516
AN GAODHAL.
casta air a crios.
'Sa Chiti na n-Úbhall, 'sé mo chúmha mar
thugas duit grádh,
'S glaine glaise do shúl 'ná drúcht' 'ná
maidne air an m-bán,
Dá mbudh liom-sa coige Múmhan agus
cuairt a bheith suidhte 'na lár,
Le mo chailín deas fionn 's léi shiúbhaló¬
chainn fad agus geárr.
Agus a Dhomhnaill na laoi ná tréig-se
mise go brách,
Air fhearaibh an t-saoghail go léir go d-
tugas duit grádh ;
Go g-cuirfinn mo ghaolta go léir iad
taréis a bheith marbh fá chlár,
D' aon suidheadh led' thaobh deas caol
gan cailce gan cháimh.
Do casag sluadh síghe orm shíos i g-Cais¬
ill gan tráth.
'S d'fhiafruigheas díob go ciuin cad a
leighseóchadh mo ghrádh,
'Sé dúbhradar liom go ciúin, go cneasd¬
a 's go tláth,
'Nuair a theidheas sé 'san g-croidhe orm
nár sgaoiltear as é go brách.
Is liom féin sa tslighe.
air — Petrie's A.I.M.
No 1237.
THE MAID of TRALEE.
Air — For Ireland I'd Tell not Her Name.
(Sent by P. J. Crean by request of Mr O’Shea.)
One day as I chanced for to roam,
A's mé siúbhal liom-sa go réidh,
I espied a fair maid going alone,
A's sí deunadh aisteach go Tráighlí.
Her cheek was as red as the rose,
A's a béilín go ro-mhilis mín;
I asked her her how far would she go,
No d-tiocfadh sí liom go Tráighlí.
She spoke in a pitiful tone,
Agus d' fhreagair sí mise go caoin' :
My father distracted would go,
A's bheoch mo mhath'rín a gol 'sag caoin'
Besides that my fortune is low.
S' bheoch mo chairde go síor mo chaoin',
With a babe in my arms to moan,
'S mé siúbhal na m-bóithre gan phíghinn.
Said I, if you come with me home,
A's go d-tóigtheá leat mise do mhian,
I, surely, will make you my own,
'S go m-beidh muid pósta d-Tráighlí.
My father bequeathed his stores,
Thug sé dam fortune a's maoin,
All the land that's between the two roads,
Agus doisín bó bhreac agus buidhe.
If I were so vain as to go,
As gur b' áil liom gur cam é do shligh,
There is no one would pity my moan,
'S ní bhaoch breith air m'aithreachas coidhch'
A maiden for ever I'll go,
'Sé 'n title is feárr e san rioghacht,
No man shall me ever control.
No go bh-fágh me 'n te thug uaim mo chroidhe
Don't take me to jest or to joke,
Mar is leat-sa do chailleas mo cíall,
And if you don't give me your love,
Ní bheidheas a bh-fád beo do dhiaígh.
I'll dress you in silk and fine clothes,
As capall le beith marcuigheacht gach lá,
So make up your mind and come home,
Agus mairfidh go brách a d-Tráighlí.
I gave you my answer before,
Agus náire an domhain in do shlighe,
Deluding a maid of my sort,
Is bhaoghalach duit damaint síoruidhe.
It was lust that caused Solomon to moan
'N uair chuireadar fearg air Chríosd
When your crimes, to all men, are exposed,
Creid feasda gur feárr an aithridhe.
When Adam from dust was composed,
Agus fuair sé Ébha mar mhnaoi,
To increase and people the Globe,
A fuair sé mar aithne ó Dhia,
All pleasures that earth could afford.
Gur bronnadh air Adham agus Ébha.
Until Satan had tempted them both,
'Gur caitheadh as n-Gáirdín iad.
You are very presumptious and droll,
Ní'l náire no allus ann do chroidhe,
After all the pure Scripture I quote,
Ní'l eagal ort roim' no na dhiaig.
But in order to finish the joke,
As go bh-fuighmid beannacht na naomh.
The priest will make one of us both,
'S go mairfimid go brách a d-Tráighlí.
The lady for whom the following song was com¬
posed by the far famed Anthony Raftery, the mo¬
dern Carolan of his day, was Mary Hynes, a local
beauty of her day. The gentleman who has given
me the song does not wish to make any remarks
on the matter as he is not sure of much informa¬
tion regarding it. He refers me to Mr. Morrissey
of the 13th st. school, New York, or to the Editor
of the Gael, who may be able to say something on
the matter. Yours,
MARTIN P. WARD.
dis araon
