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Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna (1680-1756) is one of the four most prominent of the south Ulster and north Leinster poets in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. He has been described as ‘an Irish-speaking Christy Moore, an incisive ballad singing entertainer for a totally Irish-speaking community of poor people living at or below subsistence in the early 18th century.’ He was one of a school of ballad poetry that included Peadar Ó Doirnín, Art Mac Cumhaigh, and Séamas Dall Mac Cuarta.
Mac Giolla Ghunna was probably born in Fermanagh and, having initially studied to be a priest, settled for a career as a rake-poet. It has been remarked about his poetry that ‘of the handful of poems attributed to him, most are marked by a rare humanity, but none can match An Bonnán Buí (The Yellow Bittern) with its finely-judged blend of pathos and humour’. Although “Cathal Buí”, as he is still affectionately termed in the folklore of Bréifne, is now little known in Ireland, his masterpiece An Bonnán Buí is one of the best known songs in Irish. “An Bonnán Buí” was based in Lough MacNean, which is situated between Fermanagh and Cavan. A monument in his honour lies near there, which was unveiled by Cearbhall Ó Dálaigh.
A study of the Bréifne school of poetry is forthcoming from Pádraigín Ní Uallacháin. His memory is celebrated annually in his home country – Blacklion (Cavan) and Belcoo (Fermanagh), with a festival for young poets named in his honour, Féile Chathal Buí.
Is a bhonnáin bhuí bhoicht, sé mo léan i do luí thú, ’S do chnámha sínte faoi bhun na dtom, Do ghob ’s do scornach a bhí ar dhath an óir bhuí ’S do bhéilín ródheas faoi leaca lom’, Dá gcuirteá scéala faoi mo dhéinse Go raibh tú i ngéibheann leis an tart ar ball, Ó, bhainfinnse géimneach as leac Loch Éirne A d’fhliuchfadh do bhéal agus do chroí i do lár.
’S ní ba ná caoirigh atá mé a chaoineadh, An lon, an chéirseach nó an t-éinín glas, Ach mo bhonnán buí bocht a bhí lán de chroí, Is gur cosúil liom péin a shnua is a dhath, Bhíodh sé go síoraí ag ól na dí, ’S deir siad go mbímse amhlaidh seal Ach dheamhan deoir dá bhfaigheadsa nach scaoilfead siar é Ar eagla is go bhfaighinnse bás le tart.
’Gus dúirt mo bhean liom ligean den ól, Mar nach mbeinnse beo ach seal beag gearr, Séard a dúirt mé léithe go dtug sí a héitheach, Mar go mba fad ar mo shaolsa an deoch úd a fháil, ’S nach bhfeiceann sibh éan an phíobáin réidh, A chuaigh in éag leis an tart ar ball? Agus a chomharsanaí chléibhe, fliuchaigí bhur mbéil, Mar deoir dhe ní bhfaighidh sibh i ndiaidh bhur mbáis.
’S beidh an lá amárach mar an Domhnach, Is beidh mo phócaí-se fán go leor, Ó, siad mná an ósta a chloígh go mór mé, ’S leis an méid a d’ól mé a líon mo cheann, ’S níl ní dá bhreáichte anuas ón Ardrí A dtabharfainn air dhá bhiorán nó go bhfaighinn de braon, Agus a Rí na nGrásta, nach mór an feall é Nach dtug tú fáil dhom de réir mo chroí.
As sirens thanks to poor, my sorrow in you are lying, And your bones stretched beneath the bushes, your beak and throat were the color of the yellow gold and your lips very nice on bare flagstones, would gcuirteá news about my dhéinse you were in bondage to the thirst, Oh, I would sill Lough Erne géimneach from a to wet your mouth and your heart in the center.
And there was a sheep I cry, the blackbird, the thrush or the little green bird, But my yellow bittern poor full of heart, is that like myself in shnua is nothing, He was constantly drinking drink, and they say so mbímse turn but devil get that tear their scaoilfead not postponed for fear to die of thirst.
And my wife told me to let the drink, as I'd only live for a short time, consisted I said gray that she was in héitheach, As if all my life the drink in question to find, and do not you see that bird with the smooth neck, which expired with thirst? And neighbors bosom, wet your mouths, as you will not drop him after you die.
And tomorrow as Sunday is my pockets-he will be under a lot, Oh, women are the host I have adhered to, and the amount I drank my number one, and there's no two bhreáichte High King down from a would give it two or to obtain a pin drop, and King's grace, treachery is not given you found me in my heart.
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