AN GAOḊAL.
463
SMUAINTE AN t-SEAN-ĠAEḊIL, A
b-PRÍOSÚN, A SACSANAIḊ.
An Craoḃín Aoiḃinn do ċan.
Naċ aoibinn é, naċ aoiḃinn!
Do ḋuine faoi leun
Do ḃeiṫ siúḃal roiṁ oiḋċe
Agus roiṁ luiġe ná gréin'.
An uair a ḃ fuil an ġrian
Faoi ṫrom-ṫionntaiḃ glasa
Ag triall air a sgiṫ-san,
'S an spéir ann a lasaḋ.
Agus tuile ṁór na taoide
Le h-árd-ġlór go garḃ
A teaċt do 'n tráiġ mar 'riaṁ.
Ag sgiúrsaḋ na talṁan
O tagann air mo ċroiḋe-se,
Ḃí láṁ leis an m-bás,
Cuiṁne agus smaointe
Is feárr 'ná buḋ gnáṫ,
Naċ sgarfas uaim a ċoiḋċe
a ċoiḋċe go deo,
'S naċ raċfas uaim a riaṁ
A's mise am' ḃeo.
Aċt nuair a ḃ-fuilim sínte
Go fuar anns an g-cré,
Béiḋ mo ḋaoine ag caoineaḋ
Go cruaiḋ 's go geur,
Go d-ḟág mar sin mo ḃríġ mé
Mo neart a's mo lúṫ,
Agus go ḃ-fuilim sínte
'S an roilig ċaoil dluiṫ,
Aċ b'ḟeárr liom an uaiġ is caoile
'S í saor ó ṗéin,
'Na ḃeiṫ fanaṁuin anns a tír-se
Gan saoirse gan seun.
De'n t-suaiṁneas agus aoinneas
Tá ann seo le fáġail
Ní ḃ-ḟáġann aon neaċ a ḋíol
'S ní ḃ-ḟuiġfiḋ go bráṫ,
Aċt 's é an méid iarraim
O Ríġ ṁór na n-grás
Sul ḟeicim sgrios na tíre
Go ḃ-guiġfiḋ mé bás.
Is é a ṁilleas mo ċiall
Oiḋċe agus lá
Ċo minic agus smaoinim
Air Éirinn, mo ċráḋ!
Ċo minic agus saoilim
Gur cruaiḋ a cás,
'S gur doiliġ, doċar, díḃirt
Na sean-náṁuid as,
Tá mílte agus mílte
Ag milleaḋ na tír'
Ag deunaḋ a n-díoṫċill
An Gaoḋal do ċur síos,
Ḃí mé a m-brionglóid oiḋċe
A n-aisling a réir
Taisbeánaḋ dam-sa néiṫe
A's ḃiadar áiḋḃeul,
D' ḟág dóċas sáim mo ċroiḋe-se
Taisbeánaḋ dam cráḋ,
Agus brón le h-aġaiḋ na tíre
Agus Brón, Brón aṁáin.
(Translation)
By MICHAEL CAVANAGH.
AN IRISHMAN'S MUSINGS IN AN ENGLISH PRISON.
How pleasant 'tis, how pleasant,
To one bowed down in woe,
To wander forth at even,
And see the sunset glow:
To see the sun descending,
Unto his ocean bed;
While sea and sky are glowing,
With golden hues, and red.
The great flood-tide rough music,
Is making on the strand ;
As it has done for ages,
When beating on the land,
There comes unto my heart then,
That felt so nearly dead;
Some thoughts and recollections,
I deemed for ever sped.
Oh! let them bide for ever,
For ever, and for aye,
Until my soul is freed from
Its prison house of clay,
But when l’m coldly lying,
Within my earth bed deep ;
My people crowding o'er me,
While bitterly they weep,
Thus doth my vigor leave me,
My strength and courage brave,
I might as well be sleeping,
Within my narrow grave.
But, better far be lying,
Secure from grief or pain;
Than in this Isle of sorrow,
A slave-bound wretch remain.
What comfort or what pleasure,
Amaits the poor and low?
None gets redress for evils
Which all must undergo,
But all for which I tender,
My prayer to God on High,
Ere I my land see tortured,
He'd will that I should die,
Tis this my senses crazes,
By day-light and by night,
As often as my thoughts dwell
On Erin's watchful plight.
As often as Im thinking,
Upon her cruel case;
I pray the Lord to banish,
The tyrants of her race,
There thousands upon thousands,
Are preying on the land ;
All bent on the destruction
