444
AN GAODHAL.
Eochaidh.
Do dheirbhshiúr? Tá sí annso!
Bania.
Seadh, Nessa! O! tá sí imthighthe!
Ach tú. Nach seinnfidh tusa sean sgeul?
Eochaidh.
Seinnim ach le Beothach, mo bhráthair.
Bania.
Do bhrathair? Tá sé annso!
Eochaidh.
Seadh, Beothach! O! tá sé imthighthe!
Tá agamsa sgeul de'n am a tá thart,
Is sgeul é do chluais maighdin' glé,
Mar thanaic ár sinnsear thar mhuir le
neart,
Má's áil leatsa seinnfead duit é.
Ins an tír bhí le bláthaibh rós go líonmhar,
In ar shuaimhnigh an mhuir air an Gain¬
eam Bhuidhe,
Ins an tír bhí a g-cómhnuidhe áluin grian¬
mhar,
Mhair an Bárd ins am do bhí.
A's do mhóthuigh sé luathgháir go minic,
Mar spioraidibh eit'lladh 'san aer,
Ach amach ó n-a phusaibh ní thánaic
Riamh, riamh, aon nótha saor.
Gidh lán le Luathgháir tá an croidhe,
Gidh bidheann Saoghal 'na mhaidin bhreágh,
Ní'l againn fios na Mian a choidh'e
Ach nuair thigeann Ceol ó Chrádh.
Air aon lá do bhí a throm chodladh briste,
'Gus níor fheuch sé níos mó air a
Ghaineamh Bhuidhe,
Ach a phusa, do sheinn siad go cliste
An luathgháir do bhí in a chroídhe.
Oir le spioraidibh ciuin bhí sé seolta
Tríd ghleanntaibh ghlas' Éireann, ar d-tír,
'S in a cheud anál fuair sé na ceolta
A thigeann ó Chrádh go fíor.
Gidh lán le Luathgháir tá an croidhe,
Gidh bhigheann Saoghal 'nna mhaidin bhreágh,
Ní'l againn fios na Mian a choidh'e
Ach nuair thigeann Ceol ó Chrádh.
Le bheith críochnuighthe 'san mí seo chugain
Eocaidh.
Thy sister? Ah ! she is here !
Bania.
Yes, Nessa! Oh! she is departed!
But thou, wilt thou not sing a legend?
Eocaidh.
I sing but with Beothach, my brother.
Bania.
Thy brother! Ah ! he is here !
Eocaidh.
Yes, Beothach ! Oh! he is departed!
I remember a tale of the by-gone time,
'Tis a theme for a maiden's ear,
How our fathers came from the distant
(clime
If perchance thou wouldst wish to hear
In a land where the roses never faded,
Where the sea slept in peace on the
Golden Shore,
where the sun by a cloud was never
shaded,
Dwelt the Bard in the days of yore.
And such rapture he felt as immortals
May feel in their flight through the air :
Yet his voice thro' the lips open por¬
(tals,
Never, never, that rapture bare.
For though the heart know joy alone,
Tho' Life be all one summer morn;
The Passions' depths are never shown,
Till Song is of Sorrow born.
Of a day he was waken'd from slumber
And no longer he looked on his Golden
Shore,
But his lips as they parted — sang the
numbers
That they never had sung before.
For the Spirits of Music had brought
(him
To the vales of Green Erin along
And his first living breath there had
taught him,
How of sorrow they learn their song,
For tho' the heart know joy alone,
The life be one summer morn,
The Passions' depths are never shown
Till Song is of Sorrow born.
To be concluded in the next.
A lot of Gaelic matter from Mr. A P Ward, M
P Ward, and a very interesting Gaelic story from
Mr. M. J. Collins of O. is held over. When the
“Bard and the Knight” is concluded, with the ad¬
ditional Gaelic type which we expect, all our con¬
tributors will get a show. In the meantime, let
each try and circulate it as much as possible.
Also, all kinds of Gaelic literature. It is of vital
importance to the Gaelic cause to support the
home organization and the GAELIC JOURNAL.
