Dán greannmhar

[Seáinín]

Cheap mé go mbainfeadh sibh sult as an dán seo. Is dócha go bhfaca cuid agaibh cheana féin é.

[size=4]”Micheál Mór agus City Sue”[/size]

nó

[size=4]”Grá agus gnéas in Éirinn”[/size]

I heard this story ó m’athair,
(If you haven’t Gaeilge it doesn’t matter.)
This rural Ireland tragic tale
Narrates a sad seductive scéal
Concerning Lust without discretion
– Agus beagnach Rudaí Eile freisin

Uair amháin – fadó fadó
On a little farm near Carraroe
Lived buachaill maith named Micheál Mór
An only son of thirty-four.
When work was done ag deireadh an lae,
He’d settle down with cupán tae
And seldom felt the call to stroll
Or spend the evening time ag ól.
His intellectual needs were drawn
From books like Peig and Íosagán.

And so it was – bliain in – bliain out
Our Micheál hadn’t moved about
He dreamt of cailíní – most men do –
But never sinned – an dtuigeann tú?

Meantime – up in Átha Cliath
A cailín deas had bright idea –
When laethanta saoire time came by
Decided she would like to try
Áit bheag chiúin like Carraroe –
(No foreign bia, not far to go.)

This cailín deas with eyes so blue
Was known in town as City Sue
The lusty buachaillí came crawling –
And all agreed she was go hálainn!
She left her fir in state of shock –
Ó Micheál Mór – bí cúramach!
This Scarlet Woman knows each trick –
She’s heading West – Fainic, a mhic!

An solas shone in the Parish Hall
For the local Fáinne Wearers Ball
Bhí Micheál ann – bhí Susie ann
Dressed in the most revealing gown!

Our brave Cú Chulainn of the West –
(his hurling medals cross his chest)
Exclaimed – when City Sue came in –
“In ainm Dé – bhuel – féach ar sin!”
Though nervous – still, he took a chance –
“Céad Míle Fáilte – will you dance?”
Go luath – on the floor they strut
Cheek to cheek – an craiceann nocht!

Cogar Sue into Micheál’s ear –
“Éist liom now – let’s disappear –
We’ll use my place – the door’s unlocked –
You’ll stay the night – Seomra a hocht!”
Chríost! Micheál’s ceann was in a spin –
Ní raibh she thinking smaointí mar sin! –
He blessed himself … this Jessabel!
Would surely damn his soul to hell!
He stood aghast – could hardly stutter –
so off he bolted – ar a rothar –
Díreach abhaile – into bed –
Decades of the Rosary said!

IARFHOCAL

Micheál Mór still sleeps alone –
In his leaba beag – Ochón, Ochón.
He often dreams of seomra a hocht
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN – Ó Micheál Bocht!

IARFHOCAL EILE

Agus níl smid bhréige ann. Bhuel, sin a rá, ní bfhuair mé an scéal seo ó
m’athair ach fuair Jim Mullarkey é óna athair féin agus d’fhoilsigh sé é sa
Dublin Opinion, Meithimh 1987.

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