AN GAOḊAL.
91
A n-GLEANN DUḂ LOĊA 'S LE NA
ṪAOḂ.
Fonn — An Cailín donn Éireannaċ.
A n-gleann Duḃ-Loċa 's le n-a ṫaoḃ,
'N áit nar ṡeinn fuiseog fós a riaṁ'
Air ḃár árd aille, os cionn an ċuain,
Ċuaiḋ Naoṁ Caoiṁġein óg ċum suain.
"An ḃean, ta air mo ṫóir, ní ḃ-fuiġiḋ
An ait so, m-beiḋ me, feasd' mo luiḋe."
Faraoir! is beag do ṫuig sa tra
Sé cluain is cleasa mealtoċ' mna.
Sí Cait óg na n-gorm ṡúl,
D ċuir air teiṫeaḋ é, 's ċum siúḃal:
Buḋ ḃuan a ġraḋ, 's níor ċoir léi é,
A ḃeiṫ na céile aig giolle Dé.
Cé 'r biṫ ait a ġluais an naoṁ,
Cluin sé a coiscéim le na ṫaoḃ;
Téiḋeaḋ soir no siar, do ló nó d' oiḋċe
Casfaiḋ a súil leis annsa t-sliġe.
Air bar na creige anois 'nn a luiḋe,
Téiḋ ċum suaiṁnis is ċum sgiṫ,
Aig smuaine'ḋ air neaṁ, gan cas gan
[craḋ
Fa ḃeiṫ ó ċaṫuġ'ḋ mna faoi sgaṫ.
Aċt ní'l aon ċlúid, nó clais, faraoir!
Ó ġaeṫiḃ mna, ta cean,ṁuil, saor:
Fad ta 'nn a codl'ḋ feuc sa tra
Cait aig silt n-deo le graḋ.
Gan eagla gaḋa trí creaga gorg',
go cuais na h-aille lean sí a lorg,
Is nuair do ḋealruiġ ban an lae,
D' ḟoilsuiġ sgéiṁ a dreaċ 's a gné.
Is cruaiḋ an croiḋe a ta aig an naoṁ ;
Óir d' éis a h-arduġ'ḋ le na ṫaoḃ,
Do léim go déifreaċ ó n-a ṡaṁ,
Is ṫeilg lé fan'ḋ í go saiṁ
A lar do linne, ’Ġleann-da-loċ,
Ṫuit Ċait lé glas'ḋ 'n lae go moċ,
D' ṁaoḋ'm go mall é truaiġ' ḋe 'n ṁnaoi
A d'eug tré ġraḋ 's tré ṡeaċm'll croiḋe
Traṫ ġuiḋ da h-anam 'n ḃeaṫ' ṡúṫ'n,
Do cluis'ḋ ceol air ḟad 'n ċuain,
Lé 'ruḃ na cnoic 's na glant, binn,
Nuair 'd' éiriġ a taiḃse geal ó 'n tuinn.
Send 60 cents to this office and the Gael will be
mailed to you for a year; it will help to remove the
slur inseparable from our boasted patriotism, and at
the same time neglecting its very essence.
BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.
(Translation.)
By that lake whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here at least, he calmly said,
"Woman ne’er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.
'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew —
Eyes of most unholy blue!
She had loved him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe’er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh ;
East or west, where’er he turned
Still her eyes before him burn'd.
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heav'n is free
From her power, if fond she be :
Even now while calm he sleeps,
Cathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had tracked his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat ;
And, when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah ! you Saints have cruel hearts !
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And, with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock !
Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave !
Soon the Saint (yet ah ! too late)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, “Heav'n rest her soul!”
Round the Lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o’er the fatal tide !
That the Irish is the oldest known language in
the world is now an admitted fact. We extract the
following from O'Brennan's Antiquities. —
"Niul, the son of Fenius, sent out several depu-
tations to collect the dialects which were spoken in
the various parts of the surrounding country, and
that on their return he incorporated them into a
University on the plains of Senair, or the old land,
whereon Adam, during his state of innocence, en-
joyed the delights of Paradise. Now, in order, to
reconcile facts, set forth in this passage, we must
assume as true what our Irish old writers and tra-
dition tell us. They say that Fenius came up to
