Richard Barrett was a native of Leam, seven miles from Belmullet. He was born early in the last century, and died, aged about 80, on the 8th of December, 1819. He was buried at Holy Cross cemetery, where up to the present no stone marks his grave. His is literary remains fared even worse than his bodily remains, all his papers having been burned after his death by his wife, who set no value on them. The collection of his poems now being made is from oral tradition.
The house in which Barrett lived and taught was situated at Carn, in the north-east angle formed by the junction of the Blacksod and Carn Hill roads. It was standing as late as 1865, but hardly a trace of it now remains. In personal appearance, Barrett was of medium height and build, and of fair complexion.
Knight, in his history of “Erris in the Irish Highlands,” says of Barrett, that “he was a man of real genius, though entirely unknown to the world, and his productions in verse and song are only now recollected by his countrymen in their convivial moments, He lived in Erris, and died about sixteen or eighteen years ago. This was Dick Barrett, the poet; a more original, delightful, feeling composer in his native language to all the grand and soul-stirring airs of Carolan, never delighted a native Irishman. Sweet, correct, mellifluous in his language and verse, his songs were listened to and sung by everyone who understood the beauties of their native language with the pleasurable feeling that a remnant of the bards of old had yet survived in Ireland. He showed me some unfinished verses. They were excellent, and I begged of him to copy them and to send them to me, but his modesty would not allow him. Though I am sure he had more compositions than he ever showed to anyone, he so dreaded the eye of criticism, that, I fear, they died with him; and to this day there has been no collection made of his beautiful Irish songs. He was of the humbler class, got some education, and became a schoolmaster. His genius soon recommended him to the gentry of Erris, with whom he associated on the most friendly terms, and no society was considered complete in Erris without Dick Barrett's presence.”
Trotter, secretary to Fox, in his “Walks through Ireland,” mentions having met Barrett at Carn House. Barrett, on this occasion, recited and sang several of his compositions, with which Trotter was immensely pleased.
O’Flaherty, in his “West Connaught,” gives one of Barrett’s most popular songs, Eóġan Cóir. Of this I shall have something more to say later on.
TARRAINGT NA MONA.
Tá mo ċuid móna grócuiġṫe ar an bpurtaċ
I n-sumadán mór, gan fód ar biṫ fliuċ di;
Tá mo ċroiḋe stróicṫe le mór-obair a’s costas
Ag muinntir an ḃóṫair d’á dóġaḋ ’s d’á losgaḋ.
Taḃair sgeul uaim go Bárrṡaiḃ ċuig mo ċaírdiḃ Síl
gConaill,
Chum Streafáin ’s ċum Dáiḃí, ḋá ṗaistiḋe, ’s a
mbunaḋ,
Go ḃfuil mé ’mo ċráḋ a’s gaċ lá dul i ndonaċt;
Mar (=muna) dtugaiḋ siad orm tárrṫáil, beiḋ an
cás go ro-ḋona.
Aṫruiġ do ċúrsa a’s stiuir go Muiġ-Raṫain;
Aiṫris go múinte ’s go h-úṁal do Jack Tallot,
Choṁ maiṫ ’s dá mbuḋ rún é, (’s nár ċlú é len ’aiṫris?)
go dtáinig an Púca, ’s gur ṁúin ar an mBarraic.
Téiḋ go Seáġan ó Raiġilliġ, fear díleas na cneastaċt;
Ná dearmad an caoifeaċ; taḃair na mílte ceud
beannaċt,
Dá mbeiṫ ’ḟios aige an ċaoi ḃfuil mo ḋaoine i
gcrapall,
Aċt ċuirfeaḋ sé aníos ċugam trí cuingir capall.
B’reudaiġ a’s Búrcaiġ, ní’l fáṫ ḋam ’gá spreagaḋ,
Gan ionnta go léir aċt slioċt gaoil agus ceangail;
Nár ḃ’ḟadaċain saoġail dam ’s nár ṗléisiúrḋa ’n
t-aṁarc
A ḃfeiceál i n-éinḟeaċt, iad féin ’sa gcuid capall.
Téiḋ go Uineas Uctead(?) ’s an spéir-ḟéar Tom Tallot
Lorg na féile idir Gaoḋail agus Gallaiḃ,
Aiṫris dóiḃ an meud sin go nGaeḋeilg ṁaiṫ ḃlasda
S ní féidir go léigfiḋ siad . . . . . . . . .
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Go ḃfuil mé tinn tréiṫ-lag ’s na meura dá gcrapall,
’S ní líonfaiḋ siad an leus no go dtéiġfear an
Barraic.
Téiḋ ċum Pádruig Uí Gháṫáin go sásta ’s go tapa,
Mo láiṁ in do láiṁ go ḃfuiġfimid freagairt,
Péire breáġ parrdóg bláṫṁar ’gus sraṫar,
Agus gearrán teann láidir gan sgáṫ ar biṫ ná stad
ann.
Téiḋ ċum Donnċaḋ’ Cáṫaiġ ’s ċum a ḃráṫar maiṫ
toġṫa,
An dá ṫiġearna breaġa, ’s an stáid-ḟear Mac Murċa;
Is iongantaċ ’s naċ áiḋḃéil gan an nádúir ’gá
gcosgairt,
A’s b’ḟearr leó mé báiḋte ná i gceart-lár Ḃaile an
ṗortaiġ.
A Dhoṁnaill na páirte, ni’l fáṫ agam do spreagaḋ,
Gur críona ’s gur cráiḃṫiġe ṫú ná bráṫair ’s ná
sagairt;
Chuir tú Antoine ’s sleaġán ’gam ’gur Mártain a’
sgaraḋ
Ar Aidriú ’s ar Phádraig tá ’cruinniuġaḋ na
gcapall.
“Tommy,” croiḋe na féile, ceann-réiḋtiġ amuiġ, a’s
i mbaile!
Buḋ ṁaiṫ do ṫeanga ḃeurla a’s léiġfeá-so Laidion;
Bhí urlár breáṫ réiḋ ann, agus hirra-ċeusta(?) ’san
doras,
Bhí teine a’ leus(?) as gan smiḃ(?) ar biṫ toit ann.
Ní’l ḟios ag aon ḟear mo ġaol-sa le Carson;
Dá ndeunfaḋ siad m’eísteaċt, ḃeiṫ an sgeul uile aca;
Dá mbeiṫ ’ḟios agam gur breug é, ní ḋeunfainn dóiḃ
a aiṫris,
Aċ d’ḟágfainn go h-eug é ag béic an ṁadra-alla.
