866.
AN GAODHAL.
CUMA NA MNA 'SAN g-COILL.
Tré choilltibh coll gan sgíth,
Beidhead-sa féin ag caoi,
Go d-tiocfaidh tusa arís, a Shearlais.
Táid cait-coille ann,
Ag dul ó chrann go crann;
Cad fáth 'r fhág tú mise a Shéarlais?
Tá sé anois an oidhch',
Táid eunla ag dul fá chrích,
Ach ca ndeachaidh tusa uaimse, a Shear¬
lais?
Ní fhághaimse féin aon sgáth
Uadh aon, mar is tú mo ghrádh:
'S ar fhág tusa mé, a Shéarluis?
Tá mé folamh gan biadh,
Ní'l aon nidh air mo shlighe,
Ca rachaidh mé anois, uch, a Shéarluis?
Ní'l cara agam, no neach,
A bhéarfas chugam fiú deoch,
Oir do thug mé iad ort, a Shéarluis.
Tá an cearn a nghar dam,
Ca bh-fuil tú a bhláth na súbh'?
Tar am' chongnamh anois, a Shéarluis.
Taid na dris am' lot,
Tá mo chosa lom-nocht,
Och, beir as an ngábhadh mé, a Séarluis
Tá mise air sgáth na n-dos,
A's fuilineóchadh gach cros,
Mar gheall air mo bhuachaill, Séarlas,
D'fhág mé m'athair féin
'S leaba cluimh na n-eun
Agus chuaidh mise leatsa, uch, Shéarluis
Air speilg cnoic am' luighe
Fá neultaibh dubha na h-oidhch'
Nach dam-sa bhain an milleadh leat, a
Shéarluis.
Bhí cúig óigh barr'mhuil breágha,
Agam le mo ghleusadh,
Bhí mise mar bhain-triath, a Shéarluis.
An féidir le mo chaoi,
Athair, tusa do chlaoi!
Ní féidir, óir d'euluigh mé le Séarlus
Uch neulta dubha na h-oidhche
Don' follach féin a choidhche,
Ó Sí Seon mar chuaidh mé le Séarlus.
Tré choilltíbh dlútha de ghnáth
Goíllsed choidhche a's lá,
A bh-fad óm' thír d'fhág tú mé, a Séar¬
luis.
Go n-dubhaidh ceo an t-sleibhe
M'earráid a's mo sgeula
O Sir Seon as óm' athair fá Shéarlas.
LONGINGS!
Oh! for a breeze from the Western Sea
To stiffen the idle sails
Of ships that wait for the will of men
To lean on the bulwark rails;
Of the men who swore that they would come
Whenever the days might be,
To cheer us here in the poor old Land
With their ships from the Western Sea.
Forth they sailed in their fateful ships
Out from us, and their hearts were sore.
And their tears tell fast, and they raised their
hands,
And again, and again they swore,
In the ears of God, that they would come,
Whatever the time might be,
And wipe the tears from their mother's eyes
As they fall by the Western Sea.
Our land is rich, yet still we pine,
Our masters take our gold,
Oh, bring us gifts in your stately ships,
Oh, bring us wealth untold.
The light that lies in long-loved eyes,
The strength we hope to see,
In the manly breasts of all who come
With their ships from the Western Sea.
Ah, do ye come? Ah, do ye come?
Our longing eyes are sore.
Our eager hands are here to grasp,
Our hearts can bear the strain no more.
We hold the lights upon our coast,
Your welcome ships shall seo
When you sail again to the Holy Isle
And your home in the Western Sea.
Ah, the time is long, and still they stay,
The homeward air is dumb,
The ships are there, the breeze blows fair,
But still they stay, and do not come.
We strain our ears, yet hear no cheer,
No signal light we see,
As we watch and wait in the dismal dark
By the shores of the Western Sea.
Yet they will come, yet they will come,
Whenever the days may be,
Nor the homeward air will then be dumb
As it blows from the Western Sea.
And we shall cheer when we hear their cheer,
And their signal lights we see,
Hurrah! for the men who have kept their vow
With their ships from the Western Sea.
— Songs for Freedom.
