AN GAOḊAL.
961
AN ROS GEAL DUḂ.
Is fada an réim do ṫug mé féin
[éadtrom,
O'ndé go niú,
An iomall sléiḃ amuiġ, go h-ineálta,
Mar a b' eolaċ liom,
Lóċ Éirne do léimfuinn,
Ce gur mór í an ṁuir,
Gan am ḋiaiḋ már ġile gréine
Aċt mo Rós Ġeal Duḃ!
Go d-ti 'n aonaċ má ṫéiḋeann tú
A díol do stuic,
Má ṫéiḋean tú, ná fan déiġionaċ
'S an oiḋċe amuiġ;
Bíoḋ boltaiḋe air do ḋoirse,
Is mór glas-cip,
Nó as baoġal duit an Cléireaċ
Do 'n Rós Ġeal Duḃ!
A Róisin na bíoḋ brón ort,
Na cás anois,
Tá do ṗárdún ó'n Róiṁ
Is ón Ṗápa agum,
Tá na bráiṫre teaċt ṫar sáile,
Is a dtrill ṫar muir,
Is ní ceillfear fíon Spáinneaċ air
Mo Rós Ġeal Duḃ!
Tá gráḋ agam am lár ḋuit
Le bliaḋain anois,
Gráḋ cráiḋte, gráḋ casṁar,
Gráḋ cíopaṫa,
Gráḋ d'ḟág me gan sláinte,
Gan rian, gan ruiṫ,
Is go bráṫ, bráṫ gan aon ḟaill agam
Air Rós Ġeal Duḃ!
Do ṡiúḃalfainn-si an Ṁuṁan leat,
Is ciúṁas na g-cnoċ,
Mar ṡúil go ḃ-faiġinn rún ort
Nó páirt le cion;
A ċraoḃ cúrṫa, tugṫar dúinne,
Go ḃ-fuil gráḋ agut dam;
Is gur b'í plúr-sgoṫ na m-ban ṁúinte
Mo Rós Ġeal Duḃ!
Béiḋ an ḟaraige na tuilte dearga,
Is an spéir na fuil,
Béiḋ an saoġal na ċoga craoraċ,
Do ḋruim na g-cnoc,
Béiḋ gaċ gleann sléiḃe air fud Éireann
A's móinte air criṫ,
ROS GEAL DUBH.
A long, long way since yesterday
I wildly sped,
O’er mountain steep and valley deep,
With airy tread;
Loch Erne’s tide, tho' its wave be wide
I'd leap above
Were my guiding light that sunburst
[bright
The Ros geal dubh.
If to the fair you would repair
To sell your flocks,
I pray secure your every door
With bolts and locks ;
Nor linger late from the guarded gate
When abroad you rove,
Or the clerk will play through the live-
[long day
With Ros geal dubh.
My dearest Rose, why should these
[woes
Dishearten thee ?
The Pope of Rome hath sent thee home
A pardon free —
A priestly train, o’er the briny main,
Shall greet my love,
And wine of Spain to thy health we'll
[drain
My Ros geal dubh.
My love sincere is centred here
This year and more —
Love sadly vexing, love perplexing,
Love painful, sore,
Love, whose rigor hath crush'd my vi¬
[gor
Thrice hopeless love,
While fate doth sever me ever, ever
From Ros geal dubh!
Within thy heart could I claim a part,
One secret share —
We'd shape our flight, o’er the wild hills
[height
Towards Munster fair;
Branch of beauty's tree it seems to me
I have thy love —
And the mildest flower of hall or bower
Is Ros geal dubh!
The sea outspread shall be raging red,
All blood the skies —
And crimson war shall shout afar
Where the wild hills rise —
Each mountain glen and mossy fen,
In fear shall move,
