AN GAODHAL.
745
Translation.
THE SENSIBLE ASS.
By WM. RUSSELL, for the GAEL.
Air — "Grace O'Malley."
I am a dull donkey, as men have believed,
For 'tis seldom or never my wit is perceived,
But since there is no one who grieves for my fate
I'll boldly stand forth and myself vindicate:
My wisdom is better than that of the Gaels,
Whose struggle for liberty constantly fails;
For when I feel greatly oppressed by my load,
I instantly tumble myself on the road.
When vicious backwards oft abuse me with blows,
And goad me, severely, and jeer at my woes,
I bite them, I kick them, or hoist them full high,
Till sprawing on rocks or in gutters they lie ;
And so if the Irish, could learn my knacks
They'd hurl the British crew clear off their backs;
For the head that is bridled must yield to the rein,
And the back that is willing be burdened again.
I love the old Celtic tongues eloquent flow,
Which spoken through Ireland I heard long ago,
That boldly, majestic and sweet was the tone,
Of the speech of the monarchs and Druids is known —
By Patrick 'twas read from the Seanachus-More,
And Cashels deep Psalter acknowledged its lore —
'Tis the tongue of the Gaels which I'd save from all toes,
But for English I care not a sort of my nose.
When I browse upon furze tops at dawning of day,
My lips are drawn backward and out of the way;
And whether I dwell in the North or the South,
Tobacco or whiskey ne'er enters my mouth,
In splendid gay trappings I take no delight,
And beautiful mansions attract not my sight;
Yet I hint to the proud ones, whose prate is so glib,
That the Infant of Bethlehem slept in my crib.
You've all read of Sampson — my friend of th' "Old Law,"
A thousand Philistines who slew with my jaw;
And how when exertion and thirst made him groan,
A fountain to drench him, gushed forth from my bone,
And something more yet that no horse ever saith —
I had Christ on my back as a test of my faith;
So he left me his cross, as a sign that wont fail
And no Pagan am I — by my soul — but a Gael ?
Saul found through my kindred a kingdom, of yore,
False Balaam I saved from the angel and gore, —
And I warn John Bull at this critical hour,
Who void of all conscience has long been in power,
That Briton's stout lion hereafter shall quail, —
That the one horned horse shall be sadled by Gael, *
And I swear by my cross, as a lesson to all —
That Babylon City is destined to fall.
* The one horned horse i.e. the British Unicorn.
Go m-béidh leoghan buidhe na Breatan sa teacht-am go faon,
Agus capall na h-adhairce faoi dhiallait ag Gaodhal,
Agus dearbhaim fós air mo chrois d'á chamh-phór —
Gur gealladh a tuitim don Bhabaloinn Mhóir.
