584
AN GAODHAL
TOMÁS Ua MÓRA AGUS SEÁGHAN
Mac HÉIL.
Fonn — An t-Seamróg.
I
O! músgail dúinn
Ó chodladh a's suan
An t-sean chruit chiuin, faoi chuibhreighe!
Monuair! cia mhéid
Aos bhí a teud
Gan fuaim! Sé cheud Geimhreadh.
Acht thangadar
Aimsiora níos feárr
'Gus laochra mar an g-ceudna,
Chum slabhraidh geur
Do sgaol' go léir
'Gus teud' chruit Éireann dó theannadh.
O! an chláirseach!
Bhí a teud briste, casta;
Acht figh a cruth
Le duilleabhar tiugh,
'S béidh 'nois acht guth binn, blasda.
II
Ní bh-fuil sa n-domhain
Aon teanga amháin
Cho buan mar tá an t-sean-Ghaedhilig ;
Tá a stáire 'guinn
Tríd aois' gan roinn —
Stáire ársa, ghlinn, gan cealg.
Bidheadh fada saoghal
Teanga na nGaoghal,
'S bidheadh gach beul ag labhairt
Mólta na m-bárd
Do sheinn go h-árd
Air Éirinn 'bhí thart, gan cabhair.
O! an Ghaedhilge!
Cho buan le crann-ghiumhais daingean,
Nach n-glacann sníomh
Neamh-chríon ariamh
Le h-uaineas chraobh a's beangan.
III
A fhir-cheoil bhinn
A bhrosduigheas inn
Le meisneach ghrinn na bh-fíreun,
Béidh d' abhráin beo
Lár péin ar ngleo
Go d-tí lá glórmhar Éireann.
Tá ainm mór
Do 'n úghdar chóir
Do sheinn air ghlóir a thíre;
Thomas Moore and John McHale.
Air — The Shamrock.
[Translation.)
I
For us, oh, chime
That harp sublime
Those chords by time half sundered.
Alas! unstrung
Those chords had hung
Through winters long six hundred;
When, by the touch
Of hands like such
As break the clutch of tyranny,
That harp was strung,
Those chords were rung
To that old tongue of Erin aye.
Oh! the wild harp !
Its chords were torn and tangled;
But wreath it round
With flower and frond —
Ne’er let its sounds be jangled.
II
That glorious speech,
Whose records reach
Through change and breach adventu¬
(rous,
Back to the wan
And early dawn,
When first began the centuries.
Long live that song !
Long may that tongue,
When Ireland's wrongs amended are,
In Ireland praise
Those bards whose lays
In helpless days defended her!
Oh, the Gaelic!
,Tis like a mountain fir-tree —
Unbent, erect,
That grows unchecked,
Unfading decked with verdure.
III
Anacreon
Of Ireland's song,
Thou cheer’st our long night's tedium ;
Thy deathless strains
Shall soothe our pains
Till Ireland gains her freedom.
Long, long in fame
Survives the name
Of him who framed our chorus;
