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AN GAOḊAL
TOMÁS Ua MÓRA AGUS SEÁĠAN
Mac HÉIL.
Fonn — An t-Seamróg.
I
O! músgail dúinn
Ó ċodlaḋ a's suan
An t-sean ċruit ċiuin, faoi ċuiḃreiġe!
Monuair! cia ṁéid
Aos ḃí a teud
Gan fuaim! Sé ċeud Geiṁreaḋ.
Aċt ṫangadar
Aimsiora níos feárr
'Gus laoċra mar an g-ceudna,
Ċum slaḃraiḋ geur
Do sgaol' go léir
'Gus teud' ċruit Éireann dó ṫeannaḋ.
O! an ċláirseaċ!
Ḃí a teud briste, casta;
Aċt fiġ a cruṫ
Le duilleaḃar tiuġ,
'S béiḋ 'nois aċt guṫ binn, blasda.
II
Ní ḃ-fuil sa n-doṁain
Aon teanga aṁáin
Ċo buan mar tá an t-sean-Ġaeḋilig ;
Tá a stáire 'guinn
Tríd aois' gan roinn —
Stáire ársa, ġlinn, gan cealg.
Biḋeaḋ fada saoġal
Teanga na nGaoġal,
'S biḋeaḋ gaċ beul ag laḃairt
Mólta na m-bárd
Do ṡeinn go h-árd
Air Éirinn 'ḃí ṫart, gan caḃair.
O! an Ġaeḋilge!
Ċo buan le crann-ġiuṁais daingean,
Naċ n-glacann sníoṁ
Neaṁ-ċríon ariaṁ
Le h-uaineas ċraoḃ a's beangan.
III
A ḟir-ċeoil ḃinn
A ḃrosduiġeas inn
Le meisneaċ ġrinn na ḃ-fíreun,
Béiḋ d' aḃráin beo
Lár péin ar ngleo
Go d-tí lá glórṁar Éireann.
Tá ainm mór
Do 'n úġdar ċóir
Do ṡeinn air ġlóir a ṫíre;
Thomas Moore and John McHale.
Air — The Shamrock.
[Translation.)
I
For us, oh, chime
That harp sublime
Those chords by time half sundered.
Alas! unstrung
Those chords had hung
Through winters long six hundred;
When, by the touch
Of hands like such
As break the clutch of tyranny,
That harp was strung,
Those chords were rung
To that old tongue of Erin aye.
Oh! the wild harp !
Its chords were torn and tangled;
But wreath it round
With flower and frond —
Ne’er let its sounds be jangled.
II
That glorious speech,
Whose records reach
Through change and breach adventu¬
(rous,
Back to the wan
And early dawn,
When first began the centuries.
Long live that song !
Long may that tongue,
When Ireland's wrongs amended are,
In Ireland praise
Those bards whose lays
In helpless days defended her!
Oh, the Gaelic!
,Tis like a mountain fir-tree —
Unbent, erect,
That grows unchecked,
Unfading decked with verdure.
III
Anacreon
Of Ireland's song,
Thou cheer’st our long night's tedium ;
Thy deathless strains
Shall soothe our pains
Till Ireland gains her freedom.
Long, long in fame
Survives the name
Of him who framed our chorus;
