516
AN GAOḊAL.
casta air a crios.
'Sa Ċiti na n-Úḃall, 'sé mo ċúṁa mar
ṫugas duit gráḋ,
'S glaine glaise do ṡúl 'ná drúċt' 'ná
maidne air an m-bán,
Dá mbuḋ liom-sa coige Múṁan agus
cuairt a ḃeiṫ suiḋte 'na lár,
Le mo ċailín deas fionn 's léi ṡiúḃaló¬
ċainn fad agus geárr.
Agus a Ḋoṁnaill na laoi ná tréig-se
mise go bráċ,
Air ḟearaiḃ an t-saoġail go léir go d-
tugas duit gráḋ ;
Go g-cuirfinn mo ġaolta go léir iad
taréis a ḃeiṫ marḃ fá ċlár,
D' aon suiḋeaḋ led' ṫaoḃ deas caol
gan cailce gan ċáiṁ.
Do casag sluaḋ síġe orm ṡíos i g-Cais¬
ill gan tráṫ.
'S d'ḟiafruiġeas díob go ciuin cad a
leiġseóċaḋ mo ġráḋ,
'Sé dúḃradar liom go ciúin, go cneasd¬
a 's go tláṫ,
'Nuair a ṫeiḋeas sé 'san g-croiḋe orm
nár sgaoiltear as é go bráċ.
Is liom féin sa tsliġe.
air — Petrie's A.I.M.
No 1237.
THE MAID of TRALEE.
Air — For Ireland I'd Tell not Her Name.
(Sent by P. J. Crean by request of Mr O’Shea.)
One day as I chanced for to roam,
A's mé siúḃal liom-sa go réiḋ,
I espied a fair maid going alone,
A's sí deunaḋ aisteaċ go Tráiġlí.
Her cheek was as red as the rose,
A's a béilín go ro-ṁilis mín;
I asked her her how far would she go,
No d-tiocfaḋ sí liom go Tráiġlí.
She spoke in a pitiful tone,
Agus d' ḟreagair sí mise go caoin' :
My father distracted would go,
A's ḃeoċ mo ṁaṫ'rín a gol 'sag caoin'
Besides that my fortune is low.
S' ḃeoċ mo ċairde go síor mo ċaoin',
With a babe in my arms to moan,
'S mé siúḃal na m-bóiṫre gan ṗíġinn.
Said I, if you come with me home,
A's go d-tóigṫeá leat mise do ṁian,
I, surely, will make you my own,
'S go m-beiḋ muid pósta d-Tráiġlí.
My father bequeathed his stores,
Ṫug sé dam fortune a's maoin,
All the land that's between the two roads,
Agus doisín bó ḃreac agus buiḋe.
If I were so vain as to go,
As gur b' áil liom gur cam é do ṡliġ,
There is no one would pity my moan,
'S ní ḃaoċ breiṫ air m'aiṫreaċas coiḋċ'
A maiden for ever I'll go,
'Sé 'n title is feárr e san rioġaċt,
No man shall me ever control.
No go ḃ-fáġ me 'n te ṫug uaim mo ċroiḋe
Don't take me to jest or to joke,
Mar is leat-sa do ċailleas mo cíall,
And if you don't give me your love,
Ní ḃeiḋeas a ḃ-fád beo do ḋiaíġ.
I'll dress you in silk and fine clothes,
As capall le beiṫ marcuiġeaċt gaċ lá,
So make up your mind and come home,
Agus mairfiḋ go bráċ a d-Tráiġlí.
I gave you my answer before,
Agus náire an doṁain in do ṡliġe,
Deluding a maid of my sort,
Is ḃaoġalaċ duit damaint síoruiḋe.
It was lust that caused Solomon to moan
'N uair ċuireadar fearg air Ċríosd
When your crimes, to all men, are exposed,
Creid feasda gur feárr an aiṫriḋe.
When Adam from dust was composed,
Agus fuair sé Éḃa mar ṁnaoi,
To increase and people the Globe,
A fuair sé mar aiṫne ó Ḋia,
All pleasures that earth could afford.
Gur bronnaḋ air Aḋam agus Éḃa.
Until Satan had tempted them both,
'Gur caiṫeaḋ as n-Gáirdín iad.
You are very presumptious and droll,
Ní'l náire no allus ann do ċroiḋe,
After all the pure Scripture I quote,
Ní'l eagal ort roim' no na ḋiaig.
But in order to finish the joke,
As go ḃ-fuiġmid beannaċt na naoṁ.
The priest will make one of us both,
'S go mairfimid go bráċ a d-Tráiġlí.
The lady for whom the following song was com¬
posed by the far famed Anthony Raftery, the mo¬
dern Carolan of his day, was Mary Hynes, a local
beauty of her day. The gentleman who has given
me the song does not wish to make any remarks
on the matter as he is not sure of much informa¬
tion regarding it. He refers me to Mr. Morrissey
of the 13th st. school, New York, or to the Editor
of the Gael, who may be able to say something on
the matter. Yours,
MARTIN P. WARD.
dis araon
