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AN GAOḊAL.
ELGIA
D'Eoġan Mac Ail, Árdeaspog
Ṫuama,
1
O Éire mo ċroiḋe,
Ní aoiḃinn ḋuit,
Tá brón agus baoġal
Air teorain do riġeaċt;
O 'n ceud-uair,
Da ṫanig an t-eug
Aig buaileaḋ an te,
Raiḃ ḟlaiṫ ar g-ciniḋsa
Fiúntaċ.
2
Do ṡagart arún,
Ċo moḋaṁail ciún,
Le ṁ-boċtaiḃ,
Gleann agus ṡleiḃte;
Aċt geur agus teann,
Mar Luaṫ na Bran,
'N aġaiḋ do naṁad
Gallda.
3
O Éire mo ċroiḋe
Ní aoiḃinn ḋuit
Óir tá Eoġan, do ṡaoi,
'San uaiġ a luiḋe
'S guil agus caoin
Ann Neṗin;
Do ḟile a's do ṁaor,
Do árd easpog fíor,
Flaiṫ ar g-ciniḋra
Fiúntaċ.
4
Béiḋ a ainim go deo
Ann ar gráḋ fíor-beo
Gan sgiṫ na codal
Ann Connae;
L' a ṡeinim a's a ċeoil
Atá againn go fóill
Flaiṫ ar g-ciniḋsa
Fiúntaċ.
5
Béiḋ teanga 'n Gaoiḋal
Aig insin do sgeul
Cia briġ e 'n áit a
M-béid sinn
Triḋ 'n doṁain mór
Faoi gleann na n-deor
A áisge ḋilis
Éireann.
Eoġan Ua Carruil.
ELEGY to JOHN McHALE,
Archbishop of Tuam.
(Translated from the Irish poem, — J. J. C.)
1
Oh Erin my loved one,
Unhappy thy lot,
Now danger and sorrow
Surround thee,
Since that hour death came
To quench the life-flame
Of a Prince of our Race,
Ever worthy!
2
He, the Priest, well esteemed,
So gentle and meek
To the poor
Of the valley and mountain ;
But eager and bold
To the foe of the fold
As e'er was Bran,
The swift wolf-dog.
3
Oh Erin my loved one,
Unhappy thy lot,
For the Priest of the West,
In the tomb —
Lies at rest;
While sore is the weeping
'Round Nephin.
He, the poet and guide,
The hierarchy’s pride,
A prince of our Race,
Ever worthy !
4
His name shall endure
In our love, ever pure,
Without ceasing or sleep,
In green Connae.
In music and song,
Thy fame we'll prolong,
Oh prince of our Race,
Ever worthy!
5
And the tongue of the Gael
Thy story shall tell,
In climes where e'er
He wanders;
To the distant poles
Of the sea-girt earth:
In this lower valley of sorrows,
Thy memory he'll fondly cher¬
ish —
Till thy name shall ring o'er
[land and sea,
In paeans of triumph when we¬
're free!!!
