To my Daughter, Betty
In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
To beauty proud as was your Mother’s prime.
In that desired, delayed, incredible time,
You’ll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
And the dear heart that was your baby throne,
To die with death. And oh! they’ll give you rhyme
And reason: some will call the thing sublime,
And some decry it in a knowing tone.
So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,
Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,
But for a dream, born in a herdsmen shed,
And for the secret Scripture of the poor.
Tom Kettle (1880 -1916)
Do M’iníon, Beití
(Saoraistriúchán ar shoinéad)
In aois na gaoise a thiocfaidh, a róisín án
Is tú ar nós do mhátharsa faoi bhláth.
San am dochreidte sin amach anseo, a ghrá
Fiafróidh tú cén fáth ar thréigeas thú. Cén fáth,
Cén fáth do chroí a fhágaint ann, cén gá
A bhí le coinne leis an mbás. Is Ó, dubh is bán
A bheidh an scéal acu: gníomh oirirc, a déarfaidh a lán
Díchiall amach is amach – an chuid eile acu á rá.
Is na gunnaí mire ag liú anseo in airde,
Osna na bhfear láibe is iad ag póirseáil rompu go cráite
Tuig gur amadáin sinne i measc na marbhán
Is nach bratach, ná Rí ná Impire ba chúis lenár sáinn
Ach aisling a saolaíodh fadó i mbothán,
Is Scrioptur rúnda na mbochtán.
