Transcript

Tá cupla bliain ó shoin i dtrátha na Samhna bhí dhá uan a dhíth orm. Bhí mé ag cur seanchaisc ar an uile dhuine 'á bhfaca mé fá dtaobh daofa. Ní rabh duine ar bith a chas domh ábalta tuairisc ar bith a thabhairt domh fá dtaobh daofa. Agus shíl mé nach bhfaighinn go brách iad. Fá dheireadh, smaointigh[1] mé gur bhocht domh (bheith ag) fágáil mo ghnoithe le déanamh ag fear ar bith eile agus go mb'fhearr domh féin a ghoil amach 'un an chnoic agus tuairisc a chur orthu.

Maidin amháin nuair a fuair mé mo bhriocasta bhí cuma mhaith ar an lá agus bhí mé ag déanamh nach mbeadh... nach gcuirfeadh sé a'n ndeoir[2]. Shiúil mé liom amach 'un an chnoic agus chuartaigh mé an uile chnoc agus an uile ghleann ar mo bhealach amach agus sháraigh orm dadaí a fheiscint cosúil leofa. Shiúil mé liom i bhfad níos faide ná bhí dúil agam a ghoil go dteachaigh[3] mé amach áit leis an... a fhad leis an áit a dtugann siad Cruach an Fhir Mhóir air, agus nuair a bhí mé amuigh ansin chonaic mé fear ag tarraingt orm agus d'fhan mé go dtigeadh sé a fhad liom. Bhí mé ag smaoitiú go mb'fhéidir go bhfeicfeadh seisean iad. Tháinig sé a fhad liom agus bhí mé ag cur seanchaisc air fá dtaobh de na huain ach ní fhacaidh seisean dadaí cosúil leofa. Bhí muid 'ár suí ag caint agus ag comhrá tamall maith agus fá dheireadh deir sé liomsa, "Creidim nach saighdiúir thú," a deir sé, "ná garda."

"Ní hea, maise. Ní ceachtar acu mé."

"Bhuel mur b'ea," arsa seisean, "níl dochar seo a theiseán[4] duid."

Sháigh sé a lámh ina phóca agus tharraing sé amach buidéal. Agus nuair a d'amharc mé féin ar an bhuidéal shíl mé nach rabh sé ach ag magadh, nach rabh... gur buidéal folamh a bhí ann. D'iarr sé orm sin a bhlaisiúint agus deirimsa leis, "Goidé atá ann?"

"Tá," arsa seisean, "braon de phoitín mhaith."

Deirimsa leis, "Tá sé crosta poitín a ól."

"Tá a fhios agam," a deir sé, "go bhfuil. Ach is cuma goidé a deir siad, níl dochar duitse braon de seo a dh'ól. Tá bealach fada agad le ghoil 'un an bhaile."

Smaointigh mé féin go nglacfainn a chomhairle agus bheir mé ar an bhuidéal agus bhlais mé é agus shíl mé go rabh sé maith. D'ól mé tuairim ar ghloine de agus shín mé an buidéal ar ais chuige agus thug mé buíochas dó. D'ól sé féin tuairim ar ghloine eile de. Agus shuigh muid agus rinn muid tamall eile comhráidh[5] agus shín sé an buidéal ar ais chugam. Ach cé bith, sulmar éirigh muid den áit a rabh muid 'ár suí d'ól an bheirt againn an méid a bhí insa bhuidéal leathphionta. Thiontaigh mé féin 'un an bhaile agus bhí sé ag éirí mall. Bhí mé ag siúl go gasta agus ní rabh mé i bhfad ag siúl gur mhoithigh mé an bhiotáilte ag goil in mo cheann agus gur thoisigh mé ag cur allais. Agus fá dheireadh, bhí fonn ceoil orm. Ach an rud ba ghreannmhaire den iomlán, na huain nach dtáinig liom a fheiscint nuair a bhí mé ag goil amach, nach bhfuair mé iad ag teacht abhaile domh agus mé a bhí bródúil.

Thiomáin mé liom 'un an bhaile iad agus bhí bother agam leofa, for[6] a bhí siad... bhí sé mall tráthnóna agus bhí siad ag goil i bhfolach orm thall agus abhus, fríd na hardáin. Ach cé bith, d'oibir mé liom go dtí go bhfuair mé a fhad leis an bhaile iad. Agus is cuma liomsa goidé a deireann fear ar bith, deirimsa leofa go bhfuil braon den phoitín an-mhaith fá choinne amharc na súl.

Translation

A couple of years ago around November I was missing two lambs. I was asking everyone I met about them. Nobody I met was able to give me any news of them. And I thought that I would never find them. In the end, I thought that is was poor of me to be leaving my work for any other man to do and that I should go out to the mountain myself and look for them.

One morning when I had my breakfast the day looked good and I was thinking that there wouldn't be any rain. I walked out to the mountain and I searched every mountain and every glen on my way out and I saw no sign of them. I walked much further than I wanted to go until I went as far as the place called The Giant's Mountain, and when I was out there I saw a man coming towards me and I waited until he reached me. I was thinking that he might see them. He came to me and I was asking him about the lambs but he saw no sign of them. We were sitting talking and conversing for a good while and in the end he says to me, "I believe that you are not a soldier," he said, "or a guard."

"Indeed, I'm not. I'm not either of them."

"Well if you are not," he said, "there is no harm in showing you this."

He stuck his hand in his pocket and he pulled out a bottle. And when I looked at the bottle I thought that he was only joking, that there wasn't... that it was an empty bottle. He asked me to taste it and I said, "What is it?"

He said, "It's a drop of fine poteen."

I said to him, "It is forbidden to drink poteen."

"I know it is," he said. "But it doesn't matter what they say, there is no harm for you to drink a drop of this. You have a long way to go home."

I thought that I would take his advice and I took the bottle and I tasted it and I thought that it was good. I drank around a glass of it and I handed the bottle back to him and I thanked him. He drank around another glass of it. And we sat and conversed another while and he handed the bottle back to me. Well anyway, before we got up from the place we were sitting, the two of us drank all that was in the half-pint bottle. I turned for home and it was getting late. I was walking fast and I was not walking for long till I felt the spirits going to my head and I started sweating. And in the end, I felt like singing a song. But the funniest thing of all, the lambs which I couldn't see when I was going out, didn't I find them while coming home and I was delighted.

I drove them home and I had trouble with them, for they were... it was late evening and they were hiding from me here and there, through the heights. But however, I worked on until I got them home. And I don't care what any man says, I tell them that a drop of poteen is very good for the eyesight.

Footnotes

Commentary

Irish folklore is replete with anecdotes about poitín, including stories of illicit manufacture and smuggling, police raids and evasion, and like the current example, humorous stories of the strong effects of the drink. A number of songs on the subject have become part of oral tradition, including 'In Praise of Poitín', 'The Rare Old Mountain Dew' and 'The Hills of Connemara'. For a history of the beverage in Ireland, including many anecdotes and associated stories, see John McGuffen, In praise of poteen (Belfast, 1978). Customs surrounding the drink and its manufacture are mentioned in Sean Ó Súilleabháin's Handbook of Irish folklore (Detroit, 1942), 439.