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 With only fog our shelter, My heart would be sick With passion for her kiss, Such love would destroy, Would shatter me. If myself and my love were Beside the hill or moor, No farthing in our pocket, No food for the way, My hope in Christ To soon provide And my darling light To take this sorrow from my heart. If myself and my love Were beside the tide or strand With nothing alive around us, The long night and 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.		If I could go west, I’d not return— On the highest hill I’d stand, The first fragrant branch I’d pick, My love I’d quickly follow. My heart is as black as sloe, As black coal burned in a forge, As bootsoles dirtying white floors, A deep melancholy above 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’s often a black head on a pure body. I should leave this town, Where the stone is hard and the mud cold, Where song no longer avails, But heavy words from the chattering mob. I warn of love, and woe to who gave it To yon woman’s son, who never understood, My heart in my stomach, where he left it black, And I don’t see him on the street or anywhere 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”