A Phaidrín do dhúisg mo dhéar,
ionmhain méar do bhitheadh ort;
ionmhain cridhe fáilteach fial
’ga raibhe riamh gus a-nocht.
Dá éag is túirseach atáim,
an lámh má mbitheá gach n-uair,
nach cluinim a beith a gclí
agus nach bhfaicim í uaim.
Mo chridhe-se is tinn atá
ó theacht go crích an lá dhúinn,
ba ghoirid do éist ré ghlóir,
ré h-agallaimh an óig úir.
Béal asa ndob aobhdha glór,
dhéantaidhe a ghlór is gach tír;
leómhan Muile na múr ngeal,
seabhag Íle na magh mín.
Fear ba ghéar meabhair air dhán,
ó nach deachaidh dámh gan díol,
taoiseach deigh-einigh suairc séimh,
agá bhfaightí méin mheic ríogh.
Dámh ag teacht ó Dhún an Óir
is dámh ón Bhóinn go a fholt fhiar:
minic thánaig iad fá theist,
ní mionca ná leis a riar.
Seabhag seangglan Sléibhe Gaoil,
fear do chuir a chaoin ré cléir;
dreagan Leódhus na learg ngeal,
éigne Sanais na sreabh séimh. |
Thou rosary that has waked my tear,
dear the finger that was wont to be on thee;
dear
the heart, hospitable and generous,
which owned thee ever until tonight.
Sad am I for his death,
he whose hand thou didst each hour encircle,
sad that I hear
not that that hand is in life,
and that I see it not before me.
Sick is my heart since the day’s close is come to us;
all too short a time it listened to
his speech,
to the converse of the goodly youth.
A mouth whose winning speech would wile the hearts
of all in every land;
lion of
white-walled Mull,
hawk of Islay of smooth plains.
The man whose memory for song was keen,
from whom no poet-band went without
reward;
a chief nobly generous, courteous and calm,
with whom was found a prince’s
mind.
Poets came from Dún an Óir,
poets too from the Boyne to seek his curling hair;
oft did
they come drawn by his fame,
not more often than they got from him all their wish.
Slim bright hawk of Sliabh Gaoil,
a man who showed kindness to the Church;
dragon
of Lewis of bright slopes,
salmon of Sanas of quiet streams. |
