AN GAODHAL.
12I
Tá mé lán de náire
Tré gach beart dá n-dearnadh,
Mar is buachaill mé bhí dána,
'S d' imthigh uaim mo ghreann;
Ní beo mé mí no ráithche
Mar bh-faghaidh mé póg a's fáilte,
'S cead feuchaint air do bháin-cneis,
A inghion an Fhaoit ó 'n gleann-
Is iomdha cailín barramhul, spéireamhuil
Do ghluaiseach liom na h-aonar,
Mollaim féin a tréighthe,
A g-Coillte Bhéal Áth-Uir;
Dá m-beidhmís ag a chéile,
'S aig ól a dTurlas Fhéile,
Mo lámh faoi cheann mo chéad-searc,
Do chuirfinn í chum suain.
A chaillín barramhail spéireamhail,
Da 'r thug mé searc mo chléibh duit,
'S é an grádh a thug mé raoir duit,
chuir an sadhad-so tre mo chum;
Ní beo air muir ná 'r féar me,
'S taosgaim fuil mo chléibhe 'mach,
'S é mo bhrón gan mé is mo chéad-searc
Faoi dhilleabhar glas na g-crann.
Dá m-beidhinn-se lá breágh gréine,
Am shuidheamh air bheinn an t-sléibhe,
An lon-dubh 'san cheirseach
Aig seinnim os mo chionn;
Ba deas do sgríobhfainn béarla,
'S b' iongnadh léo mar léighfinn,
A n-grádh do bheith a caint leat,
A inghínn an Fhaoit ó 'n Gleann.
WHITES DAUGHTER OF THE DELL.
(Translation]
Come let us trip away love,
We must no longer stay love;
Night soon will yield to day love,
We'll bid these haunts farewell.
We'll quit the fields and rather
New life in cities gather,
And I'll outwit your Father,
The tall White of the Dell.
I am filled with melanchely,
For all my bygone folly,
A wild blaze and a jolly,
I was as most can tell ;
But woes now throng me thickly,
I droop all faint and sickly,
I'Il die or win her quickly,
White's daughter of the Dell.
There's many a Kate and Sally
Who'd gladly stray and dally
Along with me in valley
Or glade or mossy cell.
O were we in Thurles together
And each had quaffed a mether
We'd sleep as on soft heather
My sweet one of the Dell.
You bright, you blooming fair, you
'Tis next my heart I wear you,
The wonderous love I bear you
Has bouud me like a spell,
Oh! both by land and ocean
My soul is all commotion,
Yours is my deep devotion,
Dear damsel of the Dell.
Oh! were I seated near her.
Where summer woods might cheer her,
While clearer still and clearer,
The blackbirds notes would swell.
I'd sing her praise and glory,
And tell some fairy story,
Of olden ages hoary,
To White's Rose of the Dell.
BEAN AN ÓR FHOLT DONN.
'Sí bean an ór fholt donn mo ghrádh-sa
gan dóbhat;
Is suighte deas a com 's a cnámha;
Likewise her features round excel the
Lady Brown's,
Her equal can't be found anns an áit
seo:
If I had a thousand pounds I'd pay
the money down,
D' fhonn tú bheith agam a b-Port Láirge
Ghlacfamuis an long 's rachfamaois a:
nún,
'S air fhairge ní baoghal dúinn bátha.
Ní ghéillim-si dod' ghlór mar is mór do
dhúil 'san ól,
'S air fhairge ní rachfad choidhche leat;
I believe you're for sport, and I beg
you'll let me 'lone,
'S gur le bladaireacht a mheallas tú na
mná leat:
if I bid my friends adieu and go along
with you,
Geallaim duit gur fada go m-beid
trácht orrainn ;
I believe I'll stay at home and ne’er go
to roam;
Seachain mé, do radaireacht ní áil liom.
Tréigfead feasda 'n t-ól 's ní lean-
see "Poets + Poetry of Munster"
Like air
page 51.
I'd rather than the world
She were Dum, Dum Dum.
See Joyce's Old Folk M. + Song.
