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AN GAODHAL.
IS FAD SHÍ Ó 'N g-CRICH.
Is fad shí ó 'n g-crích bh-fuil a h-óg-laoch 'nn a luidhe
'S gan aird air a suirighibh 'g a breugadh;
Acht uimpigheann go fuar ó shúilibh gach saoi,
Oir tá a croidhe le n-a céile g a eugadh.
Budh shiad abhráin dúthchais a tír' féin do sheinn,
Rinn gach fearsa d' ar áil leis do mheamharadh.
Ó! 's beag imnidhe locht cluinste a ceolta binn',
A croidhe bheith 'g a bhriseadh gan cabharadh.
Do bhair sé d' a rún; agus d' eug sé d' a chrích:
So an meud bhí 'g a cheangal air talamh ;
Ní luath 'gabhfas trom-ghul a thíre aon sgíth,
'S ní bheidh fad gan a chéile an uaimh falamh.
Translation — She is far from the Land.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking; —
Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains,
That the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He liv'd for his love, for his country he died:
They were all that to life had entwin'd him :
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Nach Aoibhinn Uair aig Tomadh Gréine.
Nach aoibhinn uair aig tomadh gréine anns a bh-fráigh,
'S a solus sínte air a g-ciún-tonn go tráigh!
Tig ó aimsir ársa, aisling tiúgh leis an n-oidhche,
Aig dúiseacht cúmha ar g-cairde, úr ann ar g-croidhe.
Trá dhearcaim lóchrann lag an lae ag dul faoi,
'S an áidhbhéis daithte leis an ór-sgáil buidhe;
Trídh thonna lonnrach' tnuthaim triall siar go cuan
Na hinnse áille, a bh fuigheadh ann seun 'gus suan.
Translation — How Dear to Me the Hour.
How dear to me the hour when twilight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea ;
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her every sigh to thee.
And as I watch the line of light that plays
Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning West,
I long to tread that path of golden rays,
And think 't will lead to some bright isle of rest.
