Do ṫreasgair an saoġal is do ṡéid an ġaoṫ mar smál
Alastram, caesar, ‘s an méid do ḃí ‘na bpáirt,
Tá an Teaṁair ‘na féar, is féaċ an Traoi mar tá,—
‘S na Sasanaiġ féin do b’ḟéidir go ḃfuiġidís bás!
(Gaeḋeal aduḃairt ar ḃfeicsin dó Ṡasanaiġ ar n-a ċroċaḋ ar ċrann)
Maiṫ do ṫoraḋ, a ċrainn!
Raṫ do ṫoraiḋ ar gaċ aon ċraoiḃ:
Truaiġ gan crainnte Inse Fáil
Lán ded’ ṫoraḋ gaċ aon lá!
Fúbún fúiḃ, a ṡluaiġ Ġaoiḋeal,
Ní ṁair aoinneaċ agaiḃ:
Gaill ag coṁroinn ḃur gcríċe,—
Re sluaġ siḋe ḃur saṁail!
The world hath conquered, the wind hath scattered like dust
Alexander, Caesar, and all that shared their sway,
Tara is grass, and behold how Troy lieth low,
And even the English, perchance their hour will come!
(A dispossessed Gael sees an Englishman hanging upon a tree)
Good is thy fruit, O tree!
The luck of thy fruit on every bough;
Would that the trees of Innisfail
Were full of thy fruit every day!
A shame upon you, host of the Gael,
Among you there is none that liveth:
The Galls are dividing your lands,—
A phantom host is your symbol!
Just as in early Irish manuscripts, Irish love of nature or of nature’s God so frequently bursts out in fugitive quatrains of great beauty, so in the seventeenth and eighteenth century manuscripts we find Irish hate of the English (a scarcely less holy passion) expressing itself suddenly and splendidly in many a stray stanza jotted down on a margin or embedded in a long and worthless poem. I give three specimens.