Seanbhean na mBóithre
An Old Woman of the Roads le Padraic Colum, traschruthaithe i nGaeilge.
Ó, DÁ mbeadh agamsa tighín,Idir stóilín is tinteán!
Fóidíní móna ar an tine
In aghaidh an bhalla cruach amháin.
Clog le slabhraí is meáchain ann
An luascadán soir is siar!
Drisiúr lán de mhiasa glé
Breac bán is gorm is ar mo mhian!
Gnóthach a bheinn ar feadh an lae
Ag glanadh an urláir is an tinteán
Is ag socrú ar an tseilf arís
Na miasa gorma – breac is bán!
Bheinn ar mo shuaimhneas ann istoí’
Mé cois na tine, dom ghoradh féin
Gan deifir orm dul a luí
An clog a fhágaint is na miasa glé!
Och! Tuirsíonn an ceo is an dorchadas mé
Is na bóithre fada gan tigh ná sceach,
Tuirsíonn an bóthar mé is an sliabh
Feadaíl na gaoithe is an tost – mo chreach!
Is bím ag guí gach lá chun Dé
Is ag guí a bhím istoíche:
Go dtuga Sé tighín deas dom féin
I bhfad ó bhéal tais na gaoithe.
An Old Woman of the Roads
O, TO have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house—a house of my own—
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.
Préacháin
Crows, dán mistéireach le Padraic Colum, traschruthaithe i nGaeilge.
ANSIN, go tobann, thuigeas i gceart
An méid a bhí ráite aige, is dheineas mo mhachnamh air:
Go n-eitlíonn na préacháin leo go minic istoíche
Ag éirí de mhullach na gcrann i nDroim Bairr,
Is as go brách leo: shamhlaíos an méid a insíodh dom.
Na préacháin a chroitheann taise na hoíche dá sciatháin
Ar na clocha thall ansin sna goirt,
Na chéad nithe beo is léir dúinn ar maidin;
Ag máirseáil trasna na ngort, iad ina suí
Ar ghéaga na bhfuinseog, ag eitilt abhaile
Is mullach na leamhán dubh leo thall i nDroim Bairr;
Na préacháin a mbreathnaímid orthu de shíor faoi sholas an lae,
Ag borradh atáid, toirtiúil, is ag bogadh,
Tá saol eile ar fad ag na neacha dubha seo.
Préacháin ag eitilt sa dorchadas,
Duibhe ar eite san oíche; neacha nach bhfeiceann
Ach an tsúil sin atá ina gceann siúd –
Súil an treaspásóra!
Is tusa, a sheanóir na súl gasta géar,
A labhair liom faoi na préacháin, a athair altrama;
Is tusa, a sheanbhean, ar luíos id’ bhaclainnse
Nuair a tógadh mé ó bhaclainn mo mháthar;
Is tusa, a ghirseach, is snua ort
Ód’ shinsir romhat, a ghaolta liom tá saol eile agaibhse
Tá sé feicthe agam, im’ threaspásóir dom –
Duibhe ar eite san oíche mar phréacháin!
Crows
THEN, suddenly, I was aware indeed
Of what he said, and was revolving it:
How, in the night, crows often take to wing,
Rising from off the tree-tops in Drumbarr,
And flying on: I pictured what he told.
The crows that shake the night-damp off their wings
Upon the stones out yonder in the fields,
The first live things that we see in the mornings;
The crows that march across the fields, that sit
Upon the ash-trees' branches, that fly home
And crowd the elm-tops over in Drumbarr;
The crows we look on at all hours of light,
Growing, and full, and going these black beings have
Another lifetime!
Crows flying in the dark
Blackness in darkness flying; beings unseen
Except by eyes that are like to their own
Trespassers' eyes!
And you, old man, with eyes so quick and sharp,
Who've told me of the crows, my fosterer;
And you, old woman, upon whose lap I've lain
When I was taken from my mother's lap;
And you, young girl, with looks that have come down
From forefathers, my kin ye have another life
I've glimpsed it, I becoming trespasser-
Blackness in darkness flying like the crows!
