374
AN GAODHAL.
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S
HALLS.
Translated into Irish, for the GAEL.
By WM. RUSSELL.
Tá an chlairseach tráth a d-Teamhair na
Mídhe
Do shil bínn-chroídhe an cheoil,
Anois cho ciúin a d-Teamhair na ríogh,
'S d'á m-beith a chroidhe air feodh :
Is mar sin faoi shuan tá u'ár sean-aos —
An liúnradh glóireach fós,
Agus croidhthe seal le moladh théigheadh,
Anois gan bhíog níos mó!
Níos mó a láthair báb is laoch
Ní'l caomh-chruit Teamhradh bínn;
Ach a stoídhche 'nuair a stiallann téad,
Ag ínnsinn sgéil míghrínn:
'S gurab annamh do mhúsglann Saoirse
('nois;
Ach go m-bíogann-sí go deoigh,
'Nuair a bhriseann aon chroidhe le fíoch
d'á toisg,
Ag foillsiúghadh a beith fós beo.
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER-
TRANSLATED into IRISH FOR THE GAEL,
By WM. RUSSELL.
'Sé rós deaghnach an t-samhradh tá 'n
aonar faoi bhláth;
A bh-fuil a chompánaigh ghrádhmhara tréig¬
the 's air fán;
Ní'l sgoth ann d'á charaid, 'na rós-mhog¬
all óg,
Do thabharfadh lasa dhó air lasadh 'ná och
air ochón!
Ní fhágfad tú 'd aonar, a chaídhin dhil
air feodh;
'Faid tá na grádhmhair na g-codladh, seo
codail-se leo:
Is mar sin do sgeithim do dhuillidhe le
púir,
Mar a sínid do sheisídhe críon, tréith,
air ann úir.
Is mar sin go leanad, 'nuair bheidheas
caradais tréith,
'S ó crios geal na g-cumann na seuda
air straedh!
'Nuair bhídheann fíor-chroidhthe meaithte,
'gus teaithte lucht grádh,
O! cé fhanfach air talamh go folamh 'na
n-gádh?
TRANSLATION.
Air — Molly Astore.
The harp that once thro' Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for
praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells ;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart, indignant, breaks,
To show that still she lives.
TRANSLATION.
Air. — The Groves of Blarney,
'Tis the last rose of Summer, left bloo¬
ming alone;
All its lovely companions are faded
and gone;
No flower of its kindred, no rose-bud
is nigh,
To reflect back its blushes, or give
sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to
pine on thy stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep
thou with them.
Thus, kindly I scatter the leaves o'er
the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden lie
scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow, when friend¬
ships decay,
And from Love's shining circle the
gems drop away !
When true hearts lie wither'd and
fond ones are flown.
Oh! who would inhabit this bleak
world alone?
