"An Bonnán Buí" (pronounced[ənˠˈbɔn̪ˠaːnˠˈbˠiː]; "The yellow bittern") is a classic poem in Irish by the poet Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna. In addition to the conventional end-rhyme, it uses internal rhyme ("A bhonnán bhuí, is é mo léan do luí / Is do chnámha sínte tar éis do ghrinn") – in the Irish language all the italicised elements have the same /iː/ sound, a technique characteristic of Gaelic poetry of the era.
The poem is in the form of a lament for a bittern that died of thirst, but is also a tongue in cheek defence by the poet of his own drinking habit. It has been translated into English by, among others, James Stephens, Thomas MacDonagh, Thomas Kinsella, and Seamus Heaney. The Irish words have been used as lyrics by the band Clannad on their album Crann Ull (as Bunan Bui) and the English words (MacDonagh version) on Cathie Ryan's album The Music Of What Happens (1998), and also on Al O'Donnell's album "Ramble Away" (2008). Anne Brigg's song "Bonambuie", from her album Sing a Song for You, is based on the MacDonagh version, though using something close to the original Irish title.
Len Graham has also recorded a version translated by Pádraigín Ní Uallacháin which poet Paul Muldoon regarded as the closest to the original in translation and rhyming scheme and also the most singable.
The Yellow Bittern is also the name of a 1917 play about the death of Mac Giolla Ghunna by Daniel Corkery.
The version by Thomas MacDonagh is especially notable because in addition to keeping close to the original wording, MacDonagh attempts with considerable success to replicate in English the internal rhyme technique ("His bones are thrown on a naked stone / Where he lived alone like a hermit monk."), and the surreal humour of the Irish version.
AN BONNÁN BUÍ
A bhonnáin bhuí, ’sé mo léan do luí
Is do chnámha sínte in éis do ghrinn;
Chan easpa bí ach(t) diobháil dí
A d’fhág ’do luí thú ar chúl do chinn;
Is measa liom féin ná scrios na Traoi
Tú bheith ’do luí ar leacaibh lom,
Is nach dtearn tú díth nó dola istír;
Nárbh fhearr leat fíon ná uisce poll.
Tá mo cheann tinn is níl atharach ann
Óir d’éirigh a lán den trioblóid domh;
Mo cháirde cruinn gan áit gan roinn
Nach ndéanann siad díon nó foscadh domh;
Do bhéilín binn a bhí a’ síorthabhairt grinn
Is b’aite liom do chomhrá carthannach;
A’ murab é an díth céille bheinn féin saibhir,
Ach(t) ghlac mé de roghain an bhoichtineacht.
A bhonnáin álainn, ’sé mo mhíle crá
Do chorp ar lár in éis do ghrinn,
Is gur iomaí lá a chluinfinn do ghrág
Do luí ar an láib ar chúl do chinn.
’Sé mo thuirse mhór is mo mhíle brón
Tú bheith sínte ’mbrón i measc na dtom,
Is na luchógaí móra a’ triall ’un do thórraimh
A’ déanamh spóirse is féasta ann.
Chuaidh mé ’n a’ tórramh is mé tuirseach, brónach
’Gus buidéal beorach le mo thaobh;
Ar nós go n-ólfadh sé deoch nó dhó
A fhliuchfadh a bhéal is a chorp istigh.
Ach(t) hóm bóm bó ’sé mo mhíle brón
A’n deoir chan ólann sé a choíche ’ríst.
Bhí an buidéal ólta a's mé ar leathchois leonta
A’ pilleadh ó thórramh an bhonnáin bhuí.
Chan iad bhur n-éanlaith atá mé ag éagnaigh,
An lon, an chéirseach nó ’n chorr ghlas;
Ach(t) a’ bonnán buí a bhí lán de chroí
Gur cosúil liom féin é i nós is i ndath.
Bhíodh sé go síoraí ag ól na dí
’Gus deirtear go mbím ar a’ nós sin seal;
Chan fheil a’n deoir ’á bhfaighfinn nach leigfinn síos,
Ar chéasta go bhfaighfinn bás den tart.
’Sé d’iarr mo stór orm stadadh den ól
Nó nach mbeinn anseo ach(t) seal beag gearr.
Ach(t) dúirt mé léithe gur ársaigh sí bréag
Is gurbh fhaide do mo shaol an deoch úd fháil.
An bhfeiceann sibh éan a’ phíobáin réidh
A chuaidh in éag den tart ar ball?
Is, a chomharsnaigh chléibh, fliuchaigí mbur mbéal
Óir chan fhaigheann sibh braon i ndiaidh mbur mbáis.
Oh yellow bittern, for you I mourn,
Stretched out bare-boned without quill or down;
Not food I think but the want of drink
Left you lying there with your face upturned;
Far worse than Troy long since destroyed,
Your body laid on naked stone,
For hurt or harm you brought to none;
Not wine for you but a waterhole.
My head is sore and there is no cure
For much trouble to me has come;
My neighbours here have naught to share,
No house or home to shelter in;
Your sweet birdsong gave endless fun
And I used to long for your friendly voice;
But for foolish ways I'd have wealth and gain,
The path of poverty was my own choice.
Oh sweet bittern, my endless pain
Is your outstretched frame and naked pelt,
And many's the dawn I'd hear you call,
But now you lie in mud and dirt;
My heart it breaks with a thousand aches –
You in the ditch – my sore lament!
And the rats so great, going to your wake
In jollification and merriment.
I went to the wake, though sad and frail,
With a bottle of ale down in my coat;
So that he might swill a drop or so
To wet his bill and inside his throat;
But ochón ó my sorrowful woe,
Not a sup will pass his beak again;
The drink was done, I was drunk alone,
Coming home from the wake of my bittern friend.
It's not your songsters that I now mourn,
The blackbird, thrush and grey feathered crane;
But the yellow bird so full of love,
Just like myself in many ways;
He'd always be supping away alone,
And it's said that I'm sometimes like that too:
Not a glass in hand but I'd swallow down,
For fear that the thirst might kill me soon.
My love she urged me to give it up
For my life would be short, aye, and end in tears,
I said to herself that her words were false,
For the drop o’ drink gave me extra years;
See now the full-throated singing bird –
How a mighty thirst brought a silent end?
So, comrades dear, wet your lips here
For you'll not get any when you're lying dead.
