AN GAOḊAL.
283
AIR LÉIĠEAḊ DÁIN DO CUMAḊ
LEIS AN g-CRAOIḂÍN AOIḂINN.
Ná caoin, a ḃinn-ċeoltóir, ná caoin
ċo geur, deoraċ
Na láeṫe do ḃí in ar n-oileán fad
ó;
Ná caoin iad, "a taoiseaċa treun¬
ṁara, treoraċ,"
Ná caoin iad, na gníoṁarṫa d'im¬
ṫiġ mar ċeo.
Ní'l maiṫ in do ċaoineaḋ, giḋ is ná¬
dúrṫa 'ḋeunaḋ,
Aċt tiormuiġ do ṡúile ó ḋeoraiḃ
go bráṫ;
No ma's "duḃ, is ma's doṁain mar
an oiḋċe do ḃrón-sa,"
Cuiṁniġ go d-tigeann as gaċ oiḋ¬
ċe an lá.
Giḋ gur iomad d'a páisdiḃ do ċaill
ar n-dil-ṁaṫair,
Le ḃás tá níos measa 'na báṫaḋ
go mór;
A's giḋ go ḃ-fuil a clann scapṫa a
b-fad ó n-a laṫair,
Ta fágṫa fós laoċra maiṫ', treun¬
ṁar', go leor,
Agus iadsan tá scapṫa 'nn gaċ áit
air an g-cruinne,
Ma's fada táid 'nois ó n-a d-tír
ṫar an t-sáil :
Tá mian in gaċ croiḋe, agus neart
aig gaċ duinne,
Le buille do ṫaḃairt air ṡon Éir¬
eann go fóill.
'Nuair tiocfaiḋ an lá sin ní dóiġ
liom go m-beiḋ tú
Faoi 'ḃrón, no faoi ṗian, no do
ḋeora aig sil';
'Gus trá feicfir do ṫír, a's gaċ ċa¬
ṫair faoi ṡaoirse,
As seilḃ ar náṁaid, ní buḋ ṁaiṫ
leat an ċill
Oir measaim go m-beiḋ tú aig gleus¬
aḋ do ċruite,
A's aig sinm le saor-ġuṫ do aḃ¬
rán go h-árd;
'Gus ní ḃéiḋ tú aig caoineaḋ, aċt
aig molaḋ na laeṫeaḋ
Do ḃí againn in uair sin, a Ṗrion¬
sa na m-Bárd!
Miss Downey spoke this popular piece
with excellent effect at the N. Y. Philo-Celtic
reunion on Oct. 16th.
Morning On The Irish Coast.
Mo Anam do dhia, but there it is,
The dawn on the hills of Ireland,
God's angels lifting the night's black veil.
From the fair sweet face of my sireland,
O Ireland isn't grand you look,
Like a bride in her rich adorning
And with all the pent up love of my heart,
I bid you the top of the morning.
Thus one short hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning,
I'd almost venture another flight,
There's so much joy in returning —
Watching out for the hallowed shore
All other attractions scorning,
O Ireland don't you hear me shout,
I bid you the top o, the morning.
Ho ho! upon Cleena's shelving strand.
The surges are grandly beating,
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out
To give us the kindly greeting.
Into the shore the sea birds fly
On pinions that know no drooping
And out from the cliffs with welcomes charged
A million of waves come trooping.
O, kindly, generous Irish land,
So real and fair and loving,
No wonder the wandering Celt should think
And dream of you in his roving,
The alien home may have gems and gold —
Shadows may never have gloomed it
But the heart will sigh for the absent land,
Where the love-light first illumed it
And dosen't old Cove look charming there,
Watching the waves' in motion,
Leaning her back up against the hills,
And the tips of her toes in the ocean?
I wonder I dont hear Shandon’s bells,
Ah! mayby their chiming's over
For it's many a year since I began
The life of a western rover.
For thirty summers, a stor mo chroidhe
Those hills I now feast my eyes on,
Ne'er met my vision, save when thou rose
O'er Memory's dim horizon.
E'en so 'twas grand and fair they seemed
In the landscape spread before me,
But dreams are dreams and my eyes would ope
To see Texas' sky still o'er me.
Ah! often upon the Texan plains,
When the day and the chase were over,
My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave,
And around this coast-line hover.
And a prayer would rise, that some future day
All dangers and doubtings scorning,
I'd help to win for my native land
The light of young liberty's morning.
How fuller and truer the shore-line shows
Was ever a scene so splendid ?
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze,
Thank God that my exile's ended.
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again,
The vale and the cot I was born in,
Oh, Ireland, up from my heart of hearts,
I bid you the top o' the mornin'.
