AN GAOḊAL.
12I
Tá mé lán de náire
Tré gaċ beart dá n-dearnaḋ,
Mar is buaċaill mé ḃí dána,
'S d' imṫiġ uaim mo ġreann;
Ní beo mé mí no ráiṫċe
Mar ḃ-faġaiḋ mé póg a's fáilte,
'S cead feuċaint air do ḃáin-cneis,
A inġion an Ḟaoit ó 'n gleann-
Is iomḋa cailín barraṁul, spéireaṁuil
Do ġluaiseaċ liom na h-aonar,
Mollaim féin a tréiġṫe,
A g-Coillte Ḃéal Áṫ-Uir;
Dá m-beiḋmís ag a ċéile,
'S aig ól a dTurlas Ḟéile,
Mo láṁ faoi ċeann mo ċéad-searc,
Do ċuirfinn í ċum suain.
A ċaillín barraṁail spéireaṁail,
Da 'r ṫug mé searc mo ċléiḃ duit,
'S é an gráḋ a ṫug mé raoir duit,
ċuir an saḋad-so tre mo ċum;
Ní beo air muir ná 'r féar me,
'S taosgaim fuil mo ċléiḃe 'maċ,
'S é mo ḃrón gan mé is mo ċéad-searc
Faoi ḋilleaḃar glas na g-crann.
Dá m-beiḋinn-se lá breáġ gréine,
Am ṡuiḋeaṁ air ḃeinn an t-sléiḃe,
An lon-duḃ 'san ċeirseaċ
Aig seinnim os mo ċionn;
Ba deas do sgríoḃfainn béarla,
'S b' iongnaḋ léo mar léiġfinn,
A n-gráḋ do ḃeiṫ a caint leat,
A inġínn an Ḟaoit ó 'n Gleann.
WHITES DAUGHTER OF THE DELL.
(Translation]
Come let us trip away love,
We must no longer stay love;
Night soon will yield to day love,
We'll bid these haunts farewell.
We'll quit the fields and rather
New life in cities gather,
And I'll outwit your Father,
The tall White of the Dell.
I am filled with melanchely,
For all my bygone folly,
A wild blaze and a jolly,
I was as most can tell ;
But woes now throng me thickly,
I droop all faint and sickly,
I'Il die or win her quickly,
White's daughter of the Dell.
There's many a Kate and Sally
Who'd gladly stray and dally
Along with me in valley
Or glade or mossy cell.
O were we in Thurles together
And each had quaffed a mether
We'd sleep as on soft heather
My sweet one of the Dell.
You bright, you blooming fair, you
'Tis next my heart I wear you,
The wonderous love I bear you
Has bouud me like a spell,
Oh! both by land and ocean
My soul is all commotion,
Yours is my deep devotion,
Dear damsel of the Dell.
Oh! were I seated near her.
Where summer woods might cheer her,
While clearer still and clearer,
The blackbirds notes would swell.
I'd sing her praise and glory,
And tell some fairy story,
Of olden ages hoary,
To White's Rose of the Dell.
BEAN AN ÓR ḞOLT DONN.
'Sí bean an ór ḟolt donn mo ġráḋ-sa
gan dóḃat;
Is suiġte deas a com 's a cnáṁa;
Likewise her features round excel the
Lady Brown's,
Her equal can't be found anns an áit
seo:
If I had a thousand pounds I'd pay
the money down,
D' ḟonn tú ḃeiṫ agam a b-Port Láirge
Ġlacfamuis an long 's raċfamaois a:
nún,
'S air ḟairge ní baoġal dúinn báṫa.
Ní ġéillim-si dod' ġlór mar is mór do
ḋúil 'san ól,
'S air ḟairge ní raċfad ċoiḋċe leat;
I believe you're for sport, and I beg
you'll let me 'lone,
'S gur le bladaireaċt a ṁeallas tú na
mná leat:
if I bid my friends adieu and go along
with you,
Geallaim duit gur fada go m-beid
tráċt orrainn ;
I believe I'll stay at home and ne’er go
to roam;
Seaċain mé, do radaireaċt ní áil liom.
Tréigfead feasda 'n t-ól 's ní lean-
see "Poets + Poetry of Munster"
Like air
page 51.
I'd rather than the world
She were Dum, Dum Dum.
See Joyce's Old Folk M. + Song.
