THE GAOL OF CLONMEL


How hard is my fortune, and vain my repining!
The strong rope of fate for this young neck is twining.
My strength is departed, my cheek sunk and sallow,
While I languish in chains in the gaol of Cluain Meala.

No boy in the village was ever yet milder,
I'd play with a child and my sport would be wilder.
I'd dance without tiring from morning till even,
And the goal-ball I'd strike to the lightning of heaven!

At my bed-foot decaying my hurl-bat is lying,
Through the boys of the village my goal-ball is flying
My horse 'mongst the neighbours neglected may fallow,
While I pine in my chains in the gaol of Cluain Meala.

Next Sunday the patron at home will be keeping,
And the young active hurlers the field will be sweeping.
With the dance of fair maidens the evening they'll hallow,
While this heart, once so gay, shall be cold in Cluain Meala.





English words of "Príosún Chluain Meala" by J J Callanan as printed in "Songs of the Irish" ed Donal O'Sullivan.

Literal translation of Gaelic song: (i) It will be a year tomorrow since I left home, to go to Ardpatrick, putting lace in my hat. Whiteboys were there, racing at Dunhallow(?), while I lie sad and lonely in the gaol of Clonmel. (ii) My bridle and saddle are lent out this long time, my hurley is warping behind my bed, my ball is being struck by the lads of the valley - and I would hit a goaling-stroke as high as the moon! (iii) Kerrymen, pray for me, I love your soft musical voices, 'tis little I ever thought that I Should not return to you alive: or that our three heads would be exhibited by them on three spikes, in the snow of the night-time, and other weather that might come! (iv) If you go to Iveragh, take the news to my people, that I am condemned on this spot, and only till Friday to live. Get together material for the wake, and a fine coffin for me. That is the end of O'Donnell! and pray for him always!