AN GAODHAL.
54
A TÁIM SÍNTE AIR DO THUAMBA
(From Edward Walsh — and one of his best.)
Walsh is not
the author but
the collector
A táim sínte air do thuamba,
A's do gheabhair ann go síor mé ;
Dá m-beidheadh báir do dhá lámh 'gam,
Ní sgarfainn leat choidhche,
A úbhailín agus annsacht,
Is am damhsa luighe leat,
Tá boladh fuar na criadh orm,
Dath na gréine 's na gaoithe!
Atá cló air mo chroidhesi,
'Tá líonta lé grádh dhuit,
Lionndubh air taobh shíos de
Cómh ciar dubh le n-áirne,
Má bhainion aon nídh dham,
'S go g-claoidhfeadh an bás mé,
Béidheadsa m' shíoth-gaoithe,
Rómhad shíos air na bánta !
Nuair is dóigh le mo mhuintir
Go m-bídhimse air mo leaba;
Air do thuamba seadh bhídhim sínte
Ó oidhche go maidion;
Ag cur síos mo chruadhtain,
'S ag cruadh-ghol go daingion,
Tre mo chailín ciuin, stumadh,
Do luadhadh liom na leanbh!
An cuimhin leatsa an oidhche
Do bhíosa 'gus tusa,
Fá bhun an chrainn draighnigh,
'S an oidhche ag cur cuisne;
Ceud moladh le h-Iosa
Nach n-deárnamar an milleadh,
'S go bh-fuil do choróin mhaighdeanais
Na crann soillse as do choinne!
Tá na sagairt 's na bráithre
Gach lá liom a bh-feirg,
Do chionn bheith a ngrádh leat,
A óig-bhean, is tú marbh;
Dhéanfainn fosgadh air an ngaoith dhuit
'S díon duit ó 'n bh-fearthainn;
Agus cúmhadh gheur mo chroidhesi
Thú bheith síos annsa d-talamh!
Tabhair do mhallacht dod' mháthairín,
'S áirmhidhsi t-athair,
'S a mairion dod' cháirde
Go léireach na seasamh;
Nár léig dam thú phósadh
'S tú beo 'gam ad bheatha,
Agus nach n-iarrfainn mar spré leat,
Ac leath-taobh do leabtha!
Translation.
I LIE ON THY TOMB.
From the cold sod that's o'er you
I never shall sever —
Were my hands twined in your's, love,
I'd hold them for ever —
My fondest, my fairest,
We may now sleep together,
l’ve the cold earth's damp odor,
And I'm worn from the weather!
This heart, fill'd with fondness,
Is wounded and weary;
A dark gulf beneath it
Tawns jet-black and dreary —
When death comes, a victor,
In mercy to greet me,
On the wings of the whirlwind
In the wild wastes you'll meet me !
When the folk of my household
Suppose I am sleeping,
On your cold grave, till morning,
The lone watch I'm keeping ;
My grief to the night wind,
For the mild maid to render,
Who was my betrothed
Since infancy tender !
Remember the lone night
I last spent with you, love,
Beneath the dark sloe-tree,
When the icy wind blew, love —
High praise to the Saviour
No sin-stain had found you,
That your virginal glory
Shiness brightly before you!
The priests and the friars
Are ceaselessly chiding,
That I love a young maiden
In life not abiding —
O! I'd shelter and shield you,
If wild storms were swelling,
And O! my wrecked hope,
That the cold earth's your dwelling !
Alas, for your father,
And also your mother,
And all your relations,
Your sister and brother,
Who gave to you sorrow,
And the grave ’neath the willow,
While I crav'd, as your portion,
But to share your chaste pillow !
Let each subscriber secure one or two
more and thus double the circulation
of the Gael. Follow the Rt. Rev. Bish¬
op Becker's example, noted on back.
