444
AN GAOḊAL.
Eoċaiḋ.
Do ḋeirḃṡiúr? Tá sí annso!
Bania.
Seaḋ, Nessa! O! tá sí imṫiġṫe!
Aċ tú. Naċ seinnfiḋ tusa sean sgeul?
Eoċaiḋ.
Seinnim aċ le Beoṫaċ, mo ḃráṫair.
Bania.
Do ḃraṫair? Tá sé annso!
Eoċaiḋ.
Seaḋ, Beoṫaċ! O! tá sé imṫiġṫe!
Tá agamsa sgeul de'n am a tá ṫart,
Is sgeul é do ċluais maiġdin' glé,
Mar ṫanaic ár sinnsear ṫar ṁuir le
neart,
Má's áil leatsa seinnfead duit é.
Ins an tír ḃí le bláṫaiḃ rós go líonṁar,
In ar ṡuaiṁniġ an ṁuir air an Gain¬
eam Ḃuiḋe,
Ins an tír ḃí a g-cóṁnuiḋe áluin grian¬
ṁar,
Ṁair an Bárd ins am do ḃí.
A's do ṁóṫuiġ sé luaṫġáir go minic,
Mar spioraidiḃ eit'llaḋ 'san aer,
Aċ amaċ ó n-a ṗusaiḃ ní ṫánaic
Riaṁ, riaṁ, aon nóṫa saor.
Giḋ lán le Luaṫġáir tá an croiḋe,
Giḋ biḋeann Saoġal 'na ṁaidin ḃreáġ,
Ní'l againn fios na Mian a ċoiḋ'e
Aċ nuair ṫigeann Ceol ó Ċráḋ.
Air aon lá do ḃí a ṫrom ċodlaḋ briste,
'Gus níor ḟeuċ sé níos mó air a
Ġaineaṁ Ḃuiḋe,
Aċ a ṗusa, do ṡeinn siad go cliste
An luaṫġáir do ḃí in a ċroíḋe.
Oir le spioraidiḃ ciuin ḃí sé seolta
Tríd ġleanntaiḃ ġlas' Éireann, ar d-tír,
'S in a ċeud anál fuair sé na ceolta
A ṫigeann ó Ċráḋ go fíor.
Giḋ lán le Luaṫġáir tá an croiḋe,
Giḋ ḃiġeann Saoġal 'nna ṁaidin ḃreáġ,
Ní'l againn fios na Mian a ċoiḋ'e
Aċ nuair ṫigeann Ceol ó Ċráḋ.
Le ḃeiṫ críoċnuiġṫe 'san mí seo ċugain
Eocaidh.
Thy sister? Ah ! she is here !
Bania.
Yes, Nessa! Oh! she is departed!
But thou, wilt thou not sing a legend?
Eocaidh.
I sing but with Beothach, my brother.
Bania.
Thy brother! Ah ! he is here !
Eocaidh.
Yes, Beothach ! Oh! he is departed!
I remember a tale of the by-gone time,
'Tis a theme for a maiden's ear,
How our fathers came from the distant
(clime
If perchance thou wouldst wish to hear
In a land where the roses never faded,
Where the sea slept in peace on the
Golden Shore,
where the sun by a cloud was never
shaded,
Dwelt the Bard in the days of yore.
And such rapture he felt as immortals
May feel in their flight through the air :
Yet his voice thro' the lips open por¬
(tals,
Never, never, that rapture bare.
For though the heart know joy alone,
Tho' Life be all one summer morn;
The Passions' depths are never shown,
Till Song is of Sorrow born.
Of a day he was waken'd from slumber
And no longer he looked on his Golden
Shore,
But his lips as they parted — sang the
numbers
That they never had sung before.
For the Spirits of Music had brought
(him
To the vales of Green Erin along
And his first living breath there had
taught him,
How of sorrow they learn their song,
For tho' the heart know joy alone,
The life be one summer morn,
The Passions' depths are never shown
Till Song is of Sorrow born.
To be concluded in the next.
A lot of Gaelic matter from Mr. A P Ward, M
P Ward, and a very interesting Gaelic story from
Mr. M. J. Collins of O. is held over. When the
“Bard and the Knight” is concluded, with the ad¬
ditional Gaelic type which we expect, all our con¬
tributors will get a show. In the meantime, let
each try and circulate it as much as possible.
Also, all kinds of Gaelic literature. It is of vital
importance to the Gaelic cause to support the
home organization and the GAELIC JOURNAL.
