from each side of it. And this was the beginning of the hunting of Diarmuid and Grania by Finn all through Ireland, that lasted seven years. And all through that time they had many hardships and many escapes, and it is a wonder how they went through all they did, but there were some that helped them.

One time they were at Doire dha Bhoth, and Finn came very near them and was pressing on; but Oisin sent a warning to them through Finn’s own hound, Bran, that had as great a love for Diarmuid as he had for his own master. And the hound found them in their sleep in an enclosed place they had made, with seven doors to it, and he thrust his head into Diarmuid’s bosom and awaked him. But it would have gone hard with them even then, but Angus Og, son of the Dagda, that knew of their danger, came and brought Grania away with him to Dos da Shoileach under the cover of his cloak. And as for Diarmuid, he took his sword, and stood up like a straight pillar in the enclosed place. And Finn put a man at every one of the seven doors to guard it, and Diarmuid would not go out by any door but the one Finn himself was guarding, for the other men of the Fianna were some of them his dear friends, and he would not bring Finn’s anger on them by escaping through the door they had in their charge. But he took the shaft of his spear in his hand, and gave a very high light leap over the door where Finn was, and slipped away beyond him and his people, and then he looked back and called out to them that he had passed them, and he slung his shield upon his back, and followed Grania westwards.

And then they two went on by themselves, and it was the advice Angus gave them, not to go into a cave that had but one opening, or into an island that had but one harbour, and wherever they would cook their food, not to eat it there, and wherever they would eat, not to sleep in that place, for all the time Finn would be following after them.

And after that they went along the Siona to the marshy bog of Finnliath, and there they met with a young man, and he said his name was Muadhan, and that he would serve them by day and watch for them by night. And that evening he made a bed of soft rushes and birch tops for them in a cave, and then he broke off a straight rod from a quicken tree, and he put a hair on it and a fork, and a berry on the fork, and went and stood by a stream, and with the three berries he dropped in the stream, he brought up three fishes. And he cooked the three fishes on a spit, and he gave the biggest to Diarmuid and the second biggest to Grania, and the one that was smallest he kept for himself. And after a while Muadhan left them, and they travelled on to Slieve Echtge, and Grania began to be tired out, but Diarmuid made a hut in the very heart of the wood, and killed a deer, and he and Grania eat and drank their fill of meat and of pure water. And Diarmuid went to the Searbhan Lochlannach, the surly one of Lochlinn, that kept the wood, and got leave from him to hunt and kill deer, so long as he would not meddle with the berries, that grew on the quicken-tree of Dubhros. That was a tree that had grown from a berry that was dropped by the Tuatha De Danaan one time when they were playing a game of hurling with the Fianna, and whoever eat these berries was free from all sickness after, and felt like as if he had been drinking wine. But the Tuatha De Danaan had sent the Searbhan Lochlannach to guard over the tree, and he slept in its top by night and stopped at its foot by day, and no one dared come near it. But when Grania heard of these berries a great desire and longing came on her, and she said she would never lie down on a bed again, but would lose her life, if she could not get some of them, to taste them.

So Diarmuid went to the fierce giant, the Searbhan, that had made a desert of the place about him, and asked some of the berries, but he would not give them. And Diarmuid would not do treachery on him, but he attacked him then and there, and they fought fair, and the Searbhan gave him great strokes with his club, but Diarmuid killed him in the end.

Then Grania came to the tree, and he plucked berries from the branches and he gave them to her. And then they went up into the top of the tree where the Searbhan had made his bed, and the berries below were but bitter berries beside those that were above in the tree.

And Finn was following close after them, and he came to the foot of the tree, and he and his men eat their fill of the berries, and they sat down to rest through the heat of the day. And Finn asked for a chessboard, and himself and Oisin sat down to play. And after they had played awhile, Finn had come near to win, and there was only one move for Oisin to make, and he did not see it. Then Diarmuid, from the top of the tree, took aim with a berry at the man that should be moved, and hit it; and Oisin moved that man and turned the game against Finn. And the same thing happened a second and a third time, and then Diarmuid struck the third berry on the man that would win the game, and Oisin moved it, and all the Fianna let out a great shout. Then Diarmuid stood up in the top of the tree, and caught Grania to him and gave her three kisses, and the seven battalions of the Fianna standing around. And great anger and jealousy and a great weakness came on Finn when he saw that, and he called out to Diarmuid that he would lose his life for those three kisses.

And he would have made an end of him then and there, but Angus came to their help again, and he took Diarmuid’s shape and appearance on him, and came to the foot of the tree, so that Finn’s men attacked him, and Diarmuid gave a light leap from the tree and went away from them. And then Angus took Grania under his druid mantle, and brought her away to the Brugh na Buinne, and Diarmuid followed them there. And while they were there, Finn sent an old hag that was his foster-mother, and that had knowledge of witchcraft, to try could she make an end of Diarmuid. And he chanced to be out by himself, hunting. And the hag took a drowned leaf, and rose on it in a blast of cold wind, and came near Diarmuid, and began to strike at him from above, so that he was never in such great danger before, but at the last he made a cast of his spear that reached to the hag through the leaf, so that she fell dead on the spot.

But after that, Angus made a peace between Diarmuid and Grania on the one side, and Finn on the other side. And the place they settled in was Rath Grania in Ben Bulben, and the people used to be saying there was no man in Ireland richer in sheep and cattle and gold and silver than Diarmuid was at that time.

But after a while Grania said it was a shame that the two best men in Ireland, her father Cormac and Finn Mac Cumhail, had never come to her house. And she made a great feast and brought them there.

Now it had been foretold that it was by a wild boar Diarmuid would get his death, and he was put under bonds never to join in the hunting of one. But one day he was hunting with Finn, and they came on the track of a boar, and Diarmuid left Finn and followed after the boar by himself, and it stopped and faced him. And Diarmuid made a cast of his spear at it, but it did not so much as give it a wound or a scratch. But at the last he killed it with the hilt of his sword, for the sword itself was broken, but before he did that, the boar had given him a deadly wound.

It was at this time Finn came up with him, and looked at him, and it is what he said, that he was glad to see his beauty turned to ugliness, and that he would like all the women of Ireland to be looking at him now. And Diarmuid asked him for a drink from the palms of his hands, that might cure him. And Finn was bringing him the water, but when the thought of Grania came upon him, he let it spill through his fingers, and the life went out from Diarmuid. When Grania heard of that, she made a great mourning and a great keening. And she gave it out that she was making all ready to bring a great vengeance on Finn, and to get satisfaction for Diarmuid’s death.

But after a while, Finn went secretly to the place where she was and got to see her, in spite of all her high words. And whatever she said to him or he said to her, when he came back to the seven battalions of the Fianna that were waiting for him, there was Grania coming with him, like any new wife with her husband. And when the Fianna saw that, they gave three great shouts of laughter and mockery. And some said the change had come on her because the mind of every woman changes like the water in a running stream; but some said it was Finn that had put enchantment on her.

A. G.

CASADH an tSUGÁIN.

DRAMA AON-GHNÍMH.

NA DAOINE:—

TOMÁS O h-ANNRACHÁIN, file Connachtach atá ar seachrán.

MÁIRE NÍ RÍOGÁIN, bean an tighe.

ÚNA, inghean Mháire.

SÉAMUS O h-IARAINN, atá luaidhte le Úna.

SÍGHLE, cómharsa do Mháire.

Píobaire, cómharsanna agus daoine eile.

ÁIT:—

Teach feilméir i gCúige Múmhan céad bliadhan ó shoin. Tá fir agus mná ag dul tríd a chéile in san tigh, no ’na seasamh cois na mballa, amhail agus dá mbeith damhsa críochnuighthe aca. Tá Tomás O h-Annracháin ag caint le Úna i bhfíor-thosach na stáide. Tá an píobaire ag fásgadh a phíobaidh air, le tosughadh ar sheinm arís, acht do bheir Séamas O h-Iarainn deoch chuige, agus stadann sé. Tagann fear óg go h-Úna le n-a tabhairt amach ar an urlár chum damhsa, acht diúltann sí dhó.

ÚNA—Ná bí m’bhodhrughadh anois. Nach bhfeiceann tú go bhfuil mé ag éisteacht le n-a bhfuil seisean d’á rádh liom. [Leis an h-Annrachánach]: Lean leat, cad é sin do bhí tú ’rádh ar ball?

TOMÁS O h-ANNRACHÁIN—Cad é do bhí an bodach sin d’á iarraidh ort?

ÚNA—Ag iarraidh damhsa orm, do bhí sé, acht ní thiúbhrainn dó é.

MAC UI h-ANN.—Is cinnte nach dtiubhrá. Is dóigh, ní mheasann tú go leigfinn-se do dhuine ar bith damhsa leat, chomh fhad agus tá mise ann so. A! a Úna, ní raibh sólás ná sócamhail agam le fada go dtáinig mé ann so anocht agus go bhfacaidh mé thusa!

ÚNA—Cad é an sólás duit mise?

MAC UI h-ANN.—Nuair a bhfuil maide leath-dhóighte in san teine, nach bhfághann sé sólás nuair dóirtear uisge air?

ÚNA—Is dóigh, ní’l tusa leath-dhóighte.

MAC UI h-ANN.—Tá mé, agus tá trí ceathramhna de mo chroidhe, dóighte agus loisgthe agus caithte, ag troid leis an saoghal, agus an saoghal ag troid liom-sa.

ÚNA—Ní fhéachann tú chomh dona sin!

MAC UI h-ANN.—Uch! a Úna ní Ríogáin, ní’l aon eólas agad-sa ar bheatha an bháird bhoicht, atágan teach gan téagar gan tíoghbhas, acht é ag imtheacht agus ag síor-imtheacht le fán ar fud an tsaoghail mhóir, gan duine ar bith leis acht é féin. Ní’l maidin in san tseachtmhain nuair éirighim suas nach n-abraim liom féin go mb’fheárr dham an uaigh ’ná an seachrán. Ní’l aon rud ag seasamh dh’am acht an bronntanus do fuair mé ó Dhia—mo chuid abhrán. Nuair thosaighim orra sin, imthigheann mo bhrón agus mo bhuaidhreadh dhíom, agus ní chuimhnighim níos mó ar mo ghéar-chrádh agus ar mo mhí-ádh. Agus anois, ó chonnaic mé thusa, a Úna, chím go bhfuil rud eile ann, níos binne ’ná na h-abhráin féin!

ÚNA—Is iongantach an bronntanus ó Dhia an bhárduigheacht. Chomh fada agus tá sin agad nach bhfuil tú níos saidhbhre na lucht stuic agus stóir, lucht bó agus eallaigh.

MAC UI h-ANN.—A! a Úna, is mór an bheannacht acht is mór an mhallacht, leis, do dhuine é do bheith ’na bhárd. Feuch mise! bhfuil caraid agam ar an saoghal so? Bhfuil fear beó ar mhaith leis mé? Bhfuil grádh ag duine ar bith orm? Bím ag imtheacht, mo chadhan bocht aonránach, ar fud an tsaoghail, mar Oisín andiaigh na Féinne. Bíonn fuath ag h-uile dhuine orm, ní’l fuath agad-sa orm, a Úna?

ÚNA—Ná h-abair rud mar sin, ní féidir go bhfuil fuath ag duine ar bith ort-sa.

MAC UI h-ANN.—Tar liom agus suidhfimid i gcúinne an tighe le chéile agus déarfaidh mé dhuit an t-abhrán do rinne mé dhuit. Is ort-sa rinneas é.

[Imthigheann siad go dtí an coirneull is faide ón stáid, agus suidheann siad anaice le chéile].

[Tig Síghle asteach].

SÍGHLE—Tháinig mé chugad chomh luath agus d’fheud mé.

MÁIRE—Céad fáilte rómhad.

SÍGHLE—Cad tá ar siúbhal agad anois?

MÁIRE—Ag tosughadh atámuid. Bhí aon phort amháin againn, agus anois tá an píobaire ag ól dighe. Tosóchaidh an damhsa arís nuair bhéidheas an píobaire réidh.

SÍGHLE—Tá na daoine ag bailiughadh asteach go maith, béidh damhsa breágh againn.

MÁIRE—Béidh a Shíghle, acht tá fear aca ann agus b’fhearr liom amuigh ná astigh é! Feuch é.

SÍGHLE—Is ar an bhfear fada donn atá tú ag caint, nach eadh? An fear sin atá ag cómhrádh chomh dlúth sin le Úna in san gcoirneull anois. Cá’r b’as é, no cia h-é féin?

MÁIRE—Sin é an sgraiste is mó tháinig i n-Éirinn ariamh. Tomás O h-Annracháin thugann siad air, acht Tomás Rógaire budh chóir do bhaisteadh air, i gceart. Óra! nach raibh an mí-ádh orm, é do theacht asteach chugainn, chor ar bith, anocht!

SÍGHLE—Cia ’n sórt duine é? Nach fear déanta abhrán as Chonnachtaibh é? Chualaidh mé caint air, cheana, agus deir siad nach bhfuil damhsóir eile i n-Éirinn chomh maith leis: budh mhaith liom a fheicsint ag damhsa.

MÁIRE—Gráin go deó ar an mbitheamhnach! Tá’s agam-sa go ró mhaith cia ’n cineál atá ann, mar bhí sórt carthanais idir é féin agus an chéad-fhear do bhí agam-sa, agus is minic chualaidh mé ó Dhiarmuid bocht (go ndéanaidh Dia trócaire air!) cia ’n sórt duine bhí ann. Bhí sé ’na mháighistir sgoile, shíos i gConnachtaibh, acht bhíodh h-uile chleas aige budh mheasa ná a chéile. Ag síor-dheanamh abhrán do bhíodh sé, agus ag ól uisge beatha, agus ag cur imris ar bonn ameasg na gcómharsan le n-a chuid cainte. Deir siad nach bhfuil bean in sna cúig cúigibh nach meallfadh sé. Is measa é ná Dómhnall na Gréine fad ó. Acht budh é deireadh an sgéil gur ruaig an sagart amach as an bparráiste é ar fad. Fuair sé áit eile ann sin, acht lean sé do na cleasannaibh céadna, gur ruaigeadh amach arís é, agus arís eile, leis. Agus anois ní’l áit ná teach ná dadaidh aige acht é bheith ag gabhail na tíre, ag déanamh abhrán agus ag fághail lóistín na h-oidhche ó na daoinibh. Ní dhiúltóchaidh duine ar bith é, mar tá faitcheas orra roimhe. Is mór an file é, agus b’éidir go ndéanfadh sé rann ort do ghreamóchadh go deó dhuit, dá gcuirfeá fearg air.

SÍGHLE—Go bhfóiridh Dia orrainn. Acht créad do thug asteach anocht é?

MÁIRE—Bhí sé ag taisteal na tíre, agus chualaidh sé go raibh damhsa le bheith ann so, agus tháinig sé asteach, mar bhí eólas aige orrainn,—bhí sé mór go leór le mo chéad-fhear. Is iongantach mar tá sé ag déanamh amach a shlighe-bheatha, chor ar bith, agus gan aige acht a chuid abhrán. Deir siad nach bhfuil áit a rachaidh sé nach dtugann na mná grádh, agus nach dtugann na fir fuath dhó.

SÍGHLE [ag breith ar ghualainn Mháire]—Iompuigh do cheann, a Mháire, feuch é anois; é féin agus d’ inghean-sa, agus a gcinn le chéile. Tá sé tar éis abhráin do dhéanamh dí, agus tá sé dh’á mhúnadh dhí ag cogarnuigh in a cluais. Óra, an bitheamhnach! béidh sé ag cur a chuid pistreóg ar Úna anois.

MÁIRE—Och ón! go deó! Nach mí-ádhamhail tháinig sé! Tá sé ag caint le Úna h-uile mhóimid ó tháinig sé asteach, trí uaire ó shoin. Rinne mé mo dhithchioll le n-a sgaradh ó chéile, acht theip sé orm. Tá Úna bhocht tugtha do h-uile shórt sean-abhrán agus sean-ráiméis de sgéaltaibh, agus is binn leis an gcréatúir bheith ag éisteacht leis, mar tá béal aige sin do bhréagfadh an smólach de’n chraoibh. Tá’s agad go bhfuil an pósadh réidhte socruighthe idir Úna agus Séamas O h-Iarainn ann sin, ráithe ó’n lá indiú. Feuch Séamus bocht ag an dorus agus é ag faire orra. Tá brón agus ceannfaoi air. Is furus a fheicsint go mbudh mhaith le Séamus an sgraisde sin do thachtadh an móimid seo. Tá faitchios mór orm go mbéidh an ceann iompuighthe ar Úna le n-a chuid bhladaireacht. Chomh cinnte a’s tá mé beó, tiucfaidh olc as an oidhche seo.

SÍGHLE—Agus nach bhféadfá a chur amach?

MÁIRE—D’fhéadfainn; ní’l duine ann so do chuideóchadh leis, muna mbeith bean no dó. Acht is file mór é, agus tá mallacht aige do sgoiltfeadh na crainn agus do réabfadh na clocha. Deir siad go lobhthann an síol in san talamh, agus go n-imthigheann a gcuid bhainne ó na bath nuair thugann file mar é sin a mhallacht dóibh, má ruaigeann duine as an teach é. Acht dá mbeith sé amuigh, mise mo bhannuidhe nach leigfinn asteach arís é.

SÍGHLE.—Dá rachadh sé féin amach go toileamhail, ní bheith aon bhrigh in a chuid mhallacht ann sin?

MÁIRE—Ní bheith. Acht ní rachaidh sé amach go toileamhail, agus ní thig liom-sa a ruagadh amach ar eagla a mhallacht.

SÍGHLE—Feuch Séamus bocht. Tá sé dul anonn go h-Úna.

[Éirigheann Séamus ⁊ téidheann sé go h-Úna.]

SÉAMUS—An ndamhsóchaidh tú an ríl seo liom-sa, a Úna, nuair bhéidheas an píobaire réidh.

MAC UI h-ANN. [ag éirghe]—Is mise Tomás O h-Annracháin, agus tá mé ag labhairt le Úna Ní Ríogáin anois, agus chomh fad agus bhéidheas fonn uirre-se bheith ag caint liom-sa ní leigfidh mé d’aon dhuine eile do theacht eadrainn.

SÉAMUS [gan aire ar Mac Ui h-Annracháin]—Nach ndamhsóchaidh tú liom, a Úna?

MAC UI h-ANN. [go fíochmhar]—Nár dhubhairt mé leat anois gur liom-sa do bhí Úna Ní Ríogáin ag caint? Imthigh leat ar an móimid, a bhodaigh, agus ná tóg clampar ann so.

SÉAMUS—A Úna—

MAC UI h-ANN. [ag béicil]—Fág sin!

[Imthigheann Séamas agus tig sé go dtí an bheirt shean-mhnaoi.]

SÉAMUS—A Mháire Ní Ríogáin, tá mé ag iarraidh cead ort-sa an sgraiste mí-ádhamhail meisgeamhail sin do chaitheamh amach as an tigh. Má leigeann tú dham, cuirfidh mise agus mo bheirt dhearbhráthar amach é, agus nuair bhéidheas sé amuigh sochróchaidh mise leis.

MÁIRE—O! a Shéamais, ná déan. Tá faitchios orm roimhe. Tá mallacht aige sin do sgoiltfeadh na crainn, deir siad.

SÉAMUS—Is cuma liom má tá mallacht aige do leagfadh na spéartha. Is orm-sa tuitfidh sé, agus cuirim mo dhúbhshlán faoi. Dá marbhóchadh sé mé ar an móimid ní leigfidh mé dhó a chuid phistreóg do chur ar Úna. A Mháire, tabhair ’m cead.

SÍGHLE—Ná déan sin, a Shéamuis, tá cómhairle níos fearr ’ná sin agam-sa.

SÉAMUS—Cia an chómhairle í sin?

SÍGHLE—Tá slighe in mo cheann agam le n-a chur amach. Má leanann sibh-se mo chómhairle-se rachaidh se féin amach chomh socair le uan, d’á thoil féin, agus nuair gheobhaidh sibh amuigh é, buailidh an dorus air, agus ná leigidh asteach arís go bráth é.

MÁIRE—Rath ó Dhia ort, agus innis dam cad é tá in do cheann.

SÍGHLE—Déanfamaoid é chomh deas agus chomh simplidhe agus chonnaic tú ariamh. Cuirfimid é ag casadh sugáin go bhfuighimid amuigh é, agus buailfimid an dorus air ann sin.

MÁIRE—Is forus a rádh, acht ní forus a dhéanamh. Déarfaidh sé leat “déan sugán, thú féin.”

SÍGHLE—Déarfamaoid, ann sin, nach bhfacaidh duine ar bith ann so sugán féir ariamh, nach bhfuil duine ar bith an san tigh ar féidir leis ceann aca dhéanamh.

SÉAMUS—Acht an gcreidfidh sé rud mar sin—nach bhfacamar sugán riamh?

SÍGHLE—An gcreidfidh sé, an eadh? Creidfidh sé rud ar bith chreidfeadh sé go raibh sé féin ’na righ ar Éirinn nuair bhfuil glaine ólta aige, mar atá anois.

SÉAMUS—Acht cad é an croiceann chuirfeas sinn ar an mbréig seo,—go bhfuil sugán féir ag teastál uainn?

MÁIRE—Smuaín ar chroicionn do chur air sin, a Shéamus.

SÉAMUS—Déarfaidh mé go bhfuil an ghaoth ag eirighe agus go bhfuil cúmhdach an tighe d’á sguabadh leis an stoirm, agus go gcaithfimid sugán tharraingt air.

MÁIRE—Acht má éisteann sé ag an dorus béidh fhios aige nach bhfuil gaoth ná stoirm ann. Smuaín ar chroicionn eile, a Shéamuis.

SÍGHLE—’Nois, tá an chómhairle cheart agam-sa. Abair go bhfuil cóiste leagtha ag bonn an chnuic, agus go bhfuil siad ag iarraidh sugáin leis an gcóiste do leasughadh. Ní fheicfidh sé chomh fada sin ó’n dorus, agus ní bhéidh fhios aige nach fíor é.

MÁIRE—Sin é an sgéal, a Shíghle. ’Nois, a Shéamuis, gabh imeasg na ndaoine agus leig an rún leó. Innis dóibh cad tá aca le rádh—nach bhfacaidh duine ar bith san tír seo sugán féir riamh—agus cuir croicionn maith ar an mbréig, thú féin.

[Imthigheann Séamus ó dhuine go duine ag cogarnaigh leó. Tosaigheann cuid aca ag gáire. Tagann an píobaire agus tosuigheann sé ag seinm. Éirigheann trí no ceathrar de chúplachaibh, agus tosuigheann siad ag damhsa. Imthigheann Séamas amach.]

MAC UI h-ANN. [ag éirighe tar éis a bheith ag féachaint orra ar feadh cúpla móimid]—Psuit! stopagaidh! An dtugann sibh damhsa ar an strapaireacht sin! Tá sibh ag bualadh an urláir mar bheith an oiread sin d’eallach. Tá sibh chomh trom lé bulláin, agus chomh ciotach le asail. Go dtachtar mo phíobán dá mb’fhearr liom bheith ag féachaint orraibh ’ná ar an oiread sin lachain bacach, ag léimnigh ar fud an tigh ar leath-chois! Fágaidh an t-urlár fá Úna Ní Ríogáin agus fúm-sa.

FEAR [atá dul ag damhsa]—Agus cad fáth a bhfágfamaois an t-urlár fút-sa?

MAC UI h-ANN.—Tá an eala ar bhruach na toinne, tá an Phoénics Ríoghdha, tá péarla an bhrollaigh bháin, tá an Bhénus ameasg na mban, tá Úna Ní Ríogáin ag seasamh suas liom-sa, agus áit ar bith a n-éirigheann sise suas úmhluigheann an ghealach agus an ghrian féin dí, agus úmhlóchaidh sibh-se. Tá sí ró áluinn agus ró spéireamhail le h-aon bhean eile do bheith ’na h-aice. Acht fan go fóil, sul thaisbeánaim daoibh mar gnidheann an buachaill breágh Connachtach rinnce, déarfaidh mé an t-abhrán daoibh do rinne mé do Reult Chúige Múmhan—d’Úna ní Ríogáin. Éirigh, a ghrian na mban, agus déarfamaoid an t-abhrán le chéile, gach le bhéarsa, agus ann sin múinfimid dóibh cad é is rinnce fíreannach ann.

[Eirigheann siad ⁊ gabhaid abhrán].

MAC UI h-ANN.

’Sí Úna bhán, na gruaige buidhe,

An chúilfhionn ’chrádh in mo lár mo chroidhe,

Is ise mo rún, ’s mo chumann go buan,

Is cuma liom choidhche bean acht í.

ÚNA.

A bháird na súile duibhe, is tú

Fuair buaidh in san saoghal a’s clú,

Goirim do bhéal, a’s molaim thú féin,

Do chuiris mo chroidhe in mo chléibh amúgh.

MAC UI h-ANN.

’Sí Úna bhán na gruaige óir,

Mo shearc, mo chumann, mo ghrádh, mo stór.

Rachaidh sí féin le n-a bárd i gcéin,

Do loit sí a chroidhe in a chléibh go mór.

ÚNA.

Níor bhfhada oidhche liom, ná lá,

Ag éisteacht le do chómhrádh breágh.

Is binne do bhéal ná seinm na n-éan,

Óm’ chroidhe in mo chléibh do fuairis grádh.

MAC UI h-ANN.

Do shiúbhail mé féin an domhan iomlán,

Sacsana, Éire, an Fhrainc ’s an Spáin,

Ní fhacaidh mé féin i mbaile ná’ ’gcéin

Aon ainnir fa’n ngréin mar Úna bhán.

ÚNA.

Do chualaidh mise an chláirseach bhinn

San tsráid sin Chorcaigh, ag seinm linn,

Is binne go mór liom féin do ghlór,

Is binne go mór do bhéal ’ná sin.

MAC UI h-ANN.

Do bhí mé féin mo chadhan bocht, tráth,

Níor léir dham oidhche thar an lá,

Go bhfacaidh mé í, do ghoid mo chroidhe,

A’s do dhíbir dhíom mo bhrón ’s mo chrádh.

ÚNA.

Do bhí mé féin ar maidin indé

Ag siúbhal cois coille le fáinne an laé,

Bhí eun ann sin ag seinm go binn,

“Mo ghrádh-sa an grádh, a’s nach áluinn é!”

[Glaodh agus torann, agus buaileann Séamus O h-Iarainn an dorus asteach].

SÉAMUS—Ob ob ú, och on í ó, go deó! Tá an cóiste mór leagtha ag bonn an chnuic. Tá an mála a bhfuil litreacha na tíre ann pléasgtha, agus ní’l sreang ná téad ná rópa ná dadaidh aca le na cheangailt arís. Tá siad ag glaodhach amach anois ar sugán féir do dhéanamh dóibh—cibé sórt ruid é sin—agus deir siad go mbéidh na litreacha ⁊ an cóiste caillte ar easbhuidh sugáin féir le n-a gceangailt.

MAC UI h-ANN—Na bí ’g ár mbodhrughadh! Tá ár n-abhrán ráidhte againn, agus anois támaoid dul ag damhsa. Ní thagann an cóiste an bealach sin ar aon chor.

SÉAMUS—Tagann sé an bealach sin anois—acht is dóigh gur strainséar thusa, agus nach bhfuil eólas agad air. Nach dtagann an cóiste thar an gcnoc anois a chómharsanna?

IAD UILE—Tagann, tagann go cinnte.

MAC UI h-ANN.—Is cuma liom, má thagann no muna dtagann. Acht b’fearr liom fiche cóiste bheith briste ar an mbóthar ná go gcuirfeá Péarla an bhrollaigh bháin ó dhamhsa dúinn. Abair leis an gcóisteóir rópa do chasadh dhó féin.

SÉAMUS—O murder, ní thig leis, tá an oiread sin de fuinneamh agus de theas agus de shpreacadh agus de lúth in sna caplaibh aigeanta sin go gcaithidh mo chóisteór bocht breith ar a gcinn. Is ar éigin-báis is féidir leis a gceapadh ná a gcongbháil. Tá faitchios a anam’ air go n-eireóchaidh siad in a mhullach, agus go n-imtheóchaidh siad uaidh de ruaig. Tá h-uile sheitreach asta, ní fhacaidh tú riamh a leithéid de chaplaibh fiadháine!

MAC UI h-ANN.—Má tá, tá daoine eile ins an gcóiste a dhéanfas rópa má’s éigin do’n chóisteóir bheith ag ceann na gcapall: fág sin agus leig dúinn damhsa.

SÉAMUS—Tá; tá triúr eile ann, acht maidir le ceann aca, tá sé ar leath-láimh, agus fear eile aca,—tá sé ag crith agus ag crathadh leis an sgannradh fuair sé, ní thig leis seasamh ar a dhá chois leis an eagla atá air; agus maidir leis an tríomhadh fear ní’l duine ar bith sin tír do leigfeadh an focal sin “rópa” as a bheul in a fhiadhnuise, mar nach le rópa do chrochadh a athair féin anurraigh, mar gheall ar chaoirigh do ghoid.

MAC UI h-ANN.—Casadh fear agaibh féin sugán dó, mar sin, agus fágaidh an t-urlár fúinn. [Le Úna.] ’Nois, a réilt na mban, taisbeán dóibh mar imthigheann Iúnó imeasg na ndéithe, no Helen fá’r sgriosadh an Traoi Dar mo láimh, ó d’éag Déirdre, fá’r cuireadh Naoise mac Uisneach chum báis, ní’l a hoidhre i nÉirinn indiú acht thu féin. Tosóchamaoid.

SÉAMUS—Ná tosaigh, go mbéidh an sugán againn. Ní thig linn-ne sugán chasadh. Ní’l duine ar bith annso ar féidir leis rópa do dhéanamh!

MAC UI h-ANN—Ní’l duine ar bith ann so ar féidir leis rópa dhéanamh!!

IAD UILE—Ní’l.

SÍGHLE—Agus is fíor dhaoibh sin. Ní dhearnaidh duine ar bith ins an tír seo sugán féir ariamh, ní mheasaim go bhfuil duine in san tigh seo do chonnaic ceann aca, féin, acht mise. Is maith cuimhnighim-se, nuair nach raibh ionnam acht girseach bheag go bhfacaidh mé ceann aca ar ghabhar do rug mo shean-athair leis as Chonnachtaibh. Bhíodh na daoine uile ag rádh, “ara! cia ’n sórt ruid é sin chor ar bith?” agus dubhairt seisean gur sugán do bhí ann, agus go gnidís na daoine a leithéid sin shíos i gConnachtaibh. Dubhairt sé go rachadh fear aca ag congbháil an fhéir agus fear eile d’á chasadh. Congbhóchaidh mise an féar anois, má théidheann tusa d’á chasadh.

SÉAMUS—Bhéarfaidh mise glac féir asteach.

[Imthigheann sé amach.]

MAC UI h-ANN [ag gabháil]—

Déanfaidh mé cáineadh cúige Múmhan,

Ní fhágann siad an t-urlár fúinn;

Ní’l ionnta casadh sugáin, féin!

Cúige Mumhan gan snas gan seun!

Gráin go deó ar chúige Múmhan,

Nach bhfágann siad an t-urlár fúinn;

Cúige Múmhan na mbaillseóir mbréan,

Nach dtig leó casadh sugáin, féin!

SÉAMUS [ar ais]—Seo an féar anois.

MAC UI h-ANN.—Tabhair ’m ann so é. Taisbeánfaidh mise dhaoibh cad dhéanfas an Connachtach deagh-mhúinte deaslámhach, an Connachtach cóir cliste ciallmhar, a bhfuil lúth agus lán-stuaim aige in a láimh, agus ciall in a cheann, agus coráiste in a chroidhe, acht gur sheól mi-ádh agus mór-bhuaidhreadh an tsaoghail é ameasg leibidíní chúige Mumhan, atá gan aoirde gan uaisle, atá gan eólas ar an eala thar an lachain, no ar an ór thar an bprás, no ar an lile thar an bhfóthanán, no ar reult na mbán óg, agus ar phéarla an bhrollaigh bháin, thar a gcuid straoille agus giobach féin. Tabhair ’m cipín!

[Séachaideann fear maide dhó, cuireann sé sop féir timchioll air; tosaigheann sé dh’á chasadh, agus Síghle ag tabhairt amach an fhéir dó.]

MAC UI h-ANN. [ag gabhail]—

Tá péarla mná ’tabhairt soluis dúinn,

Is í mo ghrádh, is í mo rún,

’S í Úna bhán, an righ-bhean chiuin,

’S ní thuigid na Muimhnigh leath a stuaim.

Atá na Muimhnigh seo dallta ag Dia,

Ní aithnighid eala thar lacha liath,

Acht tiucfaidh sí liom-sa, mo Hélen bhreágh

Mar a molfar a pearsa ’s a sgéimh go bráth.

Ara! mhuise! mhuise! mhuise! Nach é seo an baile breágh lághach, nach é seo an baile thar bárr, an baile a mbíonn an oiread sin rógaire crochta ann nach mbíonn aon easbhuidh rópa ar na daoinibh, leis an méad rópa ghoideann siad ó’n gcrochaire. Cráidhteacháin atá ionnta. Tá na rópaidh aca agus ní thugann siad uatha iad—acht go gcuireann siad an Connachtach bocht ag casadh sugáin dóibh! Níor chas siad sugán féir in san mbaile seo ariamh—agus an méad sughán cnáibe atá aca de bhárr an chrochaire!

Gnidheann Connachtach ciallmhar

Rópa dhó féin,

Acht goideann an Muimhneach

Ó’n gcrochaire é!

Go bhfeicidh mé rópa

Breágh cnáibe go fóill

D’á fhásgadh ar sgóigibh

Gach aoinne ann so!

Mar gheall ar aon mhnaoi amháin d’imthigheadar na Gréagaigh, agus níor stopadar agus níor mhór-chómhnuigheadar no gur sgriosadar an Traoi, agus mar gheall ar aon mhnaoi amháin béidh an baile seo damanta go deó na ndeór agus go bruinne an bhrátha, le Dia na ngrás, go síorruidhe suthain, nuair nár thuigeadar gur ab í Úna ní Ríogáin an dara Helen do rugadh in a measg, agus go rug sí bárr áille ar Helen agus ar Bhénus, ar a dtáinig roimpi agus ar dtiucfas ’na diaigh.

Acht tiucfaidh sí liom mo phéarla mná

Go cúige Connacht na ndaoine breágh;

Geobhaidh sí féasta fíon a’s feóil,

Rinnceanna árda, spórt a’s ceól.

O! mhuise! mhuise! nár éirighidh an ghrian ar an mbaile seo, agus nár lasaidh réalta air, agus nár—

[Tá sé san am so amuigh thar an dorus. Éirigheann na fir uile agus dúnaid é d’aon ruaig amháin air. Tugann Úna léim chum an doruis, acht beirid na mná uirri. Téidheann Séamus anonn chuici.]

ÚNA—O! O! O! ná cuirigidhe amach é. Leig ar ais é. Sin Tomás O h-Annrachain, is file é, is bárd é, is fear iongantach é. O leig ar ais é, ná déan sin air!

SÉAMUS—A Úna bhán, agus a chuisle dhíleas, leig dó. Tá sé imthighthe anois agus a chuid phistreóg leis. Béidh sé imthighthe as do cheann amárach, agus béidh tusa imhthighthe as a cheann-san. Nach bhfuil fhios agat go maith go mb’fearr liom thu ’ná céad míle Déirdre, agus gur tusa m’aon phéarla mná amháin d’á bhfuil in san domhan.

MAC UI h-ANN [amuigh, ag bualadh ar an dorus]—Fosgail! fosgail! fosgail! Leigidh asteach mé. O mo sheacht gcéad míle mallacht orraibh,

Mallacht na lag orraibh ’s na láidir,

Mallacht na sagart agus na mbráthair,

Mallacht na n-Easball agus an Phápa,

Mallacht na mbaintreabhach ’s na ngarlach.

Fosgail! fosgail! fosgail!

[Buaileann sé an dorus arís agus arís eile.]

SÉAMUS—Tá mé buidheach díbh a chómharsanna, agus béidh Úna buidheach díbh amarach. Buail leat, a sgraiste! déan do dhamhsa leat féin amuigh ann sin, anois! Ní bhfuighidh tú asteach ann so! Óra, a chómharsanna nach breágh é, duine do bheith ag éisteacht leis an stoirm taobh amuigh, agus é fhéin go socair sásta cois na teineadh. Buail leat! Buail leat. Cá ’uil Connacht anois?

[CRÍOCH.]

The Twisting of the Rope.

HANRAHAN.—A wandering poet.

SHEAMUS O’HERAN.—Engaged to OONA.

MAURYA.—The woman of the house.

SHEELA.—A neighbour.

OONA.—Maurya’s daughter.

Neighbours and a piper who have come to Maurya’s house for a dance.

SCENE.—A farmer’s house in Munster a hundred years ago. Men and women moving about and standing round the walls as if they had just finished a dance. HANRAHAN, in the foreground, talking to OONA.

The piper is beginning a preparatory drone for another dance, but SHEAMUS brings him a drink and he stops. A man has come and holds out his hand to OONA, as if to lead her out, but she pushes him away.

OONA.—Don’t be bothering me now; don’t you see I’m listening to what he is saying. [To HANRAHAN] Go on with what you were saying just now.

HANRAHAN.—What did that fellow want of you?

OONA.—He wanted the next dance with me, but I wouldn’t give it to him.

HANRAHAN.—And why would you give it to him? Do you think I’d let you dance with anyone but myself, and I here. I had no comfort or satisfaction this long time until I came here to-night, and till I saw yourself.

OONA.—What comfort am I to you?

HANRAHAN.—When a stick is half burned in the fire does it not get comfort when water is poured on it?

OONA.—But sure, you are not half burned?

HANRAHAN.—I am, and three quarters of my heart is burned, and scorched and consumed, struggling with the world and the world struggling with me.

OONA.—You don’t look that bad.

HANRAHAN.—Oh, Oona ni Regaun, you have not knowledge of the life of a poor bard, without house or home or havings, but he going and ever going a drifting through the wide world, without a person with him but himself. There is not a morning in the week when I rise up that I do not say to myself that it would be better to be in the grave than to be wandering. There is nothing standing to me but the gift I got from God, my share of songs; when I begin upon them, my grief and my trouble go from me, I forget my persecution and my ill luck, and now since I saw you Oona, I see there is something that is better even than the songs.

OONA.—Poetry is a wonderful gift from God, and as long as you have that, you are more rich than the people of stock and store, the people of cows and cattle.

HANRAHAN.—Ah, Oona, it is a great blessing but it is a great curse as well for a man, he to be a poet. Look at me, have I a friend in this world? Is there a man alive who has a wish for me, is there the love of anyone at all on me? I am going like a poor lonely barnacle goose throughout the world; like Usheen after the Fenians; every person hates me; you do not hate me, Oona?

OONA.—Do not say a thing like that, it is impossible that anyone would hate you.

HANRAHAN.—Come and we will sit in the corner of the room together, and I will tell you the little song I made for you, it is for you I made it. (They go to a corner and sit down together. SHEELA comes in at the door.)

SHEELA.—I came to you as quick as I could.

MAURYA.—And a hundred welcomes to you.

SHEELA.—What have you going on now?

MAURYA.—Beginning we are, we had one jig, and now the piper is drinking a glass. They’ll begin dancing again in a minute when the piper is ready.

SHEELA.—There are a good many people gathering in to you to-night. We will have a fine dance.

MAURYA.—Maybe so, Sheela, but there’s a man of them there, and I’d sooner him out than in.

SHEELA.—It’s about the long brown man you are talking isn’t it? The man that is in close talk with Oona in the corner. Where is he from and who is he himself?

MAURYA.—That’s the greatest vagabond ever came into Ireland; Tumaus Hanrahan they call him, but it’s Hanrahan the rogue he ought to have been christened by right. Aurah, wasn’t there the misfortune on me, him to come in to us at all to-night.

SHEELA.—What sort of a person is he? Isn’t he a man that makes songs, out of Connacht? I heard talk of him before, and they say there is not another dancer in Ireland so good as him. I would like to see him dance.

MAURYA.—Bad luck to the vagabond! It is well I know what sort he is, because there was a kind of friendship between himself and the first husband I had, and it’s often I heard from poor Diarmuid—the Lord have mercy on him!—what sort of person he was. He was a schoolmaster down in Connacht, but he used to have every trick worse than another, ever making songs he used to be, and drinking whiskey and setting quarrels afoot among the neighbours with his share of talk. They say there isn’t a woman in the five provinces that he wouldn’t deceive. He is worse than Donal na Greina long ago. But the end of the story is that the priest routed him out of the parish altogether; he got another place then, and followed on at the same tricks until he was routed out again, and another again with it. Now he has neither place nor house nor anything, but he to be going the country, making songs and getting a night’s lodging from the people, nobody will refuse him, because they are afraid of him. He’s a great poet, and maybe he’d make a rann on you that would stick to you for ever, if you were to anger him.

SHEELA.—God preserve us, but what brought him in to-night?

MAURYA.—He was travelling the country and he heard there was to be a dance here, and he came in because he knew us, he was rather great with my first husband. It is wonderful how he is making out his way of life at all, and he with nothing but his share of songs. They say that there is no place that he’ll go to, that the women don’t love him and that the men don’t hate him.

SHEELA.—(Catching MAURYA by the shoulder) Turn your head, Maurya, look at him now, himself and your daughter, and their heads together; he’s whispering in her ear; he’s after making a poem for her and he’s whispering it in her ear. O the villain, he’ll be putting his spells on her now.

MAURYA.—Ohone, go deo! isn’t it a misfortune that he came. He’s talking every moment with Oona since he came in three hours ago. I did my best to separate them from each other, but it failed me. Poor Oona is given up to every sort of old songs and old made up stories, and she thinks it sweet to be listening to him. The marriage is settled between herself and Sheamus O’Herin there, a quarter from to-day. Look at poor Sheamus at the door, and he watching them. There is grief and hanging of the head on him; it’s easy to see that he’d like to choke the vagabond this minute. I am greatly afraid that the head will be turned on Oona with his share of blathering. As sure as I am alive there will come evil out of this night.

SHEELA.—And couldn’t you put him out?

MAURYA.—I could. There’s no person here to help him unless there would be a woman or two; but he is a great poet, and he has a curse that would split the trees and that would burst the stones. They say the seed will rot in the ground and the milk go from the cows when a poet like him makes a curse, if a person routed him out of the house; but if he were once out, I’ll go bail that I wouldn’t let him in again.

SHEELA.—If himself were to go out willingly, there would be no virtue in his curse then?

MAURYA.—There would not, but he will not go out willingly, and I cannot rout him out myself for fear of his curse.

SHEELA.—Look at poor Sheamus. He is going over to her (SHEAMUS gets up and goes over to her).

SHEAMUS.—Will you dance this reel with me, Oona, as soon as the piper is ready?

HANRAHAN (rising up).—I am Tumaus Hanrahan, and I am speaking now to Oona ni Regaun, and as long as she is willing to be talking to me, I will allow no living person to come between us.

SHEAMUS (without heeding HANRAHAN).—Will you not dance with me, Oona?

HANRAHAN (savagely).—Didn’t I tell you now that it was to me Oona ni Regaun was talking? Leave that on the spot you clown, and do not raise a disturbance here.

SHEAMUS.—Oona—

HANRAHAN (shouting)—Leave that! (SHEAMUS goes away and comes over to the two old women).

SHEAMUS.—Maurya Regaun, I am asking permission of you to throw that ill-mannerly, drunken vagabond out of the house. Myself and my two brothers will put him out if you will allow us; and when he’s outside I’ll settle with him.

MAURYA.—Sheamus, do not; I am afraid of him. That man has a curse they say that would split the trees.

SHEAMUS.—I don’t care if he had a curse that would overthrow the heavens, it is on me it will fall, and I defy him! If he were to kill me on the moment, I will not allow him to put his spells on Oona. Give me leave, Maurya.

SHEELA.—Do not, Sheamus. I have a better advice than that.

SHEAMUS.—What advice is that?

SHEELA.—I have a way in my head to put him out. If you follow my advice he will go out himself as quiet as a lamb, and when you get him out, slap the door on him, and never let him in again.

MAURYA.—Luck from God on you, Sheela, and tell us what’s in your head.

SHEELA.—We will do it as nice and easy as you ever saw. We will put him to twist a hay-rope till he is outside, and then we will shut the door on him.

SHEAMUS.—It’s easy to say, but not easy to do. He will say to you, “Make a hay-rope yourself.”

SHEELA.—We will say then that no one ever saw a hay-rope made, that there is no one at all in the house to make the beginning of it.

SHEAMUS.—But will he believe that we never saw a hay-rope?

SHEELA.—He’d believe it, is it? He’d believe anything, he’d believe that himself is king over Ireland when he has a glass taken, as he has now.

SHEAMUS.—But what excuse can we make for saying we want a hay-rope?

MAURYA.—Can’t you think of something yourself, Sheamus?

SHEAMUS.—Sure I can say the wind is rising, and I must bind the thatch, or it will be off the house.

SHEELA.—But he’ll know the wind is not rising if he does but listen at the door. You must think of some other excuse, Sheamus.

SHEAMUS.—Wait, I have a good idea now; say that there is a coach upset at the bottom of the hill, and that they are asking for a hay-rope to mend it with. He can’t see as far as that from the door, and he wont know it’s not true it is.

MAURYA.—That’s the story, Sheela. Now, Sheamus, go among the people and tell them the secret. Tell them what they have to say, that no one at all in this country ever saw a hay-rope, and put a good skin on the lie yourself. (SHEAMUS goes from person to person whispering to them, and some of them begin laughing. The piper has begun playing. Three or four couples rise up).

HANRAHAN (after looking at them for a couple of minutes).—Whisht! Let ye sit down! Do ye call that dragging, dancing? You are tramping the floor like so many cattle. You are as heavy as bullocks, as awkward as asses. May my throat be choked if I would not rather be looking at as many lame ducks hopping on one leg through the house. Leave the floor to Oona ni Regaun and to me.

ONE OF THE MEN GOING TO DANCE.—And for what would we leave the floor to you?

HANRAHAN.—The swan of the brink of the waves, the royal phœnix, the pearl of the white breast, the Venus amongst the women, Oona ni Regaun is standing up with me, and any place where she rises up the sun and the moon bow to her, and so shall ye yet. She is too handsome, too sky-like for any other woman to be near her. But wait awhile! Before I’ll show you how the fine Connacht boy can dance, I will give you the poem I made on the star of the province of Munster, on Oona ni Regaun. Get up, O sun among women, and we will sing the song together, verse about, and then we’ll show them what right dancing is! (OONA rises).

HANRAHAN.

She is white Oona of the yellow hair,

The Coolin that was destroying my heart inside me;

She is my secret love and my lasting affection,

I care not for ever for any woman but her.

OONA.

O bard of the black eye, it is you

Who have found victory in the world and fame;

I call on yourself and I praise your mouth;

You have set my heart in my breast astray.

HANRAHAN.

O fair Oona of the golden hair,

My desire my affection, my love and my store

Herself will go with her bard afar;

She has hurt his heart in his breast greatly.

OONA.

I would not think the night long nor the day,

Listening to your fine discourse;

More melodious is your mouth than the singing of the birds,

From my heart in my breast you have found love.

HANRAHAN.

I walked myself the entire world,

England, Ireland, France and Spain;

I never saw at home or afar

Any girl under the sun like fair Oona.

OONA.

I have heard the melodious harp

On the street of Cork playing to us;

More melodious by far did I think your voice

More melodious by far your mouth than that.

HANRAHAN.

I was myself one time a poor barnacle goose,

The night was not plain to me more than the day

Until I beheld her, she is the love of my heart,

That banished from me my grief and my misery.

OONA.

I was myself on the morning of yesterday

Walking beside the wood at the break of day;

There was a bird there was singing sweetly

How I love love, and is it not beautiful.

(A shout and a noise, and SHEAMUS O’HERAN rushes in.)

SHEAMUS.—Ububu! Ohone-y-o, go deo! The big coach is overthrown at the foot of the hill! The bag in which the letters of the country are is bursted, and there is neither tie nor cord nor rope nor anything to bind it up. They are calling out now for a hay sugaun, whatever kind of thing that is; the letters and the coach will be lost for want of a hay sugaun to bind them.

HANRAHAN.—Do not be bothering us; we have our poem done and we are going to dance. The coach does not come this way at all.

SHEAMUS.—The coach does come this way now, but sure you’re a stranger and you don’t know. Doesn’t the coach come over the hill now, neighbours?

ALL.—It does, it does, surely.

HANRAHAN.—I don’t care whether it does come or whether it doesn’t. I would sooner twenty coaches to be overthrown on the road than the pearl of the white breast to be stopped from dancing to us. Tell the coachman to twist a rope for himself.

SHEAMUS.—O murder, he can’t. There’s that much vigour and fire and activity and courage in the horses that my poor coachman must take them by the heads, it’s on the pinch of his life he’s able to control them, he’s afraid of his soul they’ll go from him of a rout. They are neighing like anything, you never saw the like of them for wild horses.

HANRAHAN.—Are there no other people in the coach that will make a rope, if the coachman has to be at the horses’ heads? Leave that, and let us dance.

SHEAMUS.—There are three others in it, but as to one of them, he is one-handed, and another man of them, he’s shaking and trembling with the fright he got; its not in him now to stand up on his two feet with the fear that’s on him, and as for the third man, there isn’t a person in this country would speak to him about a rope at all, for his own father was hanged with a rope last year for stealing sheep.

HANRAHAN.—Then let one of yourselves twist a rope so, and leave the floor to us. [To OONA] Now, O star of women, show me how Juno goes among the gods, or Helen for whom Troy was destroyed. By my word, since Deirdre died, for whom Naoise, son of Usnech, was put to death, her heir is not in Ireland to-day but yourself. Let us begin.

SHEAMUS.—Do not begin until we have a rope, we are not able to twist a rope, there’s nobody here can twist a rope.

HANRAHAN.—There’s nobody here is able to twist a rope?

ALL.—Nobody at all.

SHEELA.—And that’s true; nobody in this place ever made a hay sugaun. I don’t believe there’s a person in this house who ever saw one itself but me. It’s well I remember when I was a little girsha that I saw one of them on a goat that my grandfather brought with him out of Connacht. All the people used to be saying: Aurah, what sort of thing is that at all? And he said that it was a sugaun that was in it, and that people used to make the like of that down in Connacht. He said that one man would go holding the hay, and another man twisting it. I’ll hold the hay now, and you’ll go twisting it.

SHEAMUS.—I’ll bring in a lock of hay. [He goes out.]

HANRAHAN.

I will make a dispraising of the province of Munster:

They do not leave the floor to us,

It isn’t in them to twist even a sugaun;

The province of Munster without nicety, without prosperity!

Disgust for ever on the province of Munster,

That they do not leave us the floor;

The province of Munster of the foul clumsy people.

They cannot even twist a sugaun!

SHEAMUS [coming back].—Here’s the hay now.

HANRAHAN.—Give it here to me; I’ll show ye what the well-learned handy, honest, clever, sensible Connachtman will do, who has activity and full deftness in his hands, and sense in his head, and courage in his heart, but that the misfortune and the great trouble of the world directed him among the lebidins of the province of Munster, without honour, without nobility, without knowledge of the swan beyond the duck, or of the gold beyond the brass, or of the lily beyond the thistle, or of the star of young women and the pearl of the white breast beyond their own share of sluts and slatterns. Give me a kippeen (a man hands him a stick, he puts a wisp of hay round it, and begins twisting it, and SHEELA giving him out the hay).

HANRAHAN.

There is a pearl of a woman giving light to us;

She is my love; she is my desire;

She is fair Oona, the gentle queen-woman.

And the Munstermen do not understand half her courtesy.

These Munster men are blinded by God;

They do not recognise the swan beyond the grey duck,

But she will come with me, my fine Helen,

Where her person and her beauty shall be praised for ever.

Arrah, wisha, wisha, wisha, isn’t this the fine village, isn’t this the exceeding village! The village where there be that many rogues hanged that the people have no want of ropes with all the ropes that they steal from the hangman!

The sensible Connachtman makes

A rope for himself;

But the Munsterman steals it

From the hangman;

That I may see a fine rope,

A rope of hemp yet

A stretching on the throats

Of every person here!

On account of one woman only the Greeks departed, and they never stopped, and they never greatly stayed, till they destroyed Troy; and on account of one woman only this village shall be damned; go deo, ma neoir and to the womb of judgment, by God of the graces, eternally and everlastingly, because they did not understand that Oona ni Regaun is the second Helen, who was born in their midst, and that she overcame in beauty Deirdre and Venus, and all that came before or that will come after her!

But she will come with me, my pearl of a woman,

To the province of Connacht of the fine people,

She will receive feast, wine and meat,

High dances, sport and music!

O, wisha, wisha, that the sun may never rise upon this village, and that the stars may never shine on it, and that—. (He is by this time outside the door. All the men make a rush at the door, and shut it. OONA runs towards the door, but the women seize her. SHEAMUS goes over to her.)

OONA.—Oh, oh, oh, do not put him out, let him back, that is Tumaus Hanrahan; he is a poet, he is a bard, he is a wonderful man. O, let him back, do not do that to him!

SHEAMUS.—Oh, Oona bawn, acushla deelish, let him be, he is gone now, and his share of spells with him. He will be gone out of your head to-morrow, and you will be gone out of his head. Don’t you know that I like you better than a hundred thousand Deirdres, and that you are my one pearl of a woman in the world.

HANRAHAN (outside, beating on the door).—Open, open, open, let me in! Oh, my seven hundred thousand curses on you, the curse of the weak and of the strong, the curse of the poets and of the bards upon you! The curse of the priests on you and the friars! The curse of the bishops upon you and the Pope! The curse of the widows on you and the children! Open! (He beats at the door again and again.)

SHEAMUS.—I am thankful to ye, neighbours, and Oona will be thankful to ye to-morrow. Beat away you vagabond! Do your dancing out there with yourself now! Isn’t it a fine thing for a man to be listening to the storm outside, and himself quiet and easy beside the fire. Beat away, beat away! Where’s Connacht now?

BAKERIES:

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SKETCHES OF LIFE

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OPEN DAILY FROM OCTOBER 23RD TO NOVEMBER 2ND.

ADMISSION SIXPENCE, INCLUDING CATALOGUE.

“He seems to have a real imagination, a faculty that works directly upon the report of the eyes, and converts it into an expression of the feelings.”

R.A.M.S., in the “Pall Mall Gazette.”

Transcriber’s Notes

The play Casadh an tSugáin was originally printed in Cló Gaelach (Irish script), with lenition indicated by a dot over the affected consonant. This edition replaces the lenition dots with the letter “h,” as is standard in modern written Irish. The Irish text uses the Tironian et (⁊) rather than the Roman ampersand (&) to indicate “agus.”

As both plays are now set in Roman type, the formatting of each has been standardised, with, for example, stage directions in the Irish play set in italics and the formatting of the songs changed in the English version to match the Irish formatting.

The following changes and corrections have been made:

- p. 6: Added period after “Mr.” in phrase “Mr. MacGinlay’s Elis agus an bhean deirce has not this defect.”

- p. 9: Removed after “separated” in phrase “it is difficult to write well in a language which has been long separated from the ‘folk-speech’.”

- p. 11: Replaced “enthusiams” with “enthusiasms” in phrase “to create a sort of rallying point for the many literary enthusiasms and aspirations.”

- p. 12: Replaced “Rembrandts” with “Rembrandt’s” in phrase “Green landscapes are not required in Rembrandt’s portraits.”

- p. 13: Added period after phrase “this would have been a base vanity, and unworthy a Gaelic Leaguer.”

- p. 20: Added period after phrase “file Connachtach atá ar seachrán.”

- p. 20: Replaced “d’a” with “d’á” in phrase “mé ag éisteacht le n-a bhfuil seisean d’á rádh liom.”

- p. 20: Replaced “nocht” with “anocht” in phrase “go dtáinig mé ann so anocht.”

- p. 21: Replaced “anoish” with “anois” in phrase “sin le Úna in san gcoirneull anois.”

- p. 22: Replaced “Eirinn” with “Éirinn” in phrase “deir siad nach bhfuil damhsóir eile i n-Éirinn chomh maith leis.”

- p. 23: Replaced “Una” with “Úna” in phrase “A Úna—.”

- p. 23: Replaced “SÉAMAS” with “SÉAMUS” before phrase “Is cuma liom má tá mallacht aige do leagfadh na spéartha.”

- p. 27: Replaced “Seó” with “Seo” in phrase “Seo an féar anois.”

- p. 29: Replaced “mllacht” with “mallacht” in phrase “O mo sheacht gcéad míle mallacht orraibh.”

- p. 30: Added period after phrase “Engaged to OONA.”

- p. 31: Replaced “its” with “it’s” in phrase “it’s Hanrahan the rogue he ought to have been christened by right.”

- p. 32: Replaced “myself” with “himself” in phrase “there was a kind of friendship between himself and the first husband I had.”

- p. 32: Replaced “its” with “it’s” in phrase “and it’s often I heard from poor Diarmuid.”

- p. 36: Replaced “dont” with “don’t” in phrase “I don’t believe there’s a person in this house who ever saw one.”

- p. 36: Added exclamation mark after phrase “The province of Munster without nicety, without prosperity!”

- p. 38: Replaced “aud” with “and” in phrase “All the men make a rush at the door, and shut it.”

In addition, in several places in the English version of The Twisting of the Rope, “Shemus” has been replaced with “Sheamus” and “Mauyra” with “Maurya”; periods have silently been added after character names; and character names in stage directions have had small caps markup added.

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Table of Contents

SAMHAIN

Windlestraws.

The Irish Literary Theatre.

A Plea for a National Theatre in Ireland.

The Legend of Diarmuid and Grania.

CASADH an tSUGÁIN.

The Twisting of the Rope.

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