AN GAOḊAL.
389
Fará fará! a Ṡacsanaiġ!
Béiḋ neartṁar láṁ na tíre,
'N a seinnim-se a n-diú mo laoi,
A ceart, a saoirse d' iarraiḋ.
Seinneoċaiḋ mé annsin go binn
Os cionn na troda móire,
Béiḋ ceolṁar, grinn, mo ċeol annsin,
Béiḋ mór é meud mo ġlóire.
A éin ṡólásaiġ! seinn do laoi
Ameasg na g-craoḃ go g-cluiniḋ
Na fir atá faoi ḃrón go taoi
Ar lár a n-diú d' a síneaḋ.
Go n-éiriġ siad go dóṫċusaċ
Go ruaigiḋ siad go síorruiḋe
As Éirinn díl an Sacsanaċ —
An níḋ do ḃíd ag iarraiḋ.
Go g-cuiriḋ siad arís ar bun,
Feis Éireann mar do ḃí sí,
Béiḋ síorḃuan, seasṁaċ, sáṁ ar ḃ-fonn —
Ní ḃéiḋ aon tír mar ísi.
Le ċéile nois siúḃólaiḋ sinn,
Ár m-brataċ glas i n- áirde,
Ar g-cruit ag sgapaḋ ceoil ro-ḃinn;
Béiḋ áṫasaċ ar g-cáirde.
Béiḋ ceol na h-Éireann sulṫṁar, sáṁ
Gan brón ar biṫ le faġáil ann,
Béiḋ sólás ar gaċ uile láiṁ
Gan neul, nó ceo, nó sgáil ann
Is é seo fáṫ mo ċeoil gan gó —
Ní 'l fáṫ le faġáil is fíre
Óir tá ag teaċt ó Ḋia na m-beo
Fíor-ṡaoirse geal ar d-tíre.
Oh, Blame not the Bard — A Contrast.
Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at Fame :
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame;
The string that now languishes loose o’er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to a warrior's dart;
And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.
But, alas! for his country! — her pride has gone by
And that spirit is broken which ne’er would bend;
O’er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend,
Unpriz'd are her sons till they’ve learned to betray;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ;
And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile where her country expires.
