390
AN GAOḊAL.
Then blame not the bard, if, in Pleasure's soft dream.
He should try to forget what he ne’er can heal :
Oh - give but a hope — let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd;
While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.
But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin shall live in his songs;
Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Can he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent e'er thee deep,
And thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep !
Archbishop McHale's Translation.
Ná tóig air ḃ-file, má euluiġeann faoi 'n g-cluan,
'N a m-bíḋeann sóġ-ċlaon ag fonnóid faoi árd-ṫuaṫ go buan
Tá a ṁisneaċ gan traoċaḋ, 's le h-uain, ní ṡé is lúġa
A ḋeunfaḋ gaċ gaisge, a ḃeir céim agus cliú :
An teud, tá 'nois sínte air an g-ceol ċruit go fann,
Do ṡeolfaḋ a g-croiḋe náṁad an bás-ġaṫ go teann:
'S an teanga, naċ sileann aċt mil-ṡruṫ na g-claon.
Buḋ tuilteaċ í ag brosdúġaḋ gráḋa tíre na ḃ-Fian —
Mo nuair d'a ṫír áluinn! tá a caiṫréim 'nn a luiḋe,
'S an croiḋe cróḋa briste, nár ḃ' ḟéidir a ċlaoiḋeaḋ;
Caiṫfiḋ eugcaoin a fíor-slioċt ḃeiṫ faluiġṫe ó'n t-saoġal,
Óir is bás-ḃreiṫ a cosaint, 's ní ḃfuil a cumann gan baoġal.
Tá a clann gan aon ċeannas, mur ndeunfaiḋ siad feall,
'S mur d-truailliġid a sinsear ag iompóġaḋ le Gall;
'S an trillsean, tá ag lasaḋ, slíġe céime gaċ lá,
Naċ sgiobṫar ó 'n g-cárn é, air a ḃ-fuil Éire d'a cráḋaḋ.
Ná tóig air an ḃ-file a ḃeiṫ síor-ḋeunaḋ rann,
'S an t-olc, naċ n-dán léiġeas, do ḋíbreaḋ le greann:
Bíḋeaḋ aige aċt leus dóṫċuis, is lasfaiḋ go beo
A rosga ṫre ḃrat cúṁa mar an ġrian tre ṡláṁ ċeo:
Deunfaiḋ íoḋḃairt do Éirinn de na beusaiḃ, a ḃíḋeann
D'a ṡeolaḋ air mearḃall le fánaḋ a ċlaon,
'S le dlaoiġ na g-craoḃ glas, a tá siġte air a ċeann,
Mar an Greug, ag imirt díoġaltais, falóċaiḋ sé a lann.
Aċt giḋ gur euluiġ do ṁór-ċéim, mar aisling na h-oiḋċe,
Béiḋiḋ d' ainm d' a luaḋ ag an ḃ-file a ċoiḋċe;
An trá is mó suarcas air a aigne le seun,
Béiḋiḋ ag seinnim go h-árd-ḃinn do leaṫtrom 's do leun ;
Cluinnfiḋ an coigríġeaċ do ġárṫa-croiḋe fíor,
Raċfaiḋ eugcaoin do ċláirsiġe ṫar ṁuir a's ṫar ṫír,
'S do ṫiġearnaiḋ, ag teannaḋ na slaḃraiḋe dod' ċlaoiḋ,
Silfiḋ deora na truaiġe le teann ḃriste croiḋe.
