12
AN GAODHAL
Mar súd tá 'n t-am, chuaidh thart, faoi cheo,
Tá 'cáil, 's a chliú faoi shuan;
Is croidhthe 'santuigh molta teo,
Ní airigheann iad go buan
Ní cluinrear cruit na Teamhra treun,
Measg cruinniughadh ban no saoi,
Óir fuagrann í bheith feachta, faon,
Fuaim briste teud sa n-oidhche.
Mar súd do 'n t-saorsacht, 's anamh tráth
A dúsgthar í go deo,
Acht 'nuair a bristear croidhe 'g a chrádha,
Aig foilsiughadh í bheith beo.
THE HARP THAT ONCE THO' TARA'S HALLS
AIR — Molly Astore.
The harp that once thro' Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled
So sleeps the pride of other days,
So glory’s thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells ;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
GIDH SE O M'AMHARC DÉIGHIONACH AR ÉIRINN I CHÓIDH'
Fonn — An Chúilfhionn
Gidh seo m' amharc déighionach ar Éirinn i choidh'
Gheabhfadh Éire in gach tír i mbeidhidh cuisle mo chroidhe:
Beidh d'ucht mar theach-dhídin, a chéile mo chlaon,
Is do rosg mar reult-eolais i ngeur-bhruid i g-cian.
Go cluan uaigneach fásaigh, no cuan coimhidheach, gorg,
In nach féidir le 'r námhaid ar g cois-céim do lorg,
Eulóchad le mo chúilfhionn, 's ní aireochaidh mé an síon
Cho geur leis an námhaid tá, d'ar n-díbirt as díon.
Dearcfad ar ór-fholt tiugh, fáinneach, do chinn,
Is éistfead le ceoltaibh do chláirsighe tá binn,
Gan eagladh go stróicfeadh an Sasanach teann
Aon teud as do chruit, no aon dlaoidh as do cheann
