AN GAODHAL.
923
GIDH SEO M' AMHARC DÉIGHIONACH
air Éirinn a Chaoidh.
Fonn — An Chúilfhionn.
Gidh seo mo amharc déighionach air Éirinn
Tho' this my sight last on Ireland
a chaoidh,
forever,
Geabhfad Éire ann gach tír a m-béidhidh
I-shall-find Ireland in each country where will-be
cuisle mo chroidhe:
(the) pulse (of) my heart
Béidh do ucht mar theach-dhídin, a chéile
Will-be thy bosom like house-shelter, oh partner
mo chlaon,
(of) my partiality
Is do rosg mar reult-eoluis i n-geur-
And thine eye like (a) star- knowledge in sharp-
bhruid a g-cian.
sorrow a — far (in strange lands).
Go cluan uaigneach fásaigh, no cuan
To (some) plain lonely, (of) wilderness, or harbor
coimhidheach gorg,
strange fierce (unfriendly)
Ann nach féidir le ar námhaid ar g-cois-
In not possible with our foe our foot-
céim do lorg,
steps to trace
Eelóchadh le mo chúilfhionn, agus ní
I shall-steal-away with my Coulin * and not
aireochaidh mé an síon
shall feel I the storm
Cho geur leis an námhaid, tá do ar n-
As sharp with (as) the enemy (which) is to our
díbirt as díon.
banishing from shelter.
Dearcfad air ór-fholt tiugh, fáinneach
I-shall look on (the) gold tresses thick, ringlety
do chinn,
(of) thy head
Is éistfead le ceoltaibh do chláirsighe
And I shall- listen to (the) musics (of) thy harp
tá binn,
(which) are melodious
Gan eagla go stróicfeadh an Sasan-
Without fear that would tear the English
ach teann
man bold
Aon teud as do cruit, no aon dlaoigh
One chord from thy harp, or one tuft
as do cheann
from thy head.
Glossary
amharc, view, ow-ark.
chroidhe, heart, chree
chaoidh, ever (time to come), chee.
dhídin, shelter, yeedh-in.
coimhidheach, strange, kui-ee-augh.
aireochaidh, will-feel, air-o-che.
stróicfeadh, would-tear, stro-ik-fe.
dlaoigh, lock of hair, dhulee.
THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN,
Air — The Coulin.
Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam
To the gloom of some desert, or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon shall tear,
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that
hair.
Here-under follows Mr. Henebry’s third piece —
the kind of matter which Mr. Tierney desires to
see in print occasionally. —
Inneosaidh mise sgeul díbh má's sé bhur
d-toil leis éisteacht,
Tagairt do's na séimh fhear tá sealad
uainn air fán;
Tógadh iad go beusach le sgol a's le
léighin,
Le cliú, le meas, le h-éifeacht a's le h-
éifinn [?] gan cháim.
Dá siubhlóchainn tír na h-Éireann, Seas¬
na le chéile,
Alban, Van Dieman, an Égipt 'sa
Spáinn;
'Sé bun a's bárr mo sgéil é a's ní rach¬
fad ag innsin éithig,
Nach bh fághfá a neart ná a d-traonacht
in aon bheirt dearbhrathar.
Na Conairidhe, na sár-fhir, 'siad tá mé
ag áireamh,
Cé go bh fuilid seal air fán uainn gan
árus gan sult;
'Nois tá na treun-fhir le crosta fallsa
an t saoghail so,
Faoi tharcuisne ag méirlig 's iad d'a n-
éiliomh gach lá.
