Caoineadh Thomáis Mhic Dhonnchadha
Ní chloisfidh sé an bonnán buí
Sa spéir fhiáin, mar atá a luí,
Ná cantain shéimh na n-éan binn
Os cionn ghol na báistí.
Ná nuair a shéidfidh Márta garbh
A bhlosc garg trí shneachta mín
Is lasair curtha aige cheana
Faoi lusanna an chromchinn.
Ach nuair nach insan riasc níos mó
A bheidh an Bhó ach ar thalamh slán
Sea cloisfidh sé a géimneach fós
A hadharc ag lonrú ar an mbán.
Sa spéir fhiáin, mar atá a luí,
Ná cantain shéimh na n-éan binn
Os cionn ghol na báistí.
Ná nuair a shéidfidh Márta garbh
A bhlosc garg trí shneachta mín
Is lasair curtha aige cheana
Faoi lusanna an chromchinn.
Ach nuair nach insan riasc níos mó
A bheidh an Bhó ach ar thalamh slán
Sea cloisfidh sé a géimneach fós
A hadharc ag lonrú ar an mbán.
Lament for Thomas MacDonagh
by Francis Ledwidge
HE SHALL not hear the bittern cry
In the wild sky, where he is lain,
Nor voices of the sweeter birds,
Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro’ slanting snows her fanfare shrill,
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor,
And pastures poor with greedy weeds,
Perhaps he’ll hear her low at morn,
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.
In the wild sky, where he is lain,
Nor voices of the sweeter birds,
Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro’ slanting snows her fanfare shrill,
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor,
And pastures poor with greedy weeds,
Perhaps he’ll hear her low at morn,
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.