390
AN GAODHAL.
Then blame not the bard, if, in Pleasure's soft dream.
He should try to forget what he ne’er can heal :
Oh - give but a hope — let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd;
While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.
But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin shall live in his songs;
Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Can he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent e'er thee deep,
And thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep !
Archbishop McHale's Translation.
Ná tóig air bh-file, má euluigheann faoi 'n g-cluan,
'N a m-bídheann sógh-chlaon ag fonnóid faoi árd-thuath go buan
Tá a mhisneach gan traochadh, 's le h-uain, ní shé is lúgha
A dheunfadh gach gaisge, a bheir céim agus cliú :
An teud, tá 'nois sínte air an g-ceol chruit go fann,
Do sheolfadh a g-croidhe námhad an bás-ghath go teann:
'S an teanga, nach sileann acht mil-shruth na g-claon.
Budh tuilteach í ag brosdúghadh grádha tíre na bh-Fian —
Mo nuair d'a thír áluinn! tá a caithréim 'nn a luidhe,
'S an croidhe cródha briste, nár bh' fhéidir a chlaoidheadh;
Caithfidh eugcaoin a fíor-sliocht bheith faluighthe ó'n t-saoghal,
Óir is bás-bhreith a cosaint, 's ní bhfuil a cumann gan baoghal.
Tá a clann gan aon cheannas, mur ndeunfaidh siad feall,
'S mur d-truaillighid a sinsear ag iompóghadh le Gall;
'S an trillsean, tá ag lasadh, slíghe céime gach lá,
Nach sgiobthar ó 'n g-cárn é, air a bh-fuil Éire d'a crádhadh.
Ná tóig air an bh-file a bheith síor-dheunadh rann,
'S an t-olc, nach n-dán léigheas, do dhíbreadh le greann:
Bídheadh aige acht leus dóthchuis, is lasfaidh go beo
A rosga thre bhrat cúmha mar an ghrian tre shlámh cheo:
Deunfaidh íodhbhairt do Éirinn de na beusaibh, a bhídheann
D'a sheoladh air mearbhall le fánadh a chlaon,
'S le dlaoigh na g-craobh glas, a tá sighte air a cheann,
Mar an Greug, ag imirt díoghaltais, falóchaidh sé a lann.
Acht gidh gur euluigh do mhór-chéim, mar aisling na h-oidhche,
Béidhidh d' ainm d' a luadh ag an bh-file a choidhche;
An trá is mó suarcas air a aigne le seun,
Béidhidh ag seinnim go h-árd-bhinn do leathtrom 's do leun ;
Cluinnfidh an coigrígheach do ghártha-croidhe fíor,
Rachfaidh eugcaoin do chláirsighe thar mhuir a's thar thír,
'S do thighearnaidh, ag teannadh na slabhraidhe dod' chlaoidh,
Silfidh deora na truaighe le teann bhriste croidhe.
