Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna bána,
Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna b’iad ab fhearr liom,
Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna geala bána,
Na gamhna maidin shamhraidh ag damhsa ar na bánta.
Faightear dom canna is faightear dom buarach,
Is faightear dom soitheach ina gcuirfead mo chuid uachtair,
Ceolta sí na cruinne a bheith á síorchur i mo chluasa,
Is gur bhinne liomsa géimneach na mbó ag teacht chun buaile.
Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna bána,
Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna b’iad ab fhearr liom,
Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna geala bána,
Na gamhna maidin shamhraidh ag damhsa ar na bánta.
This is an excerpt of a traditional Irish Gaelic song, Aililiú Na Gamhna, or Praises to the Cows. It is sung in the style of Sean-nós, old style, which is an artful, organic lineage of song learning and sharing through the oral tradition that hails from the ancient Irish Bardic tradition. Most notably, these songs are stories. They can vary by region, and most especially by the singer and their emotional and spiritual re-telling of that story in the spirit of the living moment.
In this song, a young woman who is braving the uncertain seas with her wealthy new husband, sings a loving, mournful tune to the beloved cows she had tended to in her youth. One line says, “the magic music of the world is perpetually in my ear.” As she so beautifully shares of her heart, we are reminded that each of us are perpetually in connection with life, in connection with the worlds of spirit, in connection with The Great Melody of Life, Oran Mór, that plays the harmony of existence in our ears and through our hearts forever more.
You can listen to an enchanting version of this song by Madelyn Monaghan here.
Traditional Irish Gaelic song as arranged by Denise Kelly and Orla Fallon
As the Celts believed, Oran Mór is The Great Melody of Life. They called it the Great Music and honored this melody both as Creator and the all encompassing, all embracing melody that upholds life itself.
To this day, there is not one story of Oran Mór, but rather the reverberation of countless expressions of the melody through each living being that is or was or will be. Although it is in effect the Celtic story of creation, it was not a tale that was ever recorded by the Celts in written form; it was passed through a rich oral tradition that weaves as far back as the Bards of the Tuatha De Danann. To the Celtic people, Oran Mór is the very breath of creation, life, and culture. It is a melody of magic, of deep primordial waters, of creative energy, of medicine that is both within and without every living being. It is said that the Gaelic languages and all holy languages stem directly from the babbling brook of this seed sound of origin. It is believed that this is also why music is so universally touching with the magic to surpass thought and language and ring deep in the heart.
Oran Mór is all of life. It is the Divine. It is a blessing. It is each living soul and flying spirit.
It is what sings us into being as songs of creation. It is what weaves us together as family of the stars. It is what animates our passions, our callings, our visions, and our works, no matter how small or great, as unique expressions of a universe of brilliant lights.
It is a melody that can be heard like whispers in the misty woods. It is a melody that can be heard like booming echoes in the mighty caves. It can be heard in the cry of each babe as they enter the earthly form. It can be heard in the tearful lament that sings an elder back to the form of the stars. It is the breath. It is the heart. It is Creation.
It is home.
The Tuatha Dé Danann are a nation of tall, mystical faery people that were said to have come to Ireland from the north, an tuath, in great flying ships. They were the people of the goddess Danu and lived on Earth in an evolved, musical, peaceful, and refined spiritual culture of high form. These Shining Ones were called the Good Neighbors and are considered to be the culture and medicine bringers of the Gaels who honored them as gods and goddesses sent to them from the creator. Many royal lines of the British Isles and Northern Europe can trace their lineage to a specific Tuatha ancestor who was often female. The stories of the sidhe and faery folk of the mounds in the British Isles are often thought to be reduced expressions of or the evolution of Tuatha Dé Danann journey on Earth. Their treasures, their teachings, and their gifts to this earthly plane are interwoven into both ancient and modern culture more than is often seen or honored. But in these prophetic and biblical times, their songs and their contributions to life are beginning to be remembered anew.
The Dagda was the Tuatha father-god, first king, and a druid. He was known both for his immense strength and brawn, while also being a wise, learned magician and musician. He carried with him an enchanted harp named Uaithne. Uaithne was made of oak, was carved with sacred forms of divination, and would only make music by the Dagda’s hands. It is said that his harp was of the great Oran Mór and within it lived three noble strands of music. From these strains, all music was born. The first strain was ‘Goiltai’ or the ‘sorrow strain’ that encouraged unabashed weeping and lamentation. The second strain was ‘Geantrai’ or the ‘joy strain’ that encouraged hearty laughter. The third strain was ‘Suantrai’ or the ‘sleep strain’ that encouraged deep, sound slumber. It is said that much Celtic harp music that has been composed since many of the Tuatha went back to the stars has been created by those who can hear the Dagda’s harp or the harp of a Tuatha Dé Danann folk leaning across the veil.
The following story shares about a time when the Fomorians, defeated by the Tuatha Dé Danann, captured Uaithne and hung it on their castle banquet hall. Dagda, Lug, and Ogma rushed their castle. Upon entering the hall the Dagda was said to have cried:
“Come apple-sweet murmurer.
Come, four-angled frame of harmony,
Come summer, come winter,
Out of the mouths of harps and bags and pipes!”
And away from the wall Uaithne flew, killing nine Fomorians in the wake of it’s flight. The Dagda then played for the Fomorians songs of each strain… completing with Suantrai so that he and his faery folk may journey to their home safely, and as ever, musically.
Writing by Sylvie Zacrep
Dagda —
“SPEAK, Sword of Tethra, thou canst tell
Where hangs my stolen harp to-night?
Thrice o’er thy blade hath passed my spell —
Thrice ever-Sharp! thrice ever-Bright!
A swordless arm on plain of War,
A harpless hand in Pleasure’s hall —
These be the saddest things by far
That mind of mourner may recall!”
The Sword of Tethra—
“Thy harp, this star-lorn night, hangs high,
O Dagda, ‘neath the Fomor’s ceil.
Where torches mock with gay reply
The grief and anger they reveal!
A bard would wake the Joy of Hearts
For them, whose pride had been dethroned;
Alas! despite his minstrel’s arts.
The harp for thee, her master, moaned!”
Dagda —
“Moaned for her master? I am he
Who nursed the Daughter of the Wood,
Who waked her soul to melody
More sweet than wind or falling flood!
Lug — Ogma — Dagda, fighters famed,
With glory’s sun full on our brows,
Victorious, must we slink ashamed,
When no harp chaunts where we carouse!”
The Quest—
Forth went the three whose eyes were stars.
Till reached the Fomor’s banquet hall.
Where men drank, brooding o’er their scars.
And women whispered by the wall ;
And never hawk had sight more sharp,
Nor chieftain through the battle’s flame.
Than he, whose fond eyes found his harp.
Hung ‘neath the ceiling’s wattled frame!
“Come forth,” he cried, “thy master calls!
Come forth, loved Daughter of the Wood,
And sing a song in thy own halls,
More sweet than wind or falling flood!
A swordless chief on plain of War,
A harpless bard in Pleasure’s hall —
These be the saddest things by far
That mind of mourner may recall!”
The sentient harp turned with delight,
And leaping forth, the chamber spanned;
And whoso sought to stay her flight
Fell hurt beyond a healer’s hand.
Into her master’s arms she sprang —
Was it Rock Spirit of the Glen,
Whose voice with god-like Dagda’s rang
For ears of women and of men?
The Song of Sorrow! when the heart
Of warrior heard that cry it quailed;
And woman’s, sundered at the smart,
Her sorest grief of life bewailed!
The Song of Laughter! men and maids
Grew blithe as fawns on mountain crest!
The Song of Slumber! under shades
They sank in life-oblivious rest!
“Peace unto Peace!” (thus Dagda cried),
“These two we hold whatever befall —
This blade, to wreathe the battle side,
This harp, to crown the festive hall!
For thou, true friend, on plain of War,
And thou, fond love, in Pleasure’s choir.
Ye be the rarest things by far
That heart of mortal may desire!”
P. J. McCall, Pulse of the Bards