A buachaill beag of three I was, When Cait first crossed my ears. I thought her name Britannia first, Learned better down the years. In youth I thought her voice a din; A racket loud and dull. A long eight years of listening hard, To keep her in my skull. A further six just up the road, Retracing covered ground, With filíocht and prós to boot. My will was heaven bound. It came the time to break the news For me and Cait to split. ‘I’ve known you all my life,’ I said ‘And see no sense in it.’ A woman glic said ‘Call her back, You soon might see her worth’ So Cait returned and sang to me The sweetest songs on Earth. I saw the fadhb, the botún mór. The réiteach now shone clear. See, Cait had countless scéalta óir That I had yet to hear. And as I heard her amhrán long I see rhythm emerge. I must throw off that dearcadh wrong; That beige and citrus scourge. But cinniúint had other plans, And while I tried my best, I somehow mixed up Mick and Hans And botched mo chailín’s test. A cogar ciúin reaches me; Some dóchas from my friend. ‘Ní géill anois, there’s hope for thee.’ ‘Your scéal’s not at its end.’ Faoi láthair, foghlaimím go mall, Pé uair atáim ar fháil. I rith an leathscór, bhí mé dall Don spéirbhean faoi smacht Gall.
A Little Bit about the Poem
I'm telling myself I was young enough when writing this for it to count as juvenilia. I roll my eyes at it now, especially the title. But I never like to delete work, no matter how much I sour on it. There's some things to be admired about it, sure. Like how I tried to match the amount of Irish in each verse to how much energy and enthusiasm I had for the language at whichever point I happen to be describing. That's material, right?
I think the main reason I'll keep it up a bit longer is that it's so earnest. I had come to the long overdue realization that Irish is a beautiful and essential part of our culture. And I was overcome with the psychographic urge to pay soppy tribute to her. I think preserving that is more important than any level of embarrassment.
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