AN GAOḊAL.
54
A TÁIM SÍNTE AIR DO ṪUAMBA
(From Edward Walsh — and one of his best.)
Walsh is not
the author but
the collector
A táim sínte air do ṫuamba,
A's do ġeaḃair ann go síor mé ;
Dá m-beiḋeaḋ báir do ḋá láṁ 'gam,
Ní sgarfainn leat ċoiḋċe,
A úḃailín agus annsaċt,
Is am daṁsa luiġe leat,
Tá bolaḋ fuar na criaḋ orm,
Daṫ na gréine 's na gaoiṫe!
Atá cló air mo ċroiḋesi,
'Tá líonta lé gráḋ ḋuit,
Lionnduḃ air taoḃ ṡíos de
Cóṁ ciar duḃ le n-áirne,
Má ḃainion aon níḋ ḋam,
'S go g-claoiḋfeaḋ an bás mé,
Béiḋeadsa m' ṡíoṫ-gaoiṫe,
Róṁad ṡíos air na bánta !
Nuair is dóiġ le mo ṁuintir
Go m-bíḋimse air mo leaba;
Air do ṫuamba seaḋ ḃíḋim sínte
Ó oiḋċe go maidion;
Ag cur síos mo ċruaḋtain,
'S ag cruaḋ-ġol go daingion,
Tre mo ċailín ciuin, stumaḋ,
Do luaḋaḋ liom na leanḃ!
An cuiṁin leatsa an oiḋċe
Do ḃíosa 'gus tusa,
Fá ḃun an ċrainn draiġniġ,
'S an oiḋċe ag cur cuisne;
Ceud molaḋ le h-Iosa
Naċ n-deárnamar an milleaḋ,
'S go ḃ-fuil do ċoróin ṁaiġdeanais
Na crann soillse as do ċoinne!
Tá na sagairt 's na bráiṫre
Gaċ lá liom a ḃ-feirg,
Do ċionn ḃeiṫ a ngráḋ leat,
A óig-ḃean, is tú marḃ;
Ḋéanfainn fosgaḋ air an ngaoiṫ ḋuit
'S díon duit ó 'n ḃ-fearṫainn;
Agus cúṁaḋ ġeur mo ċroiḋesi
Ṫú ḃeiṫ síos annsa d-talaṁ!
Taḃair do ṁallaċt dod' ṁáṫairín,
'S áirṁiḋsi t-aṫair,
'S a mairion dod' ċáirde
Go léireaċ na seasaṁ;
Nár léig dam ṫú ṗósaḋ
'S tú beo 'gam ad ḃeaṫa,
Agus naċ n-iarrfainn mar spré leat,
Ac leaṫ-taoḃ do leabṫa!
Translation.
I LIE ON THY TOMB.
From the cold sod that's o'er you
I never shall sever —
Were my hands twined in your's, love,
I'd hold them for ever —
My fondest, my fairest,
We may now sleep together,
l’ve the cold earth's damp odor,
And I'm worn from the weather!
This heart, fill'd with fondness,
Is wounded and weary;
A dark gulf beneath it
Tawns jet-black and dreary —
When death comes, a victor,
In mercy to greet me,
On the wings of the whirlwind
In the wild wastes you'll meet me !
When the folk of my household
Suppose I am sleeping,
On your cold grave, till morning,
The lone watch I'm keeping ;
My grief to the night wind,
For the mild maid to render,
Who was my betrothed
Since infancy tender !
Remember the lone night
I last spent with you, love,
Beneath the dark sloe-tree,
When the icy wind blew, love —
High praise to the Saviour
No sin-stain had found you,
That your virginal glory
Shiness brightly before you!
The priests and the friars
Are ceaselessly chiding,
That I love a young maiden
In life not abiding —
O! I'd shelter and shield you,
If wild storms were swelling,
And O! my wrecked hope,
That the cold earth's your dwelling !
Alas, for your father,
And also your mother,
And all your relations,
Your sister and brother,
Who gave to you sorrow,
And the grave ’neath the willow,
While I crav'd, as your portion,
But to share your chaste pillow !
Let each subscriber secure one or two
more and thus double the circulation
of the Gael. Follow the Rt. Rev. Bish¬
op Becker's example, noted on back.
