GOOD NIGHT, YA BASTARD (poem) - Colm Breathnach - Ireland

Oíche Mhaith, a Bhastaird

Ar an mBuailtín
os cionn shiopa Sheáinín na mBánach
a bhíodh na hoícheanta againne
agus thagadh scata do mhuintir na háite
is dos na “laethanta breátha”
thar n-ais i ndiaidh am dúnta
i dtigh tábhairne Dhónaill Uí Chatháin.

Is bhímisne, páistí, inár leapacha ar fionraí,
suan na súl oscailte orainn sa tseomra codlata
ag feitheamh le monabhar bog an chomhluadair
ag déanamh orainn an staighre aníos.

Thosnaítí ansan le tamall comhrá
scéalta á n-aithris is corr-sá grinn,
tú fhéin i d’fhear tí támáilte
ach an Beamish ag tabhairt do ghlóir chugat
nó go n-iarrtá ar dhuine éigin amhrán do rá.

An curfá dá chasadh ages gach éinne,
an siosa agus an barr dá bhaint do bhuidéal.

Is nuair a bhíodh a oíche thart
chloisimis na daoine is iad ag imeacht,
thíos ar an tsráid i moch na maidine
an ceiliúradh ag duine acu, “Oíche mhaith, a bhastaird”,
in ard a chinn ar shráid an Bhuailtín.

Is é mo lom
ná rabhas fásta suas in am,
sara bhfuairis bás,
le go mbeinn i láthair
ag oíche a reáchtáilis
os cionn shiopa Sheáinín
ar an mBuailtín.

Is nuair a bheadh an oíche thart
agus an chuideachta ag imeacht
thabharfainn féin faoi mo lóistínse mar aon leo
i mBaile Eaglaise nó sna Gorta Dubha
ach sara n-imeoinn chasfainn chugat
le go ndéarfainn, “Oíche mhaith, a bhastaird”,
go ceanúil meisciúil leat.

Good Night, Ya Bastard

(to my father)

In Ballyferriter on holidays
we stayed above Seáinín na mBánach’s shop
and some nights
a crowd of locals
and summer visitors
would return after closing time
in Daniel Keane’s pub.

We, the children, lying in suspense
feigning sleep in our beds
waiting for the soft murmur of the company
making its way up the stairs.

Things would start with a bit of a chat,
stories being told, fun being poked,
you acting as shy host
’til the Beamish gave you voice
and you called for a song.

Everyone joining in the chorus,
the hiss as another bottle is opened.

And when the revelling was over
we’d hear the people going,
down on the road in the early morning
someone shouts, “Good night, ya bastard.”
in the full of his voice on the village street.

My sorest wish
to have grown up in time,
before you died,
so I could come
to a night you organised
over Seáinín’s shop
in Ballyferriter.

And when the night was over
and the company were going
I would head for my own lodgings too
in Baile Eaglaise or the Gorta Dubha.
Before I left I would turn to you
and say “Good night, ya bastard,”
fondly, tipsily.