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AN GAOḊAL.
Dá m-beiḋeaḋ an ċroiċ a láṫair ḃeoċ
Nár ṁór an peacaḋ mé ċur as m'árus
'Sa raḃ go 'n áḋ orm ó ġaḃ mé ann,
'Snár iarr mé faice orṫa, aċ a baint
as láiġe,
Le saorṫúġ' cnáṁa agus allus trom.
Aċ tá súil le Muire 'gam 's le Ríġ na
ngása,
A n-diaiḋ gaċ cárdáil d'a raḃ mé ann,
Gur ċuir mo leaṫ-ḃreiṫeaṁ air a' taoḃ
is feárr mé,
D'inneon Ṡeáġain & a raḃ díoḃ ann.
An fear a ṡocruiġ mé 's d'ḟág m'intinn
sásta,
Fá a ḃeiṫiḋeaċ ṫárṫaiġ go moċ 's go
[mall;
Dá d-tigeaḋ a ḃó 'sa ngort orm nó lár
na fásaiġe
Ní ḃeiḋeaḋ de ċáin uirṫi aċ a tiontóġ¬
[núnn;
Ní bainfear sop a ḃus nó ṫáll air
Naċ m-beiḋeaḋ mé in áirdeall go moċ
's go mall,
'S go ḃ-fairfiḋ Smasher go n-éirġiḋ 'n
[lá é,
is nár ṁór an t-áḋ ḋúinn é ċasaḋ ann.
We have a lot of these songs from friend Ward,
which will appear now-and-then. — Ed. G.)
NÁ TÓIG AIR AN ḃ-FILE.
Fonn — Caitilín Tiriall.
(Archbishop McHale's Translation.)
Ná tóig air an ḃ-file, má euluiġeann
faoi 'n g-cluan,
'N a m-biḋeann sóġ-ċlaon ag fonnóid
faoi árd-tuaḋ go buan,
Níor ṫair ḃí ḋoiġ sinsir 's le uain 'gus
[le trá
Go clutaṁuil, do ḋéanfaḋ gníoṁ gais¬
giḋ, gan sgáṫ;
An teud, tá 'nois sínte air an g-ceol-
[ċruit go fann,
Do ṡeolfaḋ a g-croiḋe an náṁaid an
bás-ġaṫ go teann;
'S an teanga, naċ sileann aċt mil-ṡruṫ
[na g-claon,
Buḋ tuilteaċ í ag brosdúġaḋ gráḋa
tíre na ḃ-Fian.
Mo nuair d'a ṫír áluinn! tá a caiṫ¬
réim 'nn a luiḋe,
'S an croiḋe cróḋa briste, nár ḃ'ḟéid¬
ir a ċlaoiḋeaḋ;
Caiṫfiḋ éagcaoin a fíor-slioċt ḃeiṫ
faluiġṫe ó 'n t-saoġal,
Óir is bás-ḃreiṫ a cosaint, 's ní ḃ-fuil
a cumann gan baoġal.
Tá a clann gan aon ċeannas, mar n¬
déanfaiḋ siad feall,
'S mur d-truailliġid a sinsear ag iom¬
póġaḋ le Gall;
'S an trillseán, tá ag lasaḋ slíġe
céime, gaċ lá,
Naċ sgiobṫar ó 'n g-carn é, air ḃ-fuil
[Éire 'ga cráḋaḋ.
Ná toig air an ḃ-file a ḃeiṫ ag síor-
ḋéanaḋ rann,
'S an t-olc, naċ n-dán léiġeas, do ḋíb¬
reaḋ le greann:
Biḋeaḋ aige aċt leus dóċuis, is las¬
[faiḋ go beo
A rosg tré ḃrat cúṁa mar an ġrian
tré slám ceo:
Déanfaiḋ íoḋbairt do Éirinn de na
beusaiḃ, a ḃiḋeann
'Ga ṡeolaḋ air mearḃall le fánaḋ a
ċlaon
'S le dlaoiġ na g-craoḃ glas, a tá fiġ¬
te air a ċeann
Mar an Greug, ag imirt díoġaltais,
falóċaiḋ sé a lann.
Aċt giḋ gur euluiġ do ṁór-ċéim, mar
aisling na h-oiḋċe,
Béiḋ d' ainm 'ga luaḋ aig an ḃ-file a
ċoiḋċe,
An trá is mó suairceas air aigne le
[seun,
Béiḋ ag seinnim go h-árd-ḃinn do leaṫ¬
trom 's do leun
Cluinfiḋ an coigríġeaċ do ġárṫa-croiḋe
[fíor',
Raċfaiḋ éagcaoin do ċláirsiġ ṫar
muir a's ṫar ṫír,
'S do ṫiġearnuiḋe ag teannaḋ na
ṡlaḃraiḋe do d' ċlaoiḋ',
Silfiḋ deora na truaiġe le teann
ḃriste croiḋe.
OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.
Air — "Kitty Tyrrell."
Moore.
Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame :
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame;
The string that now languishes loose o’er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;
And the lip which now breathes but the song of
desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart
But, alas ! for his country ! her pride has gone by,
And th t spirit is broken which never could bend ;
O’er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
