The Planter’s Daughter
When night stirred at sea,
An the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.
Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went --
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.
Austin Clarke (1896 -1974)
Iníon an Phlandálaí
Nuair a chorraigh an oíche ar muir
Is thug an tine an slua isteach
Deirtear gur ceol i mbéal
Ab ea a háilleacht
Is níor shíl ach beagán faoi sholas na gcoinnle
Í bheith ró-uaibhreach,
Mar is ar na crainn a aithnítear
Tigh an phlandálaí.
Iad siúd a leag súil uirthi
D’óladar a sáith ina dtost.
Bhíodh na mná ag cabaireacht
Pé áit a mbíodh sí –
Mar chlog a bhuailtear
Nó mar iontas a insítear faoi rún
Is Ó, dob í an Domhnach
I ngach seachtain í.
