Tar Isteach's Gay Clery regularly leads bands of intrepid republicans on expeditions to the hills of Dublin and Wicklow along routes rich in the history of rebellion and equally rich in nature's wonders. To mark Easter Week, he reflects here on the Bonnán Buí, a rare breed of heron and its links to 1916 Martyr Thomas Mac Donagh.


The Bonnán Buí (Yellow Bittern) is of the same family as the Grey Heron that we often encounter on our rambles and the next opportunity you get try to take a closer look at one these wary birds. Quite a number of these herons survive around the city waterways and I used to enjoy watching one regular visitor as it hunted small fish along the Dodder near Rathfarnham.

Herons not only eat fish but also nearly every thing that walks swims or crawls in watery places. The heron doesn't seem to have changed very much from the oldest remains found in London mud and believed to be over 50,000,000 years old! And sure why would they, as it seems that they have been fairly successful at survival and are found in many parts of the world today.

Of the heron family, about 60 species exist, to which the bitterns also belong. Our usual grey heron seems to be one of the biggest, up to 140 cm. long, and like the rest of the family it flies with a distinct ''S'' shape to its neck. This, I'm told, is caused by the sixth neck vertebra being longer than the rest.

Perhaps what makes the herons and bitterns that little bit special is their powder down feathers and pectinated middle claw on each foot! To explain - all birds moult at least once a year, but herons are a little different by having patches of feathers that never moult! These continue to grow and become frayed and powdery, which is just what the bird needs after struggling with some tasty morsel such as a wriggling eel, which causes the birds head to become covered in slime. The bird then sort of ruffles these feathers (mainly breast feathers), thereby creating a mini cloud of dust which clings to the slimy parts and can then be easily combed off by using the above mentioned claw. Pectinated claws occur to some degree in quite a number of different birds.

The grey heron likes to build its nest in lofty trees, whereas the much more secretive bittern hides its nest in quiet reedy places and is extremely difficult to find. A surprised heron usually lumbers off with a great flurry of wings but bitterns usually freeze on the spot and depend on their excellent camouflage to save them in their reedy habitat.

Unfortunately, the bittern hasn't been seen much in this country since about the 1830s. Perhaps its tasty flesh, the increase of the human population, drainage or even climate helped to wipe it out in these islands.

In about 1911, a pair of Bitterns returned to breed on the Norfolk Broads in England. This nest was carefully guarded and now they also breed in Suffolk and elsewhere. The occasional bird has been encountered on this island also, so perhaps sometime in the future our wild places may witness its very distinctive call once again.

Thomas Mac Donagh and the Bonnán Buí

The Bonnán Buí (The Yellow Bittern) it seems lived a very secluded and secretive lifestyle, which moved the Ulster poet Cathal Buidhe Mac Goilla Ghunna (c 1690-1756} to compose his famous piece ``An Bonnán Buí''. Cathal it would appear (in spite of dire warnings from loved ones and friends) was a little too fond of the odd bottle of nourishment.

One day he chanced upon a dead bittern beside an ice bound pool, which spurred him to put pen to paper and produce his crowning piece. Over the years there have been several different translations made of his poem.


An Bonnán Buí

Cathal Buidhe Mac Giolla Ghunna

A bhonnáin bhuí, sé mo léan do luí

Is do chnámha sínte tar éis do ghrinn,

Is ní heaspa bídh, ach díobháil dí

A d'fhág in do luí thú ar chúl do chinn.

Is measa liomm féin ná scrois na Traoi

Tú bheith id' luí ar leaca lom' -

Is nach ndearn' tú díth ná dola sa tír

'S nárbh fhearr leat fíon ná uisce poll.

A bhonnáin álainn, sé mo mhíle crá thú,

Do chúl ar lár amuigh romham se tslí ;

'S gurb iomaí lá a chluininn do ghrág

Ar on láib is tú ag ól na dí.

'Sé an ní deir cách le do dheartháir Cathal

Go bhfaighe sé bás mar siúd más fíor;

Ach ní hamhlaidh atá, siúd an préachán breá

Chuaigh in éag ar ball le díth na dí.

A bhonnáin óig, sé mo mhíle brón

Tú bheith sinte fuar í measc na dtom,

'S na lucha móra ag triall ar do thórraimh

A dhéanamh spóirt agus pléisiúir ann;

Is da gcuirthea scéala fá mo dhéinse,

Go raibh tú I ngéibheann no I mboid gan bhrí,

Do bhrisfinn béim duit ar an loch san Bhéasaigh

A fhliuchadh do bhéal is do chorp istigh.

Ní haid n-éanlaith atá mé ag éagnach,

An lon, an smólach, nó an chorr ghlas;

Ach mo bhonnán buí, atá lán don chroí,

Is gur cosúil liom féin í i ndath.

Bhíodh sí go síoraí ag ól na dí,

Is deirtear go mbímse mar sin seal;

Níl deor dá bhfighinn nach ligfinn síos,

Ar eagla go bhfighinnse bás den tart.

Sé d'iarr mo stór orm ligint don ól,

Nó nach mbeinnse beo ach seal beag gearr,

Ach dúirt mé léi go dtug sí an bhréag -

Gurbh fhaide mo shaolsa an deoch úd d'fháil.

Nach bhfeiceann sibh éan an phíobáin réidh

A chuaigh in éag don tart ar ball -

Is a chomharsa chléibh, ó fliuchaigí bhur mbéal,

Óir ni bhfaighidh sibh braon i ndiaidh bhur mbáis.


The Yellow Bittern


From the Poem by

Cathal Buidhe Mac Giolla Ghunna

The yellow bittern that never broke out

In a drinking bout, might as well have well have drunk.

His bones are thrown on a naked stone

Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.

O yellow bittern! I pity your lot

Though they say that a sot like myself is cursed-

I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise

For fear I'll die in the end of thirst.

Its not for the common birds that I'd mourn,

The black-bird, the corn crake- or the crane.

But for the bittern that's shy and apart

And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.

Oh! If I had known you were near your death.

While my breath held out I'd have run to you.

Till a splash from the lake of the son of the bird

Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.

My darling told me to drink no more

Or my life would be o'er in a little short while,

But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength

And will lengthen my road by many a mile.

You see how the bird of the long smooth neck

Could get his death from the thirst at last-

Come son of my soul, and drain your cup,

You'll get no sup when your life is past.

In a wintering island by Constantine's hall's

A bittern calls from a wineless place,

And tells me that hither he cannot come

Till the summer is here and the sunny days.

When he crossed the stream there and wings o'er the sea

Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight-

Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,

And a dram won't stop our thirst this night.


Thomas Mac Donagh was fondly remembered for his work of translating the Bonnán Buí by his friend from Co. Meath, Francis Ledwidge. Like many of his fellow nationalists of the time, Ledwidge had joined the British Army and when home on leave in 1916 he learned of the brutal execution of his two poet friends, Pearse and Mac Donagh.

Before he left for France, this now disillusioned poet composed his lament for Thomas Mac Donagh, completed about a week after they were shot in the bleak stonebreakers yard of Kilmainham Jail 1916.

Thomas Mac Donagh

He shall not hear the Bittern cry

In the wild sky, where he is lain.

Nor the voices of the sweeter birds

Above the wailing of the rain.

Nor shall he know when loud March blows

Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill.

Blowing to flame the golden cup

Of many an upset daffodil.

But when the dark cow leaves the moor,

And pastures poor with greedy weed,

Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn

Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.

Francis Ledwidge himself perished in the muddy trenches of Belgium on 31 July 1917. No doubt he often recalled his beloved county Meath and river Boyne, where perhaps a Bonnán Buí would have skulked among the reeds in times gone by.

Gay Clery