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AN GAOḊAL.
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S
HALLS.
Translated into Irish, for the GAEL.
By WM. RUSSELL.
Tá an ċlairseaċ tráṫ a d-Teaṁair na
Míḋe
Do ṡil bínn-ċroíḋe an ċeoil,
Anois ċo ciúin a d-Teaṁair na ríoġ,
'S d'á m-beiṫ a ċroiḋe air feoḋ :
Is mar sin faoi ṡuan tá u'ár sean-aos —
An liúnraḋ glóireaċ fós,
Agus croiḋṫe seal le molaḋ ṫéiġeaḋ,
Anois gan ḃíog níos mó!
Níos mó a láṫair báb is laoċ
Ní'l caoṁ-ċruit Teaṁraḋ bínn;
Aċ a stoíḋċe 'nuair a stiallann téad,
Ag ínnsinn sgéil míġrínn:
'S gurab annaṁ do ṁúsglann Saoirse
('nois;
Aċ go m-bíogann-sí go deoiġ,
'Nuair a ḃriseann aon ċroiḋe le fíoċ
d'á toisg,
Ag foillsiúġaḋ a beiṫ fós beo.
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER-
TRANSLATED into IRISH FOR THE GAEL,
By WM. RUSSELL.
'Sé rós deaġnaċ an t-saṁraḋ tá 'n
aonar faoi ḃláṫ;
A ḃ-fuil a ċompánaiġ ġráḋṁara tréig¬
ṫe 's air fán;
Ní'l sgoṫ ann d'á ċaraid, 'na rós-ṁog¬
all óg,
Do ṫaḃarfaḋ lasa ḋó air lasaḋ 'ná oċ
air oċón!
Ní ḟágfad tú 'd aonar, a ċaíḋin ḋil
air feoḋ;
'Faid tá na gráḋṁair na g-codlaḋ, seo
codail-se leo:
Is mar sin do sgeiṫim do ḋuilliḋe le
púir,
Mar a sínid do ṡeisíḋe críon, tréiṫ,
air ann úir.
Is mar sin go leanad, 'nuair ḃeiḋeas
caradais tréiṫ,
'S ó crios geal na g-cumann na seuda
air straeḋ!
'Nuair ḃíḋeann fíor-ċroiḋṫe meaiṫte,
'gus teaiṫte luċt gráḋ,
O! cé ḟanfaċ air talaṁ go folaṁ 'na
n-gáḋ?
TRANSLATION.
Air — Molly Astore.
The harp that once thro' Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for
praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells ;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart, indignant, breaks,
To show that still she lives.
TRANSLATION.
Air. — The Groves of Blarney,
'Tis the last rose of Summer, left bloo¬
ming alone;
All its lovely companions are faded
and gone;
No flower of its kindred, no rose-bud
is nigh,
To reflect back its blushes, or give
sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to
pine on thy stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep
thou with them.
Thus, kindly I scatter the leaves o'er
the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden lie
scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow, when friend¬
ships decay,
And from Love's shining circle the
gems drop away !
When true hearts lie wither'd and
fond ones are flown.
Oh! who would inhabit this bleak
world alone?
