AN GAOḊAL.
873
AN MUILIONN UISGE.
LE SAḂAḊ DÚDNAIĠ
Éist leis an muilionn uisge,
Air feaḋ faid an lae,
Mar ċaiṫeas gliogar an roiṫe
Na h-uaireana go réiḋ.
Coruiġeann gaoṫ an ḟóġṁair
Na dilleoga go fann;
Seinneann buainteoiriḋe san maġ
Ceangal suas na b-punann;
Táim taiṫiġṫe le sean-ráḋ,
'S le draoiḋeaċd an draoi:
"Ní ṁeiltfiḋ muilionn go bráṫ
Leis an uisge ċuaiḋ faoi."
Ní spracfaiḋ gaoṫ saṁraiḋ níos mó
Dilleoga scapṫa ṫair ṁuir 's sáil,
Ní ġeárfaiḋ corrán go deó
Gráinne buiḋe an sgiobóil;
Riṫeann an sruṫán air aġaiḋ,
Socair, ciuin, gan coiseaḋ;
Gan filleaḋ air ais a ċoiḋċ'
Ċum an Ṁuilinn Uisge.
Is fíor sean-ráḋ na nGreug,
Le fuagraḋ doṁain le'r n-aġaiḋ;
"Ní ṁeiltfiḋ muilionn go h-eug
Leis an uisge d'imṫiġ uaiḋ."
Glac an léiġean ċugat féin,
A ċroiḋe gráḋaċ, fíor;
Tá bliaḋanta órḋa riṫe g-céin,
Is óige 'g imṫeaċt siar.
Foġluim led' ḃeaṫa ċuir i ḃ-feiḋm —
Ná caill aon lá sona!
Ní ṫaḃarfaiḋ am ṫart an réim
Ċaiṫ'mar uainn go dona.
Ná fág aon ḟocal maoṫ gan ráḋ, —
Gráḋuiḋ air feaḋ do ḃiṫ:
"Ní ṁeiltfiḋ muilionn go bráṫ
Leis an uisge ċuaiḋ faoi."
Oibriḋ ca ḟaid 's ṡoilsiġeas grian,
A ḟearaiḃ ċróḋa, teann'!
Níor ṡníġ ariaṁ an sruṫán,
Muna leis an muilionn.
Ná fan go seiltfiḋ grian an ṁáraiġ
A ġaeṫe air do ṡlíġe go tiuġ;
An meud ṫig leat féin iarraiḋ,
Tá san ḃ-focal, "In Diu!"
Cúṁaċt, sláinte agus sgeó,
Ní ṁairfid a ċoiḋċ';
THE WATER-MILL
BY SARAH DOUDNEY.
Listen to the water-mill,
Through the livelong day;
How the clicking of the wheel
Wears the hours away.
Languidly the autumn wind
Stirs the withered leaves :
On the field the reapers sing,
Binding up the sheaves:
And a proverb haunts my mind,
And as a spell is cast,
“The mill will never grind
With the water that is past."
Summer winds revive no more,
Leaves strewn o'er earth and main
The sickle never more shall reap
The yellow, garnered grain ;
And the rippling stream flows on,
Tranquill, deep and still,
Never gliding back again
To the water Mill.
Truly speaks the proverb old,
With a meaning vast:
“The mill will never grind
With the water that is past."
Take the lesson to thyself,
Loving heart, and true;
Golden years are fleeting by,
Youth is passing, too,
Learn to make the most of life,
Lose no happy day!
Time will ne’er return again
Sweet chances thrown away,
Leave no tender word unsaid —
But love while love shall last;
“The mill will never grind
With the water that is past."
Work, while yet the sun does shine
Men of strength and will,
Never does the streamlet glide
Unless by the mill.
Wait not till to-morrow's sun,
Beams brightly on thy way,
All that thou canst call thine own
Lies in this word, "To-day"
Power, intellect and health
Will not always last,
