AN GAODHAL.
177
Mr D Driscoll of Chicago sends us the following
verses founded on a conversation between an Eng¬
lish gentleman in Ireland and a poor woman whose
son was shot by the police, with a request to print
a translation of it. Both are subjoined. —
WILL ENGLAND GIVE ME BACK MY SON?
God bless you, sir, your words are kind,
I know you come with good intent;
But little comfort I can find
With sorrow sore my heart is rent.
You say that we will soon be free —
That England’s heart is nearly won,
Ah ! what's the good of that to me —
Will England give me back my son ?
'Twas like a dog they shot the lad;
Oh, could you see what my eyes saw,
You wouldn't wonder that I'm mad,
Or that I curse your English law.
"England is moving,” so you say,
“This bloody work will soon be done."
God grant in mercy that it may,
But who will give me back my son?
How long, how long, O God! how long !
We cannot thus forever bear,
And meekly bend to every wrong
While hearts are breaking in despair.
"Comfort,” you cry, “the dawn has brok'n.
The tyrant's course is nearly run,"
God bless you for the words you've spok'n,
But will they give me back my son ?
My heart is not unkind to those
Who come like you with friendly hand,
To share our struggle with our foes,
And by our side to take your stand.
But, oh ! go back, and finish fast
The work of freedom you've begun. —
Alas, for me ! all hope is past,
For English laws have killed my son.
Translation.
Bail Dé ort, a shaoi, tá d'fhocla caoin,
Tá 's agam go d-tigir le deágh mhéin;
Ach is beag an sámh atá dham go deo
'S mo chroidhe reubtha le geur anshógh.
Deirir go m-beidh sinn saor, 'ngutha binn'
Go bh-fuil aigne Shacsan 'g-iompó linn,
Och! cia 'n mhaith é sin damh-sa 'nois —
D-tiú'rfadh Sacsa dam mo mhac 'r ais?
Lámhaid an buachaill mar mhada 'r buil';
Och! dhá bh-feictheá bh-facas le mo shúil',
Ní bheoch iongna ort mé beith 'r báin'
Nó easgain' iarra 'r dhlígh Shacsáin.
"Tá Sacsa 'g móthugh," réir do rádh, —
"Chonnairc 'n obair fhuiltigh seo a lá."
Go soirbhigh Dia dhi, 's am di trághadh,
Ach cia bheurfas 'r ais dam mo bhuach'll
breágh?
Ca fhaid, ca fhaid, ca fhaid, a Dhé!
Ní thig linn seo fhulaing feadh 'r lae,
A's claonadh go h-umhal do gach díth,
Ca fhaid 's tá croidhthe brise 'g-caoidh.
"Comfurt," gáirir, "tá 'gainn bán 'n lae,
Tá cúrsa 'n tíoráin beagnach réidh."
Bail Dé ort air son d'fhocla lághach,
Ach 'bh-fuigh'd air ais mo mhac go brách?
Ní'l mo chroidhe neamhcháird'mhuil leo
A thig mar thusa 'g sgeithe sógh,
'Sa bheith ar d-taca n-aghaidh 'r námh'
Le n-ar d-taobh, le neart do lámh'.
Ach, och! imthigh siar 's cuir críoch le lúth
An obair shaoirse thionsgnaidh tú ;
Faraor dhamh-sa ! a chaoidh' gan tac,
Mharbhaidh dlíghe Shacsan orm mo mhac.
7 Vavasaur Place, Vavasuar Square,
Sandymount Dublin,
20th Feb., '92.
A shaoi ionmhuin,
Cuirim chugat 'san litir seo órdugh¬
adh air thígh na litreach air sé sgilling,
trí air son E. C. Cumming & trí air mo
shon féin.
Cuirim chugat, mar an g-ceudna, dhá abh¬
rán a sgríobhas féin, aon díobh leis an g-
cóimhshinim "Ars an seanbhean bhocht' ; do
thárluigheas le mórán d'abhránaibh leis an
g-cóimhsheinim sin a m-Beurla, acht níor
thárluigheas le h-aon a nGaedhilge & do
mheasas gur mhaith liom aon a sgríobhadh
innti má tháinic liom é a dheunadh, anois
tá an t-abhrán os do chómhair, tabhair
breitheamhnas air.
Tá earáid bheag 'sa seinéid "An
Mhaidin" a chlóbhuail tú 'san uibhir déir¬
eanach, tá líne innti dhá siolla níos gior¬
ra ná budh mhian liom, óir do sgríobhas
an fhocal "míle" fá dhó 'san líne mar
seo —
Ceud míle, míle fáilte rómhat, a stóir
deich siolla go h-iomlán; is féidir gur
fhágas féin an focal sin amach, acht má
chuirfidh tú seo os comhair aire na n-
daoineadh, cuirfidh tú an chomaoin is mó
orm-sa.
Fanaim do chara go bráth,
R Mc Searraigh Gordan.
P.S. Ó sgríobhas an litir seo fuair mé
Gaodhal eile uait. Buidheachas leat.
