Nach minic, is mé cortha ag an ór nach raibh im’ lámh,
Gur éalaigh osna uaim, a Mháithrín ó
Ag taibhreamh dom faoi luí na gréine ar an trá
Nó sna goirt ríse is an ghaoth ag séideadh fadó!
Nach minic is an dóchas ionam ag éag
Gur chuas i bhfolach id’ bhrollachsa glas-aoibhinn án –
Ba thú an tearmann caol thug scíth dom ghéag’
Is mé ag teitheadh ón domhan ’bhí sioctha ina lár!
Tá séipéilín ina sheasamh ar chnocán liath:
Is ann a baisteadh mise im’ bhunóc
Is ann a luíonn mo mháthair, leis, le Dia
Is ghuífinn ann is d’éireoinn as an tóir.
A thír na sean! Lig don aos óg
Bheith bródúil as an bhfód seo i mo dhiaidh.
Gur éalaigh osna uaim, a Mháithrín ó
Ag taibhreamh dom faoi luí na gréine ar an trá
Nó sna goirt ríse is an ghaoth ag séideadh fadó!
Nach minic is an dóchas ionam ag éag
Gur chuas i bhfolach id’ bhrollachsa glas-aoibhinn án –
Ba thú an tearmann caol thug scíth dom ghéag’
Is mé ag teitheadh ón domhan ’bhí sioctha ina lár!
Tá séipéilín ina sheasamh ar chnocán liath:
Is ann a baisteadh mise im’ bhunóc
Is ann a luíonn mo mháthair, leis, le Dia
Is ghuífinn ann is d’éireoinn as an tóir.
A thír na sean! Lig don aos óg
Bheith bródúil as an bhfód seo i mo dhiaidh.
Armando Menezes (Goa)
The Emigrant
(1933)
How often, wearied with ungotten gold,
Have I, O Mother, dreamed and, dreaming, sighed
For the pure gold of thy sunsets and the tide
Of golden ricefields when the wind is bold!
How often, when sick hope has lost its hold,
Have I in thy green bosom yearned to hide—
Thou narrow haven from a world so wide,
Thou cosy shelter from a world so cold!
Upon a low gray hill there stands a church:
They say it was there that they christened me.
There, too, my mother sleeps; there I alone
Would pray — pray and forget this fruitless search.
Land of my fathers! May’st thou also be
The land my children shall be proud to own.
Have I, O Mother, dreamed and, dreaming, sighed
For the pure gold of thy sunsets and the tide
Of golden ricefields when the wind is bold!
How often, when sick hope has lost its hold,
Have I in thy green bosom yearned to hide—
Thou narrow haven from a world so wide,
Thou cosy shelter from a world so cold!
Upon a low gray hill there stands a church:
They say it was there that they christened me.
There, too, my mother sleeps; there I alone
Would pray — pray and forget this fruitless search.
Land of my fathers! May’st thou also be
The land my children shall be proud to own.