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The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare

By Abhaill
© 2007

Some time ago I put "The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare" to music. I used Kuno Meyer's translation of the original early Irish, which has been shown to have more than a few flaws these many years later, however I have a special bond with the text for all its inaccuracies and have memorized 20 verses of it. I believe I left out 2 or 3 verses of the original. I do apologize for the couple of hiccups in the sound at the beginning of the track.

I associate this poem with the Cailleach, to whom I am very close. I sing this song every year, as it reminds me of the Cailleach as she fades and ages, waiting on the edge of the sea for death and beyond. There are mysteries bound up in its words, and I have played and sang this song in ritual many times. I'm proud to have learned it by heart, to be sure! I hope you enjoy it!

The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare
Ebb tide to me as of the sea!
Old age causes me reproach.
Though I may grieve thereat –
Happiness comes out of fat.

I am the Old Woman of Beare,
An ever-new smock I used to wear;
Today – such is my mean estate –
I wear not even a cast-off shift.

It is riches
Ye love, it is not men:
In the time when we lived
It was men.

My arms when they are seen
Now are bony and thin:
Once they would fondle and caress
The bodies of glorious kings.

When my arms are seen,
And they bony and thin,
They are not fit, I declare,
To be raised over comely men.

The maidens rejoice
When May-day comes to them:
For me, sorrow the share;
I am wretched, I am an old hag.

I hold no sweet converse.
No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast,
My hair is all but grey,
The mean veil over it is no pity.

I do not deem it ill
That a white veil be on my head;
Time was when cloths of every hue
Bedecked my head as we drank good ale.

The Stone of the Kings on Femen,
The Chair of Ronan in Bregon,
Long since storms have reached them:
The slabs of their tombs are old and decayed.

The wave of the great sea talks aloud,
Winter has arisen:
Fermuid the son of Mugh to-day
I do not expect on a visit.

I know what they are doing:
They row and row across
The reeds of the Ford of Alma –
Cold is the place where they sleep.

‘Tis “O my God!”
To me today, whatever will come of it.
I must cover myself even in the sun:
The time is at hand that shall renew me.

Youth’s summer in which we were
I have spent with its autumn:
Winter-age which overwhelms all men,
To me has come its beginning.

Amen! Woe is me!
Every acorn has to drop
After feasting by shining candles
To be in the gloom of a prayer-house!

I had my day with kings
Drinking mead and wine:
To-day I drink whey-water
Among shrivelled old hags.

I see upon my cloak the hair of old age,
My reason has beguiled me:
Grey is the hair that grows through my skin –
‘Tis thus! I am an old woman.

The flood-wave
And the second ebb tide –
They have reached me,
I know them well.

The flood wave
Will not reach the silence of my kitchen:
Though many are my company in darkness,
A hand has been laid upon them all.

O happy the isle of the great sea
Which the flood reaches after the ebb!
As for me, I do not expect
Flood after ebb to come to me.

There is scarce a little place to-day
That I can recognise:
What was on flood
Is all on ebb.




	The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare By Abhaill © 2007 Some time ago I put "The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare" to music. I used Kuno Meyer's translation of the original early Irish, which has been shown to have more than a few flaws these many years later, however I have a special bond with the text for all its inaccuracies and have memorized 20 verses of it. I believe I left out 2 or 3 verses of the original. I do apologize for the couple of hiccups in the sound at the beginning of the track. I associate this poem with the Cailleach, to whom I am very close. I sing this song every year, as it reminds me of the Cailleach as she fades and ages, waiting on the edge of the sea for death and beyond. There are mysteries bound up in its words, and I have played and sang this song in ritual many times. I'm proud to have learned it by heart, to be sure! I hope you enjoy it! The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare Ebb tide to me as of the sea! Old age causes me reproach. Though I may grieve thereat – Happiness comes out of fat. I am the Old Woman of Beare, An ever-new smock I used to wear; Today – such is my mean estate – I wear not even a cast-off shift. It is riches Ye love, it is not men: In the time when we lived It was men. My arms when they are seen Now are bony and thin: Once they would fondle and caress The bodies of glorious kings. When my arms are seen, And they bony and thin, They are not fit, I declare, To be raised over comely men. The maidens rejoice When May-day comes to them: For me, sorrow the share; I am wretched, I am an old hag. I hold no sweet converse. No wethers are killed for my wedding-feast, My hair is all but grey, The mean veil over it is no pity. I do not deem it ill That a white veil be on my head; Time was when cloths of every hue Bedecked my head as we drank good ale. The Stone of the Kings on Femen, The Chair of Ronan in Bregon, Long since storms have reached them: The slabs of their tombs are old and decayed. The wave of the great sea talks aloud, Winter has arisen: Fermuid the son of Mugh to-day I do not expect on a visit. I know what they are doing: They row and row across The reeds of the Ford of Alma – Cold is the place where they sleep. ‘Tis “O my God!” To me today, whatever will come of it. I must cover myself even in the sun: The time is at hand that shall renew me. Youth’s summer in which we were I have spent with its autumn: Winter-age which overwhelms all men, To me has come its beginning. Amen! Woe is me! Every acorn has to drop After feasting by shining candles To be in the gloom of a prayer-house! I had my day with kings Drinking mead and wine: To-day I drink whey-water Among shrivelled old hags. I see upon my cloak the hair of old age, My reason has beguiled me: Grey is the hair that grows through my skin – ‘Tis thus! I am an old woman. The flood-wave And the second ebb tide – They have reached me, I know them well. The flood wave Will not reach the silence of my kitchen: Though many are my company in darkness, A hand has been laid upon them all. O happy the isle of the great sea Which the flood reaches after the ebb! As for me, I do not expect Flood after ebb to come to me. There is scarce a little place to-day That I can recognise: What was on flood Is all on ebb.