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AN GAOḊAL.
IS FAD ṠÍ Ó 'N g-CRIĊ.
Is fad ṡí ó 'n g-críċ ḃ-fuil a h-óg-laoċ 'nn a luiḋe
'S gan aird air a suiriġiḃ 'g a breugaḋ;
Aċt uimpiġeann go fuar ó ṡúiliḃ gaċ saoi,
Oir tá a croiḋe le n-a céile g a eugaḋ.
Buḋ ṡiad aḃráin dúṫċais a tír' féin do ṡeinn,
Rinn gaċ fearsa d' ar áil leis do ṁeaṁaraḋ.
Ó! 's beag imniḋe loċt cluinste a ceolta binn',
A croiḋe ḃeiṫ 'g a ḃriseaḋ gan caḃaraḋ.
Do ḃair sé d' a rún; agus d' eug sé d' a ċríċ:
So an meud ḃí 'g a ċeangal air talaṁ ;
Ní luaṫ 'gaḃfas trom-ġul a ṫíre aon sgíṫ,
'S ní ḃeiḋ fad gan a ċéile an uaiṁ falaṁ.
Translation — She is far from the Land.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking; —
Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains,
That the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He liv'd for his love, for his country he died:
They were all that to life had entwin'd him :
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Naċ Aoiḃinn Uair aig Tomaḋ Gréine.
Naċ aoiḃinn uair aig tomaḋ gréine anns a ḃ-fráiġ,
'S a solus sínte air a g-ciún-tonn go tráiġ!
Tig ó aimsir ársa, aisling tiúġ leis an n-oiḋċe,
Aig dúiseaċt cúṁa ar g-cairde, úr ann ar g-croiḋe.
Trá ḋearcaim lóċrann lag an lae ag dul faoi,
'S an áiḋḃéis daiṫte leis an ór-sgáil buiḋe;
Tríḋ ṫonna lonnraċ' tnuṫaim triall siar go cuan
Na hinnse áille, a ḃ fuiġeaḋ ann seun 'gus suan.
Translation — How Dear to Me the Hour.
How dear to me the hour when twilight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea ;
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her every sigh to thee.
And as I watch the line of light that plays
Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning West,
I long to tread that path of golden rays,
And think 't will lead to some bright isle of rest.
