AN GAODHAL.
463
SMUAINTE AN t-SEAN-GHAEDHIL, A
b-PRÍOSÚN, A SACSANAIDH.
An Craobhín Aoibhinn do chan.
Nach aoibinn é, nach aoibhinn!
Do dhuine faoi leun
Do bheith siúbhal roimh oidhche
Agus roimh luighe ná gréin'.
An uair a bh fuil an ghrian
Faoi throm-thionntaibh glasa
Ag triall air a sgith-san,
'S an spéir ann a lasadh.
Agus tuile mhór na taoide
Le h-árd-ghlór go garbh
A teacht do 'n tráigh mar 'riamh.
Ag sgiúrsadh na talmhan
O tagann air mo chroidhe-se,
Bhí lámh leis an m-bás,
Cuimhne agus smaointe
Is feárr 'ná budh gnáth,
Nach sgarfas uaim a choidhche
a choidhche go deo,
'S nach rachfas uaim a riamh
A's mise am' bheo.
Acht nuair a bh-fuilim sínte
Go fuar anns an g-cré,
Béidh mo dhaoine ag caoineadh
Go cruaidh 's go geur,
Go d-fhág mar sin mo bhrígh mé
Mo neart a's mo lúth,
Agus go bh-fuilim sínte
'S an roilig chaoil dluith,
Ach b'fheárr liom an uaigh is caoile
'S í saor ó phéin,
'Na bheith fanamhuin anns a tír-se
Gan saoirse gan seun.
De'n t-suaimhneas agus aoinneas
Tá ann seo le fághail
Ní bh-fhághann aon neach a dhíol
'S ní bh-fhuighfidh go bráth,
Acht 's é an méid iarraim
O Rígh mhór na n-grás
Sul fheicim sgrios na tíre
Go bh-guighfidh mé bás.
Is é a mhilleas mo chiall
Oidhche agus lá
Cho minic agus smaoinim
Air Éirinn, mo chrádh!
Cho minic agus saoilim
Gur cruaidh a cás,
'S gur doiligh, dochar, díbhirt
Na sean-námhuid as,
Tá mílte agus mílte
Ag milleadh na tír'
Ag deunadh a n-díothchill
An Gaodhal do chur síos,
Bhí mé a m-brionglóid oidhche
A n-aisling a réir
Taisbeánadh dam-sa néithe
A's bhiadar áidhbheul,
D' fhág dóchas sáim mo chroidhe-se
Taisbeánadh dam crádh,
Agus brón le h-aghaidh na tíre
Agus Brón, Brón amháin.
(Translation)
By MICHAEL CAVANAGH.
AN IRISHMAN'S MUSINGS IN AN ENGLISH PRISON.
How pleasant 'tis, how pleasant,
To one bowed down in woe,
To wander forth at even,
And see the sunset glow:
To see the sun descending,
Unto his ocean bed;
While sea and sky are glowing,
With golden hues, and red.
The great flood-tide rough music,
Is making on the strand ;
As it has done for ages,
When beating on the land,
There comes unto my heart then,
That felt so nearly dead;
Some thoughts and recollections,
I deemed for ever sped.
Oh! let them bide for ever,
For ever, and for aye,
Until my soul is freed from
Its prison house of clay,
But when l’m coldly lying,
Within my earth bed deep ;
My people crowding o'er me,
While bitterly they weep,
Thus doth my vigor leave me,
My strength and courage brave,
I might as well be sleeping,
Within my narrow grave.
But, better far be lying,
Secure from grief or pain;
Than in this Isle of sorrow,
A slave-bound wretch remain.
What comfort or what pleasure,
Amaits the poor and low?
None gets redress for evils
Which all must undergo,
But all for which I tender,
My prayer to God on High,
Ere I my land see tortured,
He'd will that I should die,
Tis this my senses crazes,
By day-light and by night,
As often as my thoughts dwell
On Erin's watchful plight.
As often as Im thinking,
Upon her cruel case;
I pray the Lord to banish,
The tyrants of her race,
There thousands upon thousands,
Are preying on the land ;
All bent on the destruction
