Irish
Irish Freedom, Aibreán 1911. Dán ar an Éiriġe-Amaċ i 1798.
Ar maidin Luain cingcíse,
Ṫáinig síoḃraiḋe ċúġainn ‘san ngleann;
Do ḃailiġ scata cága ann,
Ag déanaḋ aḋḃaċt dínn a’s greann.
Do ḃuaileamar ‘n-ár dtimċeall,
‘S do lasamar ar dteinte,
‘S do ṫogḃamar ceo breaġ draoiḋeaċta,
Go h-aoiḃinn ós ar gceann.
Ṫáinig ó Ċúige Ulaḋ ċúġainn,
Tuille agus míle laoċ;
Ṫáinig ó Ċúige Ċonnaċta,
A ḃfoireann súd le faoḃar.
Ní ṫugadar suaiṁneas cúige ḋúinn,
Go dtugamar bualaḋ a’s fiċe ḋóiḃ,—
Naċ ró-ḃreáġ do ḃioḋ fuil againn,
A’s coirp i ndeire an lae?
Má ṫéagṁaiḋ ort-sa an buacaill,
Nó stuaire an ċinn ċair;
‘S go mbeiḋ’ ag cur mo ṫuairisg
Ṡuas i measg na ḃfear:
Innis mar sgéal dó uaim-se
Go ḃfuilim ann go fuar, log,
Ar ṫaoiḃ an tsléiḃ, fá ḃuaireaḋ
Gan tuamba, gan sgraiṫ!
Beir litir suas do’n Ṁuṁain uaim,
A rúin dil ‘s a stóir!
A’s innis i dtoraḋ rúin dóiḃ
Go ḃfuil an caṫ ‘na gcoṁair;—
Is iomḋa aindir ṁilis, ṁúinte,
‘S leanḃ firionn fionn geal,
‘S fear bréaġ áluinn lúṫṁar,
‘San úir uainn ag dreoḋ’!
Mo leun ar an Muṁain ná’r éiriġ,
Nuair d’ aḋnamar an gleó;
Le h-airm greannṫa greaḋnṁar
Ḃí faġairṫe go leor.—
Anois ó támaoid caillte,
Agus neart ar naṁa ‘nár dtimċeall,
Gráḋ mo ċroiḋe na Laiġniġ!
O’s íad d‘ aḋain an teine leo.
English
Taken from The Poets and Poetry of Munster by John O’Daly, 1880.
We saw, on Whitsun morning,
The foe camp in the glen,
With threats and gold suborning
They vainly tried our men;
We struck with broad-sword glancing,
With such might and skill entrancing,
That, swift as necromancing,
They vanished from their den!
From Ulster came two thousand
Armed heroes to our aid,
As many in Connacht rouse and
March with whetted blade,
Scant our rest till we, defying,
Had twenty times our foe sent flying,—
And left them many dead and dying,
In blood at evenshade!
O, youth! If ‘mid the Living
They question of that day,
And ask you how I’ve striven,
And where I’ve passed away,
Say, that none there battled bolder,
That lonely now I moulder
Without mound of grassy mould, or
Tombstone o’er my clay.
And say to Munster, sadly,
The fight had been less red,
Had she mustered with us, gladly,
Who fought for her till dead!
Say, many a gentle maiden,
And child of brow unfaden,
Many a brave man low is laid in
The chill and narrow bed!
Poor Munster! Soon may high rents
And Famine blast your way,
With brilliant arms ‘gainst tyrants
You feared to front the fray—
And now that we are stricken,
And foemen ‘round us thicken,
God guard Leinster, who to quicken
The fire, strove well alway!