AN GAOḊAL.
385
OIL CITY, PA. JULY, 15. '84.
To the Editor of the Gael;
Dear Sir, — In connection with
my translation of “The Last Rose of
Summer," just published in the Gael.
I omitted to state that it is an error to
accept that song as written to the air
of 'The Groves of Blarney;' which is
the same tune as that of 'Castle Hyde,"
"The Bells af Shandon" and Youghal
Harbor"; which last is but a transla¬
tion of the Gaelic song known as “Mai¬
din Doṁnaig." That “The Last Rose
of Summer" cannot be sung to this
tune is plain enough to any one ac¬
quainted with the song, “The Groves
of Blarney": what the true air is, I do
not now undertake to decide, but I
think it is that of Gráine Ṁaol.
I send you to-day my translation of,
"I Saw from the Beach.” of which song
versions in Irish have been recently
written by Captain Norris, and Mr. D.
O’Keeffe of New York. Archbishop
MacHale also made a translation of
this melody into the vernacular. Al¬
though these three translations were
in my possession I did not allow my¬
self to become acquainted with any of
them, lest I should be tempted to bor¬
row the terms or phraseology used by
their authors. But now that I have
completed mine, I may be allowed to
remark, in a general way, that it is ex¬
tremely difficult to translate the “Me¬
lodies” into Irish; and that no man
will successfully do it who is vastly in¬
ferior to Moore in judgement, imagin¬
ation, fancy, inventon, pathos and me¬
taphorical sublimity; besides this, he
must be thoroughly acquainted with
the spoken and written Gaelic.
Yours, &c.
W M. RUSSELL.
I SAW FROM THE BEACH.
Do ḋearc me ó'n d-traiġ is an ṁaidin
go glégeal,
Aon-ḃárc air an sáile go h-áluinn ag
téaċt;
Do ċas me ḋon tráiġ sin le fuinneaḋ
na gréine;
Ḃí 'n barc ann le fáġail, 's gan an
sáile 'na gaoḋar :
Is mar sin é dán moċ-ġeallaṁna ár m-
beaṫa,
'S do ṫeiṫeann lán-roġarta ár soġ
d' ár n-áiṁḋeoin ;
Gaċ tonn air ár rínnceamair ceáḋfra
air maidin,
Sinn fágann san ḃ-fuar-ċuan go
h-uaigneaċ air neoin.
Ná tráċt liom air ġlóiriḃ go h-aoiḃinn
ag taitnioṁ
Air ḋeire ár lae, air ár g-ciúin oiḋ¬
ċe ṡáṁ —
Taḃair air n'ais dom, air n'ais dom
fiaḋain-úire na-maidne,
Is fiú a deora 'sa neulta 'n neoin-
ṡolas is feárr.
O! cé naċ ḃ-fáilteoċaḋ an moiméad do
ċasaḋ
'Nuair ṁúsgail an macnas nuaḋ-ḃiṫ
trí na ċnáṁa,
'Sa ċroiḋe mar an aḋmad do ċúrṫaiġ¬
eas san lasair —
'Ṫug uaig a ṡár-ṁilseaċt do laom
an ḟíor-ġráḋ !
CONÁN 'g GAḂÁILT DO'N DÉISEAĊ.
Conán —
'Nis dam, a rúin 'sa ċarra,
Ce ṡiad Séamus Fada & Emon Gearra,
De ċúis ná'r laḃair tú air gaċ gearán,
Bí ó'n Sgibirín dí Cloċ-an-Stocáin?
Déiseaċ. —
Ná'r ċóir go d-taḃarfá fe nḋearra,
a Ċonáin,
Naċ féidir iad go léir do ċuir ann aon
ċeaċt aṁáin,
Feuċ mar do caiṫfimíd éisdeaċt go
ciúin le foíḋne,
Le díṫċéile agus le deasċaínt gaċ aen¬
ne.
Conán. —
An fear tú, an beán tú, no garsún?
An ó Neṁ Ġorc tú, no ó Ḃostún?
