336
AN GAODHAL.
col.
CÚL-NA-BINNE.
Se mo leun ní'l mise Mamagar agus
In mo láimh a bheith dubhach 's peann;
Ní iarfain g' achuinidhe 'r righ na ngrása
Ach intleacht Hómair bheith in mo cheann;
Sgríobhfainn síos i n-dubh 's i m-bán
An moladh áluin a bhí air an ngleann;
'S air do bhreaghachta ba mhian liom trácht'
Ach faraoir geur tá m' inntleacht fann.
'Sé dubhairt fear as Achuil liom, "Na bí
gan chéil,
'Gul 'sa 'g eugchaoin n-diaigh Cúlnabinn';
Bheárfainn bean & dhá cheud bó dhuit
Agus acra móin-fhéir n-diaigh an chinn;
Bád 's anach 's bareud i n-aoinfeacht,
'S bheárfainn eudáil asteach do'n tuinn :
Nach measthá féin gur feárr 'n méid sin,
Na bheith 'gul 'sa 'g eugchaoin n-diaigh Cúl
nabinn'?
Dá d-tucthá bean & dhá cheud bó dham,
Agus acra móin-fhéir n-diaigh an chinn,
A bh-fuil go bháid 's g' anaigh air fhaid
Chrich Fhodhla,
A's saidhbhreas Chórsa fhághail 'na chionn,
B'fheárr liom acra go' n bhogach mhurthach,
Eidir an bóthar & Innis-an-drian;
Cead rinc le cailínidhe lá saoire 's
Domhnaigh,
Air na bóithridhe úd aig Cúl-na -binn'.
Tá na coillte dlúth air aghaidh na gréine,
'San dilliúr cúmhartha tuitim síos;
An chuach 'san chéirseach a cuir le chéile,
A seinnim cheoil a teacht na h-oidhche;
Tá daoine uaisle air uachtair sléibhte,
A deunadh pléisiúir air chearcaibh fríghe,
'S tá'n briotán briongoll 'r bhruich 'géirigh
Ag fearaibh Éireann le fághail gan pighinn.
Tá 'n loch 's áilne d'a bh-fuil in Éirinn,
Agus na bháid ag éirighe ó thonn go tonn;
'San te chleachtas é 's chaithis é thréigsint,
A Dhia, cia 'n t-ionga a chroidhe bheith tinn?
Ma sé seo 'n cúrsa ta geallta dhamhsa
Bheith in seo air chúl chnuic gur liathuigh
mo cheann;
Mo mhíle slán leat, a Bun-a-dún,
'Sna coillte álunne úd Chúl-na-binn'.
Dá m-beidheadh fios aig na buachaillidhe
tá aig bun chnuic Néfinn,
Tá leitir scríobhtha agam
vide p. 373.
see Vol.
XII. p. 4.
SWEET COOLNABIN.
I wish I was in Mamma-gara,
Or round the borders of that lovely glen ;
And I possessed of the wit of Homer,
Ink and paper and a well-made pen.
Night and morning it would be my labor
To sound its praises with my slender quill ;
There is no residence throughout this Nation,
Can in beauty equal sweet Coolnabin.
In this lovely valley there is wood and water
Dispensing their beauty to that lovely glen,
The small fish rolling and salmon trowling,
Along the borders of each purling stream ;
There is no heat here like on other mountains,
Our hills are covered with verdant hue,
The for and eagle, the plover and grouse,
In time of fowling are still in view,
There is a lake here of great admiration
Where swans are bathing on each purling rill,
And he that lived here and must forsake it ;
Who could blame him to cry his fill ?
If for me, 'twas predestinated,
In distant places some time to dwell,
Ye gods take pity on my desolation,
In lamentation behind the hills.
And he who traveled our Irish nation,
Each port and harbor doth tell to me ;
England, Scotland, have searched according,
France, and Spain, and fair Germany —
Traveled Europe in every station,
His a vocation been traveling still,
In all his ranging and serenading,
Could find none to equal sweet Coolnabin.
If my fellow play-boys at the foot of Nephin
Knew of my desolation and me far from home,
In a camp-wheeled carriage they would carry me
To my native place my life to restore
In their arms they would embrace me,
And recreate me with heart and will —
Here I'd recover from all diseases,
And bid farewell to the Sliave-Morehill.
I have a letter now penned to paper,
Signed and sealed for to send with speed,
To tell my fellow play-boys ot the foot of Nephin,
That I'll soon be deceased here unless relieved ;
I'll be placed in a dark sepulchre,
Without a female to shed a tear,
Like brave Prograner born to Celestial regions
Not well knowing where to steer.
Slave-Morehill I fain would leave you,
Where I found the neighbors both kind and free,
With hospitality they did receive me
When from my own place I was forced to flee ;
Like the salmon fry that comes by nature,
After ranging the ocean wide
It is so by me if I'd traverse this nation,
At the foot of Naphin I'd wish to die.
see
page 373.
