AN GAODHAL.
389
Fará fará! a Shacsanaigh!
Béidh neartmhar lámh na tíre,
'N a seinnim-se a n-diú mo laoi,
A ceart, a saoirse d' iarraidh.
Seinneochaidh mé annsin go binn
Os cionn na troda móire,
Béidh ceolmhar, grinn, mo cheol annsin,
Béidh mór é meud mo ghlóire.
A éin shólásaigh! seinn do laoi
Ameasg na g-craobh go g-cluinidh
Na fir atá faoi bhrón go taoi
Ar lár a n-diú d' a síneadh.
Go n-éirigh siad go dóthchusach
Go ruaigidh siad go síorruidhe
As Éirinn díl an Sacsanach —
An nídh do bhíd ag iarraidh.
Go g-cuiridh siad arís ar bun,
Feis Éireann mar do bhí sí,
Béidh síorbhuan, seasmhach, sámh ar bh-fonn —
Ní bhéidh aon tír mar ísi.
Le chéile nois siúbhólaidh sinn,
Ár m-bratach glas i n- áirde,
Ar g-cruit ag sgapadh ceoil ro-bhinn;
Béidh áthasach ar g-cáirde.
Béidh ceol na h-Éireann sulthmhar, sámh
Gan brón ar bith le fagháil ann,
Béidh sólás ar gach uile láimh
Gan neul, nó ceo, nó sgáil ann
Is é seo fáth mo cheoil gan gó —
Ní 'l fáth le fagháil is fíre
Óir tá ag teacht ó Dhia na m-beo
Fíor-shaoirse geal ar d-tíre.
Oh, Blame not the Bard — A Contrast.
Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at Fame :
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame;
The string that now languishes loose o’er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to a warrior's dart;
And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.
But, alas! for his country! — her pride has gone by
And that spirit is broken which ne’er would bend;
O’er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend,
Unpriz'd are her sons till they’ve learned to betray;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ;
And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile where her country expires.
