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Searc's Web Guide to 18th Century Ireland -
The Convict of Clonmel (Anonymous, circa. 1750's)
The poem The Convict of Clonmel dates from the middle of the 18th century. The poem was written during a time of agrarian unrest in Ireland, when peasant farmers, known as 'Whiteboys', destroyed crops and cattle in protest against high rents and absentee landlords. A 1765 Act proscribed 'Whiteboyism' and imposed Capital punishment and stringent prison sentences on those accused of being members and within two years the movement was violently suppressed. Whiteboyism was most prevalent in the Province of Munster and in County Tipperary, where numerous hangings, drawing and quartering of Whiteboys took place at Clonmel. There are are several Irish language versions and various English translations of the poem. The Irish version below is by Padraig Pearse and was first published in his journal An Claidheamh Soluis on 24th of December, 1904. The English verse translation is by J.J. Callanan (1795-1829) and was first published in Blackwood's Magazine in 1823 at the height of Daniel O'Connell's movement for Catholic Emancipation. © |
'sea d'fhágas an baile, ag dul go hArd Pádraig 'cur lásaí lem hata bhí Buachaillí Bána ann is rás acu ar eallaibh - is mé go dubhach uaigneach i bpríosún Chluain Meala. Tá mo shrian is mo dhiallait, ar iasacht le fada, mo chamán ar fiaradh faoi iarthar mo leapa, mo liathróid á bualadh ag buachailí an ghleanna - is go mbuailfinn poc báire chomh hard leis na fearaibh. A Chiarraígh, bídh ag guí liom, is bog binn liom bhur nglórtha, is beag a shíleas-sa choíche ná fillfinnse beo oraibh - 's go mbeidh ár dtrí cinn-ne ar thrí spící mar sheó acu, faoi shneachta na hoíche is gach síon eile 'á ngeobhaidh chughainn. Go hUíbh Ráthach má théann tú, beir scéala go dtí mo mhuintir go bhfuilim daor ar an bhfód seo is nach bhfuil beo agam ach go hAoine. Bailídh gléas tórraimh agus cónra bhreá im thimpeall - sin críoch ar Ó Dónaill is go deo bídh ag guí leis. |
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 cheeks sunk and sallow, While I languish in chains In the gaol of Clonmala. No boy of 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 light'ning 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 'mong the neighbours Neglected may fallow, While I pine in my chains In the gaol of Clonmala. 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 Clonmala. |
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