AN GAOḊAL.
107
BRIĠDÍN ṖÁDRUIĊ
mac ríoġ?
Ní 'l bárún treun no árd-ḟlaṫ
Do ḋearċfaḋ Briġdín Ṗádruiċ,
Naċ d-tiobraḋ seaċ a's gráḋ ḋí
Ṫar ṁnáiḃ ḋeasa an t-saoġail :
A súile is gláise dealraḋ,
Ná 'n drúaċd' air ṁaidin ṡaṁraiḋ;
Is ciuin, breáġ, deas é a gáire,
'Sí is áillne air biṫ méinn.
Ċá 'r ḃ' iongnaḋ fear a ḟáġail
Ḃeiṫ claoiḋte seal a n-gráḋ léi,
Tráḋ ċiḋim an ḟaoileán áluinn,
Go scanruiġeann sí mé;
'Sa brollaiġe cailce tarraingṫe
Mar sgríoḃfaiḋe a b-prionnda Ṗáris
'Sa píob mar ala air lán ṁuir,
'S í ḃásuiġeann gaċ aen.
Do 'n Raḋ-Árd tinn má ṫéiḋeann tú
Ag dearcaḋ mnaoi na meur lag,
Briġdín ḋeas na n-oal ċroḃ,
Ní baoġal duitse an bás :
,S í an ṁúinte ṁaiseaċ, ṁaorḋa,
Na g-craoḃ-ḟolt ṁ-búclaċ m-peurlaċ,
Go dlúṫ ag teaċd le céile,
'S aig claonaḋ ann a m-bárr.
'S milse blas a béil tair
Ná mil ag filleaḋ as céir ḃeaċ,
A riġ na feart gur eulaiġ
An sgéiṁ léi ṫar ṁnáiḃ :
A ríoġan ḋeas a ġeurṡlad,
Le 'd ġnaoiḋ, le 'd ġean gaċ éin ḟear,
Gur saṁail duitse reult maidne,
Aig éiriġiḋ gáċ lá.
Ó ċruṫuġaḋ an doṁain ġo d-tí seo,
Níor ṡiúḃal an talaṁ naoṁta
A saṁail súd ḋo mnaoi air ḃiṫ,
Ann áillne ,s a g-cáil;
Tá lasaḋ glan na g-caoír ċon
'Na leaċaiḃ geala, míne,
A's balaḋ cúṁra na tíme
Air ṗóigín mo ġráḋ.
Mo ċreaċ gan mé 's mo stuaire
Le na ċéile aig gluaiseaċt,
Faoi ṫoim, faoi ċoillte a's cuantaiḃ,
'S gan ar d-tuairisg le fáġail :
B' ḟeárr liom ná ór na ríoġaċta
Go m-beiḋinn-se léiṫe n-aoinfeaċt,
Ann uaigneas seal ós ísiol
'S ní ṫréigfinn í go bráṫ.
BRIDGET FERGUS.
(Translation.)
What Chief of Erin’s isle, with coldness could
regard,
When wandering o'er our western shore, the
flower of Rahard?
Her eyes so blue
Like glistening glue
On summer rose-buds seen,
Her smile so bright
Her heart so light
Her majesty of mein.
What wonder Erin's sons should be spell-bound
in her gaze,
For when I chance to catch a glance I startle in
amaze.
A swanlike grace
Her neck displays
Her eye what witchery tells,
Her budding breast
But half confest
Like living marble swells.
Should sickness weigh your frame, or sorrow
cloud your mirth,
Once look upon this lovely one, this paradise on
earth.
Her winning air,
Her tender care
Will put e'en death to flight,
For through her eyes
Beam witcheries,
Her Angel soul 's more bright,
Her lips more sweet than honey, a pouting fresh-
ness warms,
While all must own that beauty's throne is cent-
red in her charms:
Though thousands prove
The force of love
Deep cherished in her sight,
A morning star
She shines afar
On all with equal light.
Since the birthday of creation this sacred earth
ne'er bore,
A heavenly mind so fairly shrined as her whom I
adore,
Just like the rose
The blush that glows
O'er all her kindling cheeks;
The dewy thyme
In all its prime
Seems breathing where she speaks
Oh that my fair and I, were in some lonely place,
Whose woods and groves might hide our loves
and none our wanderings trace,
That bliss untold
Beyond the gold
Of nations would I prize
For ever there
Her love to share
And triumph in her eyes.
