AN GAOḊAL.
177
Mr D Driscoll of Chicago sends us the following
verses founded on a conversation between an Eng¬
lish gentleman in Ireland and a poor woman whose
son was shot by the police, with a request to print
a translation of it. Both are subjoined. —
WILL ENGLAND GIVE ME BACK MY SON?
God bless you, sir, your words are kind,
I know you come with good intent;
But little comfort I can find
With sorrow sore my heart is rent.
You say that we will soon be free —
That England’s heart is nearly won,
Ah ! what's the good of that to me —
Will England give me back my son ?
'Twas like a dog they shot the lad;
Oh, could you see what my eyes saw,
You wouldn't wonder that I'm mad,
Or that I curse your English law.
"England is moving,” so you say,
“This bloody work will soon be done."
God grant in mercy that it may,
But who will give me back my son?
How long, how long, O God! how long !
We cannot thus forever bear,
And meekly bend to every wrong
While hearts are breaking in despair.
"Comfort,” you cry, “the dawn has brok'n.
The tyrant's course is nearly run,"
God bless you for the words you've spok'n,
But will they give me back my son ?
My heart is not unkind to those
Who come like you with friendly hand,
To share our struggle with our foes,
And by our side to take your stand.
But, oh ! go back, and finish fast
The work of freedom you've begun. —
Alas, for me ! all hope is past,
For English laws have killed my son.
Translation.
Bail Dé ort, a ṡaoi, tá d'ḟocla caoin,
Tá 's agam go d-tigir le deáġ ṁéin;
Aċ is beag an sáṁ atá ḋam go deo
'S mo ċroiḋe reubṫa le geur anṡóġ.
Deirir go m-beiḋ sinn saor, 'nguṫa binn'
Go ḃ-fuil aigne Ṡacsan 'g-iompó linn,
Oċ! cia 'n ṁaiṫ é sin daṁ-sa 'nois —
D-tiú'rfaḋ Sacsa dam mo ṁac 'r ais?
Láṁaid an buaċaill mar ṁada 'r buil';
Oċ! ḋá ḃ-feicṫeá ḃ-facas le mo ṡúil',
Ní ḃeoċ iongna ort mé beiṫ 'r báin'
Nó easgain' iarra 'r ḋlíġ Ṡacsáin.
"Tá Sacsa 'g móṫuġ," réir do ráḋ, —
"Ċonnairc 'n obair ḟuiltiġ seo a lá."
Go soirḃiġ Dia ḋi, 's am di tráġaḋ,
Aċ cia ḃeurfas 'r ais dam mo ḃuaċ'll
breáġ?
Ca ḟaid, ca ḟaid, ca ḟaid, a Ḋé!
Ní ṫig linn seo ḟulaing feaḋ 'r lae,
A's claonaḋ go h-uṁal do gaċ díṫ,
Ca ḟaid 's tá croiḋṫe brise 'g-caoiḋ.
"Comfurt," gáirir, "tá 'gainn bán 'n lae,
Tá cúrsa 'n tíoráin beagnaċ réiḋ."
Bail Dé ort air son d'ḟocla láġaċ,
Aċ 'ḃ-fuiġ'd air ais mo ṁac go bráċ?
Ní'l mo ċroiḋe neaṁċáird'ṁuil leo
A ṫig mar ṫusa 'g sgeiṫe sóġ,
'Sa ḃeiṫ ar d-taca n-aġaiḋ 'r náṁ'
Le n-ar d-taoḃ, le neart do láṁ'.
Aċ, oċ! imṫiġ siar 's cuir críoċ le lúṫ
An obair ṡaoirse ṫionsgnaiḋ tú ;
Faraor ḋaṁ-sa ! a ċaoiḋ' gan tac,
Ṁarḃaiḋ dlíġe Ṡacsan orm mo ṁac.
7 Vavasaur Place, Vavasuar Square,
Sandymount Dublin,
20th Feb., '92.
A ṡaoi ionṁuin,
Cuirim ċugat 'san litir seo órduġ¬
aḋ air ṫíġ na litreaċ air sé sgilling,
trí air son E. C. Cumming & trí air mo
ṡon féin.
Cuirim ċugat, mar an g-ceudna, ḋá aḃ¬
rán a sgríoḃas féin, aon díoḃ leis an g-
cóiṁṡinim "Ars an seanḃean ḃoċt' ; do
ṫárluiġeas le mórán d'aḃránaiḃ leis an
g-cóiṁṡeinim sin a m-Beurla, aċt níor
ṫárluiġeas le h-aon a nGaeḋilge & do
ṁeasas gur ṁaiṫ liom aon a sgríoḃaḋ
innti má ṫáinic liom é a ḋeunaḋ, anois
tá an t-aḃrán os do ċóṁair, taḃair
breiṫeaṁnas air.
Tá earáid ḃeag 'sa seinéid "An
Ṁaidin" a ċlóḃuail tú 'san uiḃir déir¬
eanaċ, tá líne innti ḋá siolla níos gior¬
ra ná buḋ ṁian liom, óir do sgríoḃas
an ḟocal "míle" fá ḋó 'san líne mar
seo —
Ceud míle, míle fáilte róṁat, a stóir
deiċ siolla go h-iomlán; is féidir gur
ḟágas féin an focal sin amaċ, aċt má
ċuirfiḋ tú seo os coṁair aire na n-
daoineaḋ, cuirfiḋ tú an ċomaoin is mó
orm-sa.
Fanaim do ċara go bráṫ,
R Mc Searraiġ Gordan.
P.S. Ó sgríoḃas an litir seo fuair mé
Gaoḋal eile uait. Buiḋeaċas leat.
