A bhonnáin bhuí, is é mo chrá do luí
is do chnámha críon tar éis a gcreim,
is chan díobháil bídh ach easpa dí
d’fhág tú ’do luí ar chúl do chinn;
is measa liom féin ná scrios na Traí
thú bheith sínte ar leacaibh lom,
is nach ndearna tú díth ná dolaidh is tír
is nárbh fhearr leat fíon ná uisce poill.
Is a bhonnáin álainn, mo mhíle crá
do chúl ar lár amuigh insa tslí,
is gur moch gach lá a chluininn do ghráig
ar an láib agus tú ag ól na dí;
is é an ní adeir cách le do dheartháir Cathal
go bhfaighidh mé bás mar súd, más fíor;
ní hamhlaidh atá – súd an préachán breá
chuaigh a dh’éag ar ball, gan aon bhraon dí.
A bhonnáin óig, is é mo mhíle brón
thú bheith romham i measc na dtom,
is na lucha móra ag triall chun do thórraimh
ag déanamh spóirt is pléisiúir ann;
dá gcuirfeá scéala in am fá mo dhéinse
go raibh tú i ngéibheann nó i mbroid fá dheoch,
do bhrisfinn béim ar an loch sin Vesey
a fhliuchfadh do bhéal is do chorp isteach.
Ní hé bhur n-éanlaith atá mise ag éagnach,
an lon, an smaolach, ná an chorr ghlas -
ach mo bhonnán buí a bhí lán den chroí,
is gur cosúil liom féin é ina ghné is a dhath; |
The yellow bittern that never broke out
In a drinking bout might as well have drunk;
His bones are thrown on a naked stone
Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.
O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,
Though they say that a sot like myself is curst –
I was sober a while, but I’ll drink and be wise,
For I fear I should die in the end of thirst.
It’s not for the common birds that I’d mourn,
The blackbird, the corncrake, or the crane,
But for the bittern that’s shy and apart
And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.
Oh! If I had known you were near your death,
While my breath held out I’d have run to you,
Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird
Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.
My darling told me to drink no more
Or my life would be o’er in a little short while;
But I told her ’tis drink gives me health and strength
And will lengthen my road by many a mile.
You see how the bird of the long smooth neck
Could get his death from the thirst at last –
Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,
You’ll get no sup when your life is past.
In a wintering island by Constantine’s halls
A bittern calls from a wineless place,
And tells me that hither he cannot come
Till summer is here and the sunny days. |
