54
AN GAOḊAL
THE TOP of The MORNING.
M' anam do Dia, but there it is,
The dawn on the hills of Ireland,
God's angels lifting the night's black veil-
From the fair sweet face of my sire-land —
Oh, Ireland, isn't it grand you look,
Like a bride in her rich adorning, —
And with all the pent up love of my heart,
I bid you the top of the morning.
Thus one short hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning,
I'd almost venture another flight,
There's so much joy in returning —
Watching out from the hallowed shore,
All other attractions scorning —
Oh, Ireland, don't you hear me shout —
I bid you the top of the morning.
Ho ho! upon Cleena's shelving strand,
The surges are grandly beating.
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out
To give us the kindly greeting,
Into the shore the sea-birds fly
On pinions that know no drooping,
And out from the cliffs, with welcomes charged,
A million of waves come trooping.
O, kindly, generous Irish land,
So real and fair and loving,
No wonder the wandering Celt should think
And dream of you in his roving —
The alien home may have gems and gold —
Shadows may never have gloomed it,
But the heart will sigh for the absent land,
Where the love-light first illumed it.
And does not the Cove look charming there,
Watching the waves in motion,
Leaning her back up against the hill,
And the tips of her toes in the ocean ?
I wonder I don't hear Shandon’s bells —
Ah ! maybe their chiming's over,
For it's many a year since I began
The life of a western rover.
For thirty summers, a sthore mo chroidhe,
Those hills I now feast my eyes on,
Ne’er met my vision, save when they ros
O’er memory's dim horizon.
Ev'n 'twas grand and fair they seemed
In the landscape spread before me,
But dreams are dreams and my eyes would ope
To see Texas' sky still o'er me,
Ah, often upon the Texan plains,
When the day and the chase were over,
My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave,
And around this coast-line hover.
And a prayer would rise, that some future day,
All dangers and doubtings scorning,
I'd help to win for my native land
The light of young liberty's morning.
How fuller and truer the shore-line grows —
Was ever a scene so splendid ?
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze —
Thank God that my exile's ended.
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again,
The vale and the cot I was born in,
Oh, Ireland, up from my heart of hearts,
I bid you the top of the mornin’.
CONNLAĊ GLAS AN ḞÓĠṀAIR
Mrs. H. Cloonan, St. Louis, sent us this song.
Mrs Cloonann is a keen critic of Gaelic literature.
Air connlaċ glas an Ḟóġṁair
A stóirín, is sead do ḋearc mé ṫú,
Buḋ deas é do ṡeasaṁ i m-bróig,
Agus buḋ ro ḋeas do leagann súl;
Do ġruaiḋ buḋ deirge ná 'n rósa,
Agus do ċúilín a ḃí fiṫte go dlúṫ —
Mo leun gan mé agus tú póstaḋ
Nó air bord luinge triall anonn.
Ċuir mé leitir sgríoḃṫaḋ
Aig mo ṁian agus casaoid ġeur,
Ċuir sí ċugam arís í
Agus í sgríoḃṫaḋ le fuil a cléiḃ';
A cum buḋ gile, míne
Ná an síoda 's ná clúṁaċ na n-eun,
Naċ trom an osna ním-se
An tráṫ smuainim air scaraḋ léi,
Is cuma liom-sa féin
Cad do ḃiḋeas siad a luaḋ nó ráḋ,
Aċ ḃéarfaiḋ mé cuairt agus ceud
Air an taoḃ ag a m-bíonn mo ġráḋ;
Is sí cuaiċín ḃárr na g-craoḃ í
Agus céirseaċín an ḃrollaiġ ḃáin —
'Sí rún agus searc mo ċléiḃ í,
A's ní ṡeunṫad í ar fear le fáġail.
Naċ mór an t-áḋḃar bróin dom —
Oċ ón! agus briseaḋ croiḋe!
Mo ċailín ḋonn d'a pósaḋ
Le stróinse asteaċ ṫar ṫír;
Ċuirfinn díoġḃáil bróg ort —
A stóirín ná'r ḟan mar ḃiḋis,
'S ċumfainn agus ṡeinnfinn ceol duit
Lá fóġṁair a's tú baint an lín.
See Vol. VIII. page 14.
