Lament For Thomas MacDonagh - Caoineadh Thomáis Mhic Dhonnchadh

Tom Kettle: To my Daughter, Betty

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.

To Constance Markievicz on Her Prison Birthday

To Constance Markievicz on Her Prison Birthday

February 1917

What has time to do with thee,
Who hast found the victors’ way
To be rich in poverty,
Without sunshine to be gay,
To be free in a prison cell.
Nay on that undreamed judgement day,
When on the old world’s scrap-heap flung,
Powers and empires pass away
Radiant and unconquerable,
Thou shalt be young.

Eva Gore-Booth (1870-1926)

Do Constance Markievicz ar a Lá Breithe i bPríosún

Feabhra 1917

Am ní bhaineann leat, a chroí,
Siúlann tusa cosán an bhua,
Saibhir is gan agat aon ní,
Aerach is gan grian ar do ghrua,
Saor i gcarcair ataoi.
Is nuair a thiocfaidh Lá an Luain
Ar charn an tseandomhain ina luí
Beidh cumhachtaí is impireachtaí,
Is tusa gléineach buan dochloíte
Óg síoraí.

The Wayfarer/ An Fánaí

The Wayfarer

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,
This beauty that will pass;

Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,
Lit by a slanting sun,
Or some green hill where shadows drifted by,
Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown
And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;
Or children with bare feet upon the sands
Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets
Of little towns in Connacht,
Things young and happy.

And then my heart hath told me :
These will pass,
Will pass and change, will die and be no more,
Things bright and green, things young and happy ;

And I have gone upon my way
Sorrowful.

Pádraic Pearse (1879-1916)
[Written in Kilmainham Jail, Dublin, shortly before his execution]

An Fánaí

Chuir áilleacht an domhain seo cumha orm,
An áilleacht seo a imeoidh;

Uaireanta cuireann iora preabach i gcrann
Na smóilíní ag sclimpireacht i mo chroí
Nó bóín Dé ina dheargloinnir ar ghas
Nó coiníní beaga i ngort sa chlapsholas
Is an ghrian á bpógadh,
Nó cnoc glas éigin is scáileanna ag gabháil thar bráid,
Cnoc ciúin éigin is sléibhteánach ag cur síolta ann,
Ní fada uaidh an fómhar, gar do gheataí neimhe;
Nó páistí cosnochta sa ghaineamh
Is an taoide tráite, nó iad ag spraoi ar na sráideanna
I mionbhailte Chonnacht,
Nithe óga is iad sona.

Is ansin do labhair mo chroí liom:
Ní mhairfidh,
Ní mhairfidh, athróidh, is caillfear go deo iad,
Nithe geala glasa, nithe óga is iad sona;

Is tá mo chúrsa curtha díom agam
Faoi smúit.


[Cumtha i gcarcair Chill Mhaighneann tamall sular cuireadh chun báis é]

A Wave of the Sea/ Tonn sa bhFarraige

Dearadh Angelee Deodhar

A Wave of the Sea

I am a wave of the sea
And the foam of the wave
And the wind of the foam
And the wings of the wind.

My soul’s in the salt of the sea
In the weight of the wave
In the bubbles of foam
In the ways of the wind.

My gift is the depth of the sea
The strength of the wave
The lightness of foam
The speed of the wind.

Joseph Mary Plunkett (1887-1916)

Tonn sa bhFarraige

Is tonn sa bhfarraige mé
Agus cúr na toinne
Agus gaoth an chúir
Agus eití na gaoithe.

Tá m’anamsa i salann na mara
I meáchan na toinne
I súilíní an chúir
I mbealaí na gaoithe.

Doimhneacht na mara mo bhua-sa
Neart na toinne
Éadroime an chúir
Luas na gaoithe.

Easter 1916 | Joseph Mary Plunkett

Caoineadh Thomáis Mhic Dhonnchadha

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.

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.

A Fhuil Is Léir Dom ar an Rós

I see His Blood Upon the Rose

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

Joseph Mary Plunkett (1887-1916)

A Fhuil Is Léir Dom ar an Rós

A fhuil is léir dom ar an rós,
I ngach aon réalt tá glóir a shúl.
Mar shneachta a cholainn, is ritheann fós
A dheora geala ón spéir anuas.

Is léir a ghnúis i ngach aon bhláth,
An toirneach agus scol gach éin
A ghuth, ar ndóigh – is snoite tá
A chumhacht sa charraig féin.


Is é a shiúil gach cosán dearg,
A chroí a bhogann an tonn tuile,
Fíodh a choróin as gach aon dealg
A chros is beo i ngach aon bhile.

Bean

A Woman

Time on her face has writ
A hundred years,
And all the page of it
Blurred with his tears;

Yet in his holiest crypt
Treasuring the scroll,
Keeps the sweet manuscript
Fair as her soul.

Thomas MacDonagh (1878 -1916)

Bean

Tá céad bliain ag an Am
Scríofa ar a cló,
Is an leathanach ann
Faoi smál na ndeor.

San uaimh naofa ámh
Tá an scrolla aige slán,
Is an lámhscríbhinn dhílis
Mar a hanam án.

I bPáras

In Paris

So here is my desert and here am I
In the midst of it alone,
Silent and free, as a hawk in the sky,
Unnoticed and unknown.

I speak to no one from sun to sun,
And do my single will,
Though round me loud voiced millions run
And life is never still.

There goes the bell of the Sorbonne
Just as in Villon's day--
He heard it here go sounding on,
And stopped his work to pray--

Just in this place, in time of snow,
Alone, at a table bent--
Four hundred and fifty years ago
He wrote that Testament.

Thomas MacDonagh

I bPáras

Sé seo m’fhásach-sa, is táim anseo liom féin
Ina lár is níl aithne ag éinne orm.
I mo thost mar a bheadh seabhac i gcéin
Sa spéir ghorm.

Ní labhraím le héinne ó mhaidin go hoíche
Mo ghnó féin á chur i gcrích,
An slua callánach thart orm ina mílte
Gan sos gan scíth.

Buaileann clog mór an tSorbonne
Mar a bhuail anseo fadó
Siar in aimsir Villon
A scoir láithreach dá ghnó.

San áit seo is sneachta ag titim ón spéir
Leis féin ina sheomra cúng –
Ceithre chéad caoga bliain ó shin
Le Grand Testament do chum.

Iníon an Phlandálaí

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.

Within the Temple/ Laistigh den Teampall

Within the Temple

The middle of the things I know
Is the unknown, and circling it
Life's truth and life's illusion show
Things in the terms of sense and wit.

Bounded by knowledge thus, unbound,
Within the temple thus, alone,
Clear of the circle set around,
I know not, being with the unknown;

But images my memories use
Of sense, and terms of wit employ,
Lest in the known the unknown lose
The secret tidings of my joy.

Thomas MacDonagh

Laistigh den Teampall

I lár an scéil is léir an ní
Nach léir, is ina thimpeall téann
Na fírinní is na ciméaraí
Á léiriú féin is á gcur i gcéill.

Cúngraithe mar sin ag an eolas, gan chuing,
Laistigh den teampall mar sin, liom féin,
Glan ar an gciorcal timpeall orm, cruinn,
Ní heol dom faic, i gcríoch nach eol d’éinn’.

Ach tagann cuimhní chugam is íomhá
Is bainim feidhm go leor as an réasún
Chun nach n-imeodh an ní nach bhfuil le rá –
Cúis mo ríméid uile atá ina rún.