Plea Rarkeh na Rourkough or Ye Irish wedding

Pléaráca na Ruarcach, do chualaigh gach duine,Dhá dtánic is dtiucfaidh is mairionn riamh beo;Bhidh seacht bhfithchid muc, mart agas caoraDhá gcasgairt don ghastraigh gach aon .Bhidh na páil uisge bheatha ann is na meadracha líonadh,Aig éirigídh dhúin air maidinn is aguinnbhidh an spóirt.Briseadh mo phíobasa, slaideadh mo phócasa,Loisgeadh mo bhraoisteasa, goideadh mo chlócasa,Chaill mo bhairéad, m’fallainn is m’fhilléad,Ó d’imigh na gcairead, mo sheacht beanacht leo.‘Sin suas an pléaraca, sin spreac air an gclársaigh,An bucsa sin, ‘Áine, agas sgallóig n-ól!’.

locht leannamhúint na Ruarcachcrathadh a gleiteach,Tráchuala siad torann is tromphléasg an cheoil;Gach aon acca air maidinn aig éirighidh gan caistriocan,Strachailt a gcuid bann na ndiaigh ionnsa ród.Nach láidir an seasadh don talamhbhidh futhfá,Gan pléasgadh sodar agas glug ionsa gach bróig!‘Do shaoghal agas do shláinte, ‘Mhaoileachluinn uadh hÉanagáin,Deir mo láimh is deas a dhaimhsigheas , ‘Mhársaill uadh Readacháin,Here’s to you, a mháthair, I pledge you, God save you,Caith thusa an sgála sin suas an do sgóig.Craith dhúinn an tsráideóg sin, sgar orthaidh an cháiteog sin,Buail kick ionsan ól agas praib ionsan ór.Sin suas an pléaraca, sin spreac ar an gclársaigh sin,An busca sin, ‘Áine, agas sgallóig n-ól!’.

A Rígh na ngrásda, bhfeucfása an ghastraighLionadh a gcraicne agas a lasadh phóit!Bhidh cráin rith bacaird air fad an gach sgian acca,A’ polladh, a’ gearradh go leor, leor, leor.‘Thug eitheach, a bhodaigh, ‘s é m’athairchuir Mainistéar na Búighle suas,Sliogach is Gaillimhe agas Carraigh Dhruim Rúsca fós.Iarla Chill Dara agas Biadhtach Chluan Ailte,D’eil agas d’ailtrom , agas fistrídh do Mhór.’Sin suas etc. etc.

‘A Righ na ngrásda, godéthóig an pléaráca ?.’Arsa ‘n Eagluis aig éirighidh ‘s a’ bagairt go mór. Spiorad Naomh Caistrioc do labhair gach aon accaAcht bata mór cnapach bog lán dorn.Tráshíl siad na caiplínidhcasgairt is do chiaradh,Fágadh an sagartna mheall castaigh fán mbord.D’éirigh na bráithretártháil na bruighne;Fágadh an tAthair Gáirdin air a thóin ionsa ngríosaigh,‘Ó bhidh gCionn tSáile ‘n Innis Chluan Mághglacadh na ngrádhuigh ón Pápa sa Róimh,Gurb iad na Seven Wise Masters bhidh air a thráthán,‘G ite na pótátaigh láimh ris an tigh mór’.

  • RIA MS 23 A 1: 81-2 (Nicholas Carolan, 2010, pp.88-89)
  • The revels of the O’Rourkes

    The revels of the O’Rourkes, everyone heard of them, Of all those who came or will come or who are living still; There were seven twenties of pigs, bullocks and sheep Being slaughtered for the throng every single day. There were pails of whisky there and methers being filled; When we rose in the morning, it is then we had the fun. My tobacco pipe was broken, my pocket was picked, My trousers were burned, my cloak was stolen, I lost my hat, my mantle and my hood, Since the friends [?] have left, my seven blessings go with them. ‘Raise up the merriment, play a lively piece on the harp, Get that snuff-box, Anne, and a splash to drink!’. The followers of the O’Rourkes are shaking their feathers, Now that they’ve heard the noise and the outburst of music; Every one of them in the morning is rising up without blessing himself, And dragging his women after him on the road. Wasn’t it a strong stand the ground underneath them made, That it didn’t burst with all the trotting and the gurgling in every shoe! ‘Your life and your health, Maolseachlainn Ó hÉanagáin! By my hand, it’s well you dance, Marcella Ó Readacháin! Here’s to you, mother, I pledge you, God save you! Let you throw that cup up to your throat. Shake down that mattress for us, spread on it that covering, Give the drink a kick and jump on the gold [?]. Raise up the merriment, play a lively piece on the harp, Get that snuff-box, Anne, and a splash to drink!’. O King of graces, if you were to see the crowd Filling their skins and getting inflamed with drink! There was a forearm’s length in every knife they had, They were stabbing and cutting more than enough. ‘You lied, you churl, it was my father built The town of Boyle, Sligo and Galway and Carrick-on-Shannon also. The Earl of Kildare and the Hostel-keeper of Clonalty Raised and fostered me – ask Mór there!’ ‘O King of graces, who raised this racket?’, Said a clergyman, rising up and making a great threat. It wasn’t the Holy Spirit or Consecration that any of them were speaking about, But a big knobbly soft stick, the full of a fist. When they thought to attack and slaughter the chaplains, The priest was left in a twisted heap under the table. The brothers rose up to rescue him from the row; The Father Guardian was left on his backside in the ashes, [saying] ‘When I was in Kinsale or in Innis Chluan Mágh, Or accepting degrees from the Pope in Rome, It was the Seven Wise Masters that that one had in his oratory, Eating potatoes beside the big house.

    (Translation by Nicholas Carolan, 2010, p.89.)