Patrick Sarsfild
| TYPE | 3 - Complex Melody |
| TOPIC | Political / Jacobite |
| TUNE STRUCTURE | 9 bars |
| VERSE STRUCTURE | 16v 4l + 1l ch |
| TIME SIGNATURE |
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| KEY SIGNATURE | ♭ |
| TONAL CENTRE | G |
| INCIPIT | GGB♭AGB♭CD'EFG'G' |
| GENRE | Amhrán Mór |
| TEXT SOURCE | John O'Daly, The Poets and Poetry of Munster: A Selection of Irish Songs (Dublin: O' Daly, 1850; 2nd ed.), pp.270-79 |
| TUNE SOURCE | A Collection of the Most Celebrated Irish Tunes (Dublin: John and William Neal, 1724), p.26 |
| FIRST LINE | A Phádaic Sáirséal, slán go dtí tú |
| NOTATED INCIPIT | |
| This song laments the departure of the Jacobite hero Patrick Sarsfield, Earl of Lucan, after the Treaty of Limerick (1691). The song-text was first published only in 1850, in what appears to be a composite version of several sets of words. See Nicholas Carolan, ed. Celebrated Irish Tunes (1986; 2010 revised ed.), pp.98-9. | |
Slán chum Pádraic SáirséalÁ Phádaic Sáirséal, slán go dtí tú!Ó chuadhais don Fhrainc ‘s do champaidhe sgaoilte,Ag déanamh do ghearáin leis na ríghthe,‘S d’fhág tú Éire ‘gus Gaoidheil bhoicht claoidhte.Och, ochón! [repeated at the end of every verse]A Phádaic Sáirséal, is duine le Dia tú,Is beannaighthe an talamh ar shiubhail tú riamh air;Go mbeannaighe an ghealach gheal ‘s an ghrian duit,Ó thug tú an lá ó lámha Rígh Liam leat.A Phádaic Sáirséal, guidhe gach nduine leat,Mo ghuidhesi féin ‘s guidhe Mhic Muire leat,Ó thóigh tú an tÁth Caol ag gabháil tré Bhiorra dhuit,‘S gur ag Cuillinn Ó gCuanadh ‘buadhag leat Luimneach.Geabhadhsa siar an sliabhsa am’ aonar,‘S geabhad aniar arís más féidir;Is ann do chonarc mé an champa Gaodhlach,An dream bocht silte nár chuir lena chéile.Brise na Cruiminne ‘s brise na Bóinne,‘S an trímhúghadh brise ag Móta Ghráinne Óige,An ceathramhadh brise an Eachdhruim Dia Domhnaigh,‘S buaileag buille dhrum oruinn ag Tobar an Domhnaigh.Mo chúig céad slán chughaibh, a hallaoi Luimnidh,‘S chum na buidhni áluinn do bhí ‘nár gcuideachtadh;Bhidheach teinte cnámha ‘guinn is cárdaighe imeartha,‘S briathra Dé dhá léaghamh go minic dhúinn.A Lundain Doire, bolgach chughadsaAir nós na sgáile air lasa le púghdar!‘S a liacht farraire fada fionnlúbachGan fosg’ ón ngaoith, ná criadh dá gcumhdach.Do bhí mé air sliabh lá breagha gréine,Do chonarc na Sagsannaich a bhfochair a chéile;An cór capall ba dheise ‘bhí ‘n Éire,Ó! Coiméad dham na bodaigh go mbainfead gé asda.Is iomdha saighdiúir meaghrach meanamnachDo ghaibh an tslighesi le seacht seachtmhuineFae ghunadh, fae phíceadh, fae chloidheamh cinn airgid,Acht tá siad sínte shíos an Eachdhruim.‘Cia súd tall air chnoc Bheinn Éidir?’‘Saighdiúir bocht mé le Rígh Séamus;Do bhí mé anurraig an arm ‘s an éadach,Acht táim a mbliaghannadh ag iarraidh déirce.’Is é mo chreach mar do chailleamair Diarmuid,Bhí ceann an sgathfaire air halbart iarruinn;Bhí a chuid feola dá straca ‘s a bhratach dá stialladh,‘S gan faghail chasda ‘ge dá bhfaghach sé Dia air!Is é mo chreachsa an tsraith dá tógbhan,An dá fhear dhéag do bhí ós cionn Feorach;Mo dhias dearbhráthar, as iad is gleo liom,Acht mo chúig céad díothchuir Diarmuid an t-óigfhear!Do cuireadh an chéad bhrise oruinn ag droichead na Bóinne,An dara brise ag droichead na Sláinge,An trímhúghadh brise an Eachdhruim Uí Cheallaigh,‘S ‘Éire chúbhartha, mo chúig céad slán leat!An uair ‘las an teach bhí an deatach dár múchadh,‘S clan Bhil bhradaigh dár ngreada le púghdar;Ní’l aon volley-shot dá sgaoilidis fúinne,Ná fiafraidheach Colonel Mitchel ar leagadh Lord Lucan.Tá leasúghadh ag Ó Ceallaigh nach gainimh ná fuighleach,Acht saighdiúirídhe tapa ‘dhéanfadh gaisge le píceadh;A fhágfadh iad an Eachdhruim ‘na srathannadh sínte,Mar ‘bheidheach feoil chapaill ag madraidhe dhá sraoile.Annsúd atá siad, barr uaisle Éirionn,Diúicidhe, Búrcaig, ‘s mac Rígh Séamus;Captaoin Talbóid, croidhe na féile,‘S Pádraic Sáirséal, gradh ban Éirionn.John O’Daly 1850 (2nd ed.): 270-9 (Suggested in Nicholas Carolan, 2010, pp.98-99)
Farewell to Patrick SarsfieldO Patrick Sarsfield, may you go safely! Since you went to France with your warcamps broken up, Making your complaint to the kings, You have left Ireland and the poor Irish in defeat. O alas! O Patrick Sarsfield, you are a person favoured of God, Blessed is any ground that you ever walked upon; May the bright moon and the sun bless you, Since you won the day from the hands of King William. O Patrick Sarsfield, the prayer of everyone be with you, My own prayer and the prayer of the Son of Mary be with you, Since you took Áth Caol as you went through Birr, And since Limerick was won by you at Cuillinn Ó gCuanadh. I will go back along this mountain by myself, And I will return again if I can; It was there I saw the Irish warcamp, That poor exhausted crowd that would not cooperate with each other. The defeat at Cruimeann and the defeat at the Boyne, And the third defeat at Moate, The fourth defeat at Aughrim on Sunday, And we were struck a severe blow at Sunday’s Well. My five hundred farewells to you, o halls of Limerick, And to the fine companies that were with us; We had bonfires and the playing of cards, And the words of God being frequently read to us. O Londonderry, a pox be upon you Coloured as if lit with gunpowder [?]! And so many tall strong men with fair curls Without shelter from the wind, or clay to cover them. I was on the mountain one fine sunny day, I saw the English thronged together; A troop of horses, the finest that was in Ireland, O watch the churls for me until I steal a goose [?] from them. It is many the brisk spirited soldier Who has gone this way for seven weeks past Carrying a gun, a pike, and a silver-tipped sword, But they are now stretched down dead in Aughrim.’ Who is that on the hill of Howth?’ ‘I am a poor soldier of King James; Last year I had weapons and uniform, But this year I am begging for alms.’ It is my torment how we lost Dermot, How the head of that strong man was on an iron halberd, His flesh was being torn, and his flag was being ripped, And he had no chance of coming back [to life] were he to get God for it. It is my torment that a swathe [of the dead] is being taken up, The twelve men who were above Feorach; My two brothers, it is they who are of concern to me, But my five hundred losses, the young man Dermot! The first defeat was inflicted on us at the bridge of the Boyne, The second defeat at the bridge of Slane, The third defeat in Aughrim belonging to O’Kelly, And tormented [?] Ireland, my five hundred farewells to you! The time the house went on fire, the smoke was choking us, And the followers of thieving William were attacking us with gunpowder; There was no volley-shot that they would direct at us, But that colonel Mitchel would ask if Lord Lucan had been laid low. O’Kelly has fertiliser that is neither sand nor food-scraps, But swift soldiers who would do heroic deeds with a pike; They were left in Aughrim stretched dead in rows, Like horse-flesh being torn by dogs. Yonder [i.e. in Europe] they are, The pick of the nobles of Ireland, Dukes, Bourkes, and the son of King James; Captain Talbot, the heart of hospitality, And Patrick Sarsfield, the beloved of the women in Ireland.(Translation in Nicholas Carolan, 2010, pp.99-100)