Michael Hanly & Mícheál Ó Domhnaill: Bríd Óg Ní Mháille

It is little over a week before St. Patrick’s Day; however, I’ve been in an Irish mood recently – especially since I rediscovered an album that I picked up somewhere in the late 1970s. “Celtic Folkweave” was issued in Ireland, the UK, and elsewhere in 1974. I do not believe it was ever released in the US though, and my copy is an Irish import. It was, however, the only recorded output of the duo of Michael “Mick” Hanly and Mícheál Ó Domhnaill who collectively were known as Monroe during their period together in 1973 and 1974, but were not identified as such on this LP.

This folk album features songs sung in Irish Gaelic, Scottish Gaelic, and English. A host of Irish musicians, who would later make their mark in the Celtic music scene, contributed to the instrumentation of the album. The album was produced by Dónal Lunny, who was one of the musicians responsible for the Irish music renaissance. Lunny also introduced the bouzouki into Irish music; however, that instrument of Greek origin is not used on this recording.

“Celtic Folkweave” is considered a rare collector’s item as it was never reissued on vinyl or compact disc format after its initial run in 1974. Adding to its rarity, the masters for the album were lost in a fire at Polydor’s pressing plant in Ireland in the 1980s.

Today’s song, “Bríd Óg Ní Mháille,” is sung in Irish and is better known in English as “Bridget O’Malley.” While translating songs from one language to another requires poetic license to create a rhyme, I have included the lyrics of the English version below.

English Lyrics

Oh Bridget O’Malley, you left my heart shaken
With a hopeless desolation, I’d have you to know
It’s the wonders of admiration your quiet face has taken
And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go.

The white moon above the pale sands, the pale stars above the thorn tree
Are cold beside my darling, but no purer than she
I gaze upon the cold moon till the stars drown in the warm sea
And the bright eyes of my darling are never on me.

My Sunday it is weary, my Sunday it is grey now
My heart is a cold thing, my heart is a stone
All joy is dead within me, my life has gone away now
For another has taken my love for his own.

The day it is approaching when we were to be married
And it’s rather I would die than live only to grieve
Oh meet me, my Darling, e’er the sun sets o’er the barley
And I’ll meet you there on the road to Drumslieve.

Oh Bridget O’Malley, you’ve left my heart shaken
With a hopeless desolation, I’d have you to know
It’s the wonders of admiration your quiet face has taken
And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go.