12
AN GAOḊAL
Mar súd tá 'n t-am, ċuaiḋ ṫart, faoi ċeo,
Tá 'cáil, 's a ċliú faoi ṡuan;
Is croiḋṫe 'santuiġ molta teo,
Ní airiġeann iad go buan
Ní cluinrear cruit na Teaṁra treun,
Measg cruinniuġaḋ ban no saoi,
Óir fuagrann í ḃeiṫ feaċta, faon,
Fuaim briste teud sa n-oiḋċe.
Mar súd do 'n t-saorsaċt, 's anaṁ tráṫ
A dúsgṫar í go deo,
Aċt 'nuair a bristear croiḋe 'g a ċráḋa,
Aig foilsiuġaḋ í ḃeiṫ beo.
THE HARP THAT ONCE THO' TARA'S HALLS
AIR — Molly Astore.
The harp that once thro' Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled
So sleeps the pride of other days,
So glory’s thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells ;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
GIḊ SE O M'AṀARC DÉIĠIONAĊ AR ÉIRINN I ĊÓIḊ'
Fonn — An Ċúilḟionn
Giḋ seo m' aṁarc déiġionaċ ar Éirinn i ċoiḋ'
Ġeaḃfaḋ Éire in gaċ tír i mbeiḋiḋ cuisle mo ċroiḋe:
Beiḋ d'uċt mar ṫeaċ-ḋídin, a ċéile mo ċlaon,
Is do rosg mar reult-eolais i ngeur-ḃruid i g-cian.
Go cluan uaigneaċ fásaiġ, no cuan coiṁiḋeaċ, gorg,
In naċ féidir le 'r náṁaid ar g cois-céim do lorg,
Eulóċad le mo ċúilḟionn, 's ní aireoċaiḋ mé an síon
Ċo geur leis an náṁaid tá, d'ar n-díbirt as díon.
Dearcfad ar ór-ḟolt tiuġ, fáinneaċ, do ċinn,
Is éistfead le ceoltaiḃ do ċláirsiġe tá binn,
Gan eaglaḋ go stróicfeaḋ an Sasanaċ teann
Aon teud as do ċruit, no aon dlaoiḋ as do ċeann
