Fuar leam an oidhche-se dh’Aodh!
Cúis toirse truime a ciothbhraon,
Mo thruaighe sein dár seise
Neimh fhuaire na hoidhcheise.
Anocht, is neimh rem chridhe,
Fearthar frasa teintidhe,
I gcomhdháil na gclá seacdha
Mar tá is orghráin aigeanta.
Do hosgladh ós octaibh néal
Doirse uisgidhe an aiér,
Tug sé minlinnte ’na muir,
Do sgé fhirminnte a hurbhuidh.
Gémadh fiaidhmhíol i bhfiodhbhaidh,
Gémadh éigne ar inbhiormhuir,
Gémadh ealta, is doiligh dhi
Soighidh ar eachtra an uairsi.
Saoth leamsa Aodh Mag Uidhir
Anocht i gcrích comhuighidh,
Fá ghrís ndeirg gcaorshoighnéan gceath
Re feirg bhfaobhoirnéal bhfuighleach.
I gcóigeadh chloinne Dáire
Dursan linn dar leannáinne
Idir dhorchladh bhfuairfhliuch bhfeóir
Is confadh uaibhreach an aeóir.
Fuar leam dá leacain shubhaigh
Fraoch na n-iodhlann n-earrchumhail
Ag séideadh síonghaoth na reann
Fá ríoghlaoch ngéigeal nGaileang. |
Where is my Chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone!
O cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh,
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through –
Pierceth one to the very bone!
Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light
Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
That pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him,
Nothing hath crueller venomy might.
An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst wide–
Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean’s tide,
Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
Darkly, as in a dream, he strays! Before him and behind
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
The wounding wind, that burns as fire!
It is my bitter grief – it cuts me to the heart –
That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,
Alone, without or guide or chart!
Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry bright,
Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds
Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds
The hero of Galang tonight! |
