The Greatest Love Song...?

It struck me this morning, as I woke from a scanty sleep and looked at my equal (not better - no way!) half, that Love is very over-rated. Not that I don't love my 'other' half, I do actually. I tried to sit up, and wrench my shoulderblades back into a more natural position, and he sat on the edge of the bed and negotiated the minor minefield of putting on his socks. The cause of our discomfort (apart from encroaching age) lay flat on his back, legs akimbo, arms astretch, oblivious to the pain he had inflicted during the night! Our son. Our darling boy - not so darling at four in the morning when he insinuates himself in between us and pushes the duvet down to our knees, but he says "love you Mom" as he does it, and you can't get cross then can you...

The wretch. But it was ever thus. I remember looking at my daughter when she was about 4 months old, and being convinced that babies develop the smile reflex at a few months old because otherwise the human race would have come to another dead archaeological end. They smile, and instantly, we melt. We coo, gurgle ridiculously and provide food, shelter, electronic goods, overpriced shoes... and of course, Love! I sound like a right curmudgeon, and it's true. Put it down to the pain in my neck that still hasn't gone away 16 hours later...

Being a curmudgeon is probably the reason that I can't read a Mills & Boon book. When the cool clean hero looks adoringly into her eyes and tenderly wraps a blade of grass around her trembling finger, I tend to think something like "Yeah, give it 10 years and 2 or 3 babies, and you'll be lucky to get that adoring look is when you serve up the hindquarters of a bullock on top of a mound of spuds, my dear girl".

If ever I wrote a love story, my hero and heroine would be so boring... I would model them on my favourite love song. Not by Celine Dion, Bryan Adams, or even Chopin... No, I'd have Seán Eoin Ó Suilleabháin as my choice. Here are the words of Mise 'gus Máire, a story of a man who loves his wife, has a twinkle in his eye and good range to his voice! I won't do it the injustice of translating it. It's perfect just as it is.

Mise ‘gus Máire

Táimse ‘gus Máire go sásta ‘nár n’aigne,
Ó nascadh i bpáirt sinn ag an altóir ró bheannaithe
Thug sise grá, thar cáirde ‘gus fearaibh dom
Thógas ar láimh í, ‘s go brách, brách ní scarfaimíd
Bead-se ‘seinnt cheoil dí, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.

Tá mo theaghlach san áit is fearr ar an mbaile seo,
I bPáirc an tShrutháin, a sharaíonn cead acra
Cruithneacht a’ fás ann chomh h-árd leis na clathacha
‘Is mé ‘feitheamh don tráth san go bhfeice mé aibidh é
Bead-sa seinnt cheoil dí, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.

Tá torthaí a’fás im gháirdín go slachtaithe
Úlla, spiúnáin agus cúiríní dearga
Siúcre i mála le ráithe go taiseithe
Chun subh is mílseáin don bháb, ‘is don bhanaltra
Bead-sa seinnt cheoil dóibh, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.


Sí mo chéile-se Máire, an stáidbhean mhodhúil mhaisiúil
A’faire ‘n chliabháin, ‘is an páiste ‘r a sheascaireacht,
Stoca ‘na lámhaibh, ‘is na bioráin innte preabarnaigh
Í a’cniotáil, ‘is a’crónán do’n leainbhín
Mise a’seinnt cheoil dóibh, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.

Sé mo ghuí chun an Árd-Mhic na grásta do scaipeadh orainn,
‘Is go leanfaidh an t-ádh seo, gan gátar ná easba sinn,
Nuair a thiocfaidh lá an áirimh ar Mhághaibh úd Jhosaifet
Go dtóga Dia ar láimh sinn anáirde go Parrathas,
Bead-sa seinnt cheoil ann, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.