An Mhaighdean Óg

Dá mbeidh’ áitreabh agam féin No gabháltas a’s réim, Caoirigh breágh’ bána Ar árd-chnoc no sléibh, Sláinte agus méin Agus grádh ceart d’á réir, Bheidhinn-se ’s mo ghrádh geal Go sáimh ann san tsaéghal. Tá maighdean óg ’san tír ’S is réaltan eólais í, Grian bhreágh ar bórd í A’s togha de na mnáibh, A cum fada breágh ’S a cúilín crathach bán ’S gach alt léi ar lúth-chrith Ó búcla go brághaid. Dá mbeidhinn-se ’s mo rún Ar choill ag buain cnó No ar thaoibh lisín aoibhinn ’S gan dídionn orrainn acht ceó, Bheidheadh mo chroidhe-se d’á bhreóghadh Le díogras d’á póig ’S gur b’é grádh ceart do chlaoidh mé ’S do fhíor-sgair mo shnódh. Dá mbéidhinn-se ’s mo ghrádh Ar thaoibh chnuic no báin ’S gan feóirling ann ár bpóca Ná lón chum na slighe, Bheidh’ mo shúil-se le Críost Le ár ndóthaint gan mhoill A’s go dtógfadh mo stór geal An brón so de m’ chroidhe. Dá mbéidhinn-se ’s mo ghrádh Cois taoide no tráigh ’S gan aon neach beó ’nn ár dtimchioll An oidhche fhada, ’s lá, Do bhéidhinn-se ag cómhrádh Le Neilidh an chúil bháin Is liom-sa ’budh h-aoibhinn Bheith ag coímhdeacht mo ghrádh.		If I had a home of my own Or a holding and position, Fine white sheep On a high hill or mountain, Health in body and mind And love in turn, Myself and my bright love Would live there peacefully. There is a young maiden in the land And she is a star of knowledge, A splendid sun at table And a pick among women, Her long lovely form And her waving fair hair And her every joint aquiver with life From buckles to breast. If myself and my sweetheart Were gathering nuts in the wood Or beside a pleasant little rath And nothing sheltering us but mist, My heart would be sick With passion for her kiss, Such love would destroy me And scatter my composure. If myself and my love Were beside hill or moor, No farthing in our pocket, No food for the way, My hope would be with Christ For our provision soon And that my bright treasure Would take this sorrow from my heart. If myself and my love Were beside tide or strand With no one alive around, The long night and a day I would be talking With Nelly of the fair hair, My own pleasure won To be with my love.
—from Abhráin Grádh Chúige Connacht, Douglas Hyde (1893); revised translation by Eric Rosenbloom (2018)

Tune by Eric Rosenbloom:

Dá dTéidhinn-se Siar

Dá dtéidhinn-se siar is aniar ni thiucfainn, Air an g-cnoc do b’áirde is air a sheasfainn, ’S í an chraobh chúmhartha is túisge bhainfinn ’Gus ’s é mo ghrádh féin ar luaithe leanfainn. Tá mo chroidhe chomh dubh le áirne, Ná le gual dubh dhoighfidhe i g-ceartaidh, Le bonn bróige air hállaidhibh bána, ’S tá lionndubh mór os cionn mo gháire. Tá mo chroidhe-se brúighte briste, Mar leac-oidhre air uachtar uisge, Mar bheidh’ cnuasach cnó léist a mbriste, Ná maighdean óg léis a pósta. Tá mo ghhrádh-s’ air dhath na sméara, ’S air dhath na súgh-craobh, lá breágh gréine, Air dhath na bhfraochóg budh duibhe an tsléibhe, ’Gus is minic bhí ceann dubh air chollainn glégil. Is mithid damh-s’ an baile seó fhágbháil, Is geur an chloch ’gus is fuar an láib ann, Is ann a fuaireas guth gan éadáil, Agus focal trom ó lucht an bhiodáin. Fuagraim an grádh, is mairg do thug é Do mhac na mná úd, ariamh nár thuig é, Mo chroidhe ann mo lár gur fhágbhuidh sé dubh é, ’S ni fheicim air an tsráid ná i n-áit air bith é.		Were it me going west, from the west I’d not return— On the highest hill, there I’d stand, And the first fragrant branch I’d pick, My own love that I’d quickly follow. My heart is as black as sloe, As black coal burned in a forge, As bootsoles dirtying white floors, And a deep melancholy over my smile. My heart indeed is bruised and broken, Like an ice-sheet on water, Like gathered nuts are after cracking, As a young maid after marrying. My love the color of blackberries, The color of raspberries a fine sunny day, The color of black mountain heath-berries— There was often a black head on a pure body. It’s time for myself to leave this town, Where the stone is hard and the mud is cold, Where there is song without profit, And a heavy word from the chattering mob. I warn of love, and woe to who gave it To yon woman’s son, who never understood it, My heart in my stomach, where he left it black, And I don’t see him on the street or anyplace at all.
—from Abhráin Grádh Chúige Connacht, Douglas Hyde (1893); revised translation by Eric Rosenbloom (2018) —can be sung to the tune of “Scarborough Fair”

“Renunciation”

Fornocht a chonac thú, a áille na háille, is dhallas mo shúil ar eagla go stánfainn. Chualas do cheol, a bhinne na binne, is dhúnas mo chluas ar eagla go gclisfinn. Bhlaiseas do bhéal a mhilse na milse, is chruas mo chroí ar eagla mo mhillte. Dhallas mo shúil, is mo chluas do dhúnas; Chruas mo chroí, is mo mhian do mhúchas. Thugas mo chúl ar an aisling do chumas, is ar an ród seo romham m’aghaidh a thugas. Thugas mo ghnúis ar an ród seo romham, ar an ngníomh a chím, is ar an mbás a gheobhad.		Naked I saw thee, O beauty of beauty. And I blinded my eyes For fear I should fail. I heard thy music, O melody of melody, And I closed my ears For fear I should falter. I tasted thy mouth, Sweetness of sweetness, And I hardened my heart For fear of my slaying. I blinded my eyes. And I closed my ears, I hardened my heart And I smothered my desire. I turned my back On the vision I had shaped And to this road before me I turned my face. I have turned my face To this road before me, To the deed that I see And the death I shall die.
—Pádraig Pearse