866.
AN GAOḊAL.
CUMA NA MNA 'SAN g-COILL.
Tré ċoilltiḃ coll gan sgíṫ,
Beiḋead-sa féin ag caoi,
Go d-tiocfaiḋ tusa arís, a Ṡearlais.
Táid cait-coille ann,
Ag dul ó ċrann go crann;
Cad fáṫ 'r ḟág tú mise a Ṡéarlais?
Tá sé anois an oiḋċ',
Táid eunla ag dul fá ċríċ,
Aċ ca ndeaċaiḋ tusa uaimse, a Ṡear¬
lais?
Ní ḟáġaimse féin aon sgáṫ
Uaḋ aon, mar is tú mo ġráḋ:
'S ar ḟág tusa mé, a Ṡéarluis?
Tá mé folaṁ gan biaḋ,
Ní'l aon niḋ air mo ṡliġe,
Ca raċaiḋ mé anois, uċ, a Ṡéarluis?
Ní'l cara agam, no neaċ,
A ḃéarfas ċugam fiú deoċ,
Oir do ṫug mé iad ort, a Ṡéarluis.
Tá an cearn a nġar dam,
Ca ḃ-fuil tú a ḃláṫ na súḃ'?
Tar am' ċongnaṁ anois, a Ṡéarluis.
Taid na dris am' lot,
Tá mo ċosa lom-noċt,
Oċ, beir as an ngáḃaḋ mé, a Séarluis
Tá mise air sgáṫ na n-dos,
A's fuilineóċaḋ gaċ cros,
Mar ġeall air mo ḃuaċaill, Séarlas,
D'ḟág mé m'aṫair féin
'S leaba cluiṁ na n-eun
Agus ċuaiḋ mise leatsa, uċ, Ṡéarluis
Air speilg cnoic am' luiġe
Fá neultaiḃ duḃa na h-oiḋċ'
Naċ dam-sa ḃain an milleaḋ leat, a
Ṡéarluis.
Ḃí cúig óiġ barr'ṁuil breáġa,
Agam le mo ġleusaḋ,
Ḃí mise mar ḃain-triaṫ, a Ṡéarluis.
An féidir le mo ċaoi,
Aṫair, tusa do ċlaoi!
Ní féidir, óir d'euluiġ mé le Séarlus
Uċ neulta duḃa na h-oiḋċe
Don' follaċ féin a ċoiḋċe,
Ó Sí Seon mar ċuaiḋ mé le Séarlus.
Tré ċoilltíḃ dlúṫa de ġnáṫ
Goíllsed ċoiḋċe a's lá,
A ḃ-fad óm' ṫír d'ḟág tú mé, a Séar¬
luis.
Go n-duḃaiḋ ceo an t-sleiḃe
M'earráid a's mo sgeula
O Sir Seon as óm' aṫair fá Ṡéarlas.
LONGINGS!
Oh! for a breeze from the Western Sea
To stiffen the idle sails
Of ships that wait for the will of men
To lean on the bulwark rails;
Of the men who swore that they would come
Whenever the days might be,
To cheer us here in the poor old Land
With their ships from the Western Sea.
Forth they sailed in their fateful ships
Out from us, and their hearts were sore.
And their tears tell fast, and they raised their
hands,
And again, and again they swore,
In the ears of God, that they would come,
Whatever the time might be,
And wipe the tears from their mother's eyes
As they fall by the Western Sea.
Our land is rich, yet still we pine,
Our masters take our gold,
Oh, bring us gifts in your stately ships,
Oh, bring us wealth untold.
The light that lies in long-loved eyes,
The strength we hope to see,
In the manly breasts of all who come
With their ships from the Western Sea.
Ah, do ye come? Ah, do ye come?
Our longing eyes are sore.
Our eager hands are here to grasp,
Our hearts can bear the strain no more.
We hold the lights upon our coast,
Your welcome ships shall seo
When you sail again to the Holy Isle
And your home in the Western Sea.
Ah, the time is long, and still they stay,
The homeward air is dumb,
The ships are there, the breeze blows fair,
But still they stay, and do not come.
We strain our ears, yet hear no cheer,
No signal light we see,
As we watch and wait in the dismal dark
By the shores of the Western Sea.
Yet they will come, yet they will come,
Whenever the days may be,
Nor the homeward air will then be dumb
As it blows from the Western Sea.
And we shall cheer when we hear their cheer,
And their signal lights we see,
Hurrah! for the men who have kept their vow
With their ships from the Western Sea.
— Songs for Freedom.
