The Voice from the Mother's Womb - Donald Iain MacDonald

While reading a book review about An Tuil: Anthology of Twentieth Century Scottish Gaelic Verse (edited by Ronald Black), in the latest edition of StAR.(Saint Austin Review), I came across mention of a pro-life poem by Donald Iain MacDonald, "The Voice from in the Mother's Womb." Curious, I searched for it online. It was originally written in Gaelic, apparently, but here's an English translation I found in a blog (Cum Lazaro) back in 2013 -

The Voice from the Mother's Womb
Come close and give an ear to me,
  All of you who have your health,
Listen to me and take pity on me
  For you're about to have me killed;
Here I am, a developed child
  Wrapped around in my mother's womb,
And the murderer standing close to me
  With the Crown's consent to snuff me out.


He'll get no gallows, fine or prison
  And no court will sentence him,
Even if he murdered thousands
  He is quit of the country's law;
He will slaughter me tomorrow,
  Anyway my mother has asked him to-
Isn't she herself the murderer
  Of the very waif that's in her womb?


I have never harmed a creature
  Under the sun throughout the world,
All I wanted was to join you there
  And grow up and come of age there;
When my mother had conceived me
  And I was saying, "She will love me."
But giving pleasure to her flesh
  Was what she wanted, not a baby.


I'll never see a summer's day,
  Fields alive with calves and stirks,
Nor the primrose of the streamlets,
  Or flowers that grow in glen or garden;
I'll not hear in Maytime morning
  The sweetstringed choir high in the trees,
I won't run, or jump for joy
  With other children as they did themselves.


All my share came into being
  When, weak and tender, I was conceived,
And if people did right by each other
  No mouth on earth would suffer want;
But too many are amassing wealth,
  Eating, drinking, vomiting,
While their brothers lack even the mouthful
  To give them strength to reach maturity.


God made me in the usual way-
  It was His hope that I would grow,
It wasn't in His mind at all
  That I should be superfluous;
He created my eternal soul
  Though stained by Adam's living sin,
But the Sacrament of Baptism
  Was still going to show me glory.


But alas, my cause of sadness,
  My right to it has been denied:
I've now no hope of the Baptism
  Ordered for me by the King of the Elements,
But of course He will show me love-
  An innocent loveless child
Denied all admittance to the world
  And any chance to mature there in time.


Oh won't you take pity, mother,
  On me the child that's in your womb,
Listen to me and hear me cry out
  As a mother's love is denied me;
Since you so willingly conceived me,
  Bring me to the world and bless me,
And my tongue won't seek your torment
  When God comes in court to judge you.


And you who're waiting with the knife
  To finish off my childhood,
Mind, though I cannot see your face,
  I won't forget you, never-
When your soul's being sought from you
  And you crying, "God have mercy,"
With a crown about my head
  I'll shout, "Send him down to Hell, the fiend!"


"Thou shalt not kill" is what the Lord said,
    When He created the commandments;
"You'll give," He said, "all love to me
  And as to me, so to your brother."
And you who put the Act together
  That murders children by the thousand,
If justice triumphs in the end
  I pity you the day you die.

Here it is in Gaelic --

An Guth á Broinn na Màthar

Teannaibh dlùth is thoiribh cluas dhomh,
  Sibhs’ a shluagh a tha ’nur slàint’,
Éistibh riu is gabhaibh truas rium
  ’S mi air thuar mo chur gu bàs leibh;
Tha mi ’n-seo, ’nam leanabh saidhbhir
  Paisgte cruinn am broinn mo mhàthar,
’S am murtair ’na sheasnamh dlùth dhomh
’S aont’ a’ Chrùin aige mo smàladh.

Cha téid croich no càin no prìosan,
  Cha téid binn a thoirt le cùirt air,
Ged a mharbhadh e na mìltean
  Tha e caoiteas lagh na dùthchadh;
Nì e mis’ a mhurt a-màireach,
  Dh’iarr mo mhàthair air co-dhiù e-
Saoil nach murtair is’ I fhéin
  Don aon dìol-déirc a th’air a giùlan?

Cha do rinn mi cron air creutair
  Tha fon ghréin air feadh an t-saoghail,
B’e mo mhiann tighinn còmh’ ruib’ fhéin ann
  ’S a bhith ’g éirigh suas gu aois ann;
Nuair a ghineadh mi le m’ mhàthair
  Bha mi ’g ràdha, ‘Bheir i gaol dhomh.’
Ach se sòlas thoirt dh’a feòil
  A bha i’n tòir air, ’s cha b’e maoth-phàist’.


Chan fhaic mise latha samhraidh,
  Laoigh is gamhna ruith sna pàircean,
Chan fhaic mi sòbhrach nan alltan,
  Flùraichean an glean no’n gàrradh;
Ch chluinn mi air madainn Chéitein
  Còisir theudach nan craobh àrda,
Còmh’ri cloinn mar a rinn àsan.


Chaidh mo chuid-sa chur don t-saoghal
  Nuair a ghineadh maoth gun chlì mi,
’S nam biodh daoine ceart dha chéile
  Cha bhiodh beul fon ghréin is dìth air;
Ach tha cus a’ càrnadh stòrais,
  Ag ithe, ’s ag òl, ’s a’dìobhairt,
’S am bràithrean gun fiù an greim
A theireadh sgoinn dhaibh tighinn gu ìre.


Chruthaich Dia mi mar a b’àbhaist –
  Se gum fàsainn bha ’na dhòchas,
Cha b’e bha ’na inntinn idir
  Gun robh mise gu bhith chòrr ann ;
Chruthaich e m’anam neo-bhàsmhor
  Ged bha peacadh Àdhaimh beò air,
Ach bha Sàcramaid a’ Bhaistidh
  Dol a thaisbeanadh na glòir dhomh.


Och mo thruaighe, fàth mo dhòlais,
  Chaidh mo chòir rithe dhòmhs’ a dhiùltadh:
Chan eil Baisteadh ann dhomh ’n dòchas
  Mar a dh’òrdaich Rìgh nan Dùl dhomh,
Ach tha fios gun nochd E bàidh rium-
  Neochiontach de phàiste diùmbaidh
Nach fhaigh cead tighinn chun an t-saoghail
  ’S cothrom tighinn gu aois ri ùin’ ann.


O nach gabhthu truas, a mhàthair,
  Riums’, am pàist’ a th’air do ghiùlan,
Éist rium agus cluinn mo ràn
 Is gaol na màthar dhomh ga dhiùltadh;
Bhon a ghin thu mi le d’shaor-thoil,
  Thoir don t-saoghal mi le d’dhùrachd,
’S cha bhi m’theang’ ag eubhach pian dhut
  Nuair thig Dia thoirt breith na cùirt’ ort.

’S thus’ tha feitheamh leis an iarann
  Gus mo chrìochnachadh ’nam phàiste,
Cuimhnich, ged nach fhaic mi t’ìomhaigh,
  S mi nach dìochuimhnich gu bràch thu-
Nuair bhios t’anam ort ga iarraidh
  ’S tu ’g eubhach, ‘A Dhia dian bàidh rium,’
Bidh mise agus crùn mu m’cheann
  Ag eubhach, ‘Sìos don toll an t-À bharsair!’


Thuirt an Tighearna, ‘Na dian marbhadh,’
  Nuair a dhealbhaich E na fàithntean;
Thuirt E, ‘Their thu gaol gu léir dhomh
  Agus mar dhut fhéin, dha d’bhràthair.’
’S sibhse rinn an t-Achd a sgrìobhadh
  A tha murt nam mìltean pàiste,
Mas e ’n ceartas a their buaidh
  Och och mo thruaighe là ur bàis sibh.

Pretty powerful stuff.





Pax et bonum