478
AN GAOḊAL
'S air ṫreun Ċlainn Ui Ċonaill, Ui
Ḋoṁnaill Abú.
Sé 'n fíor-ċeart tá Clann Ċonaill cos¬
aint ċo toilteaċ,
Na teallaiġe 's na h-altóir tá ansa
d' ar g-croiḋe;
Tá lorg an náṁaid 'nn a ḃán ḟásaċ
fuilteaċ;
Le lasair a d-teinte ta soilseaċ
meaḋon oiḋċe;
Suas le gaċ laoċ mar sin,
'N g-cian ġleo ḃí agaiḃ roinn —
A Ċlann Ċonaill ḋílis, all-nearṫṁar
faoi ḃruṫ:
Airiġeann an Sacsan feall,
Trom-ḃuilliḋe Clann na nGaoḋal —
Buail fá ḃur nglas-ṫír Ui Ḋoṁnaill Abú!
Translation.
Proudly the note of the trumpet is
sounding,
Loudly the war-cries arise on the
gale,
Fleetly the steed by Lough Swilly is
bounding
To join the thick squadron in Sham¬
air's green vale;
On every mountaineer;
Strangers to flight and fear;
Rush to the standard of dauntless
Red Hugh!
Bonnought and Galloglass,
Throng from each mountain-pass !
On for old Erin — O'Donnell aboo!
Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing
With many a chieftain and warrior
clan;
A thousand proud steeds in his van¬
guard are prancing
’Neath the borderers brave from the
banks of the Bann:
Many a heart shall quail
Under his coat of mail;
Deeply the merciless foeman shall
rue,
When on his ear shall ring,
Borne on the breez's wing,
Tir Conaill's dread war-cry — O'Don¬
nell aboo!
Wildly o'er Desmond the war-wolf is
howling,
Fearlass the eagle sweeps over the
plain,
The fox in the streets of the city is
prowling —
All, all who would scare them are
banished or slain!
Grasp, every stalwarth hand,
Hackbut and battle brand —
Pay them all back the deep debt so
long due.
Norris and Clifford well
Clan of Tir Connell tell —
Onward to glory — O'Donnell aboo!
Sacred the cause that Clan-Conaill's
defending —
The altars we kneel at and homes
of our sires;
Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending —
Midnight is red with the plunder¬
er's fires !
On with O'Donnell then,
Fight the old fight again,
Sons of Tir-Conaill all valiant and
true !
Make the false Saxon feel
Erin's avenging steel !
Strike for your country, O'Donnell aboo!
Mrs. Deely followed and entranced the audience
by her inimitable rendering of the far-famed
CÚILÍN.
Giḋ seo m'aṁarc déiġionaċ air Éirinn
a ċoiḋċe,
Geaḃfad Éire in gaċ tír i m-béiḋ cuis¬
le mo croiḋe;
Béiḋ d' uċt mar ṫeaċ ḋídin, a ċéile mo
ċlaon,
A's do róisg mar reult-eolais a ngeur-
ḃruid i g-cian.
Go cluan uaigneaċ fásaiġ no cuan coiṁ¬
ṫiġeaċ gorg,
Ann naċ féidir le 'r náṁaid ar g-cois¬
céim do lorg,
Éalóċad le mo Ċúilín, 's ní aireoċaiḋ
mé an síon
Ċo geur leis an náṁaid, tá d'ar n-díḃ¬
irt as díon.
Dearcḟad air ór-ḟolt tuiġ, fáinneaċ
