(Ag éagcaoineaḋ an-ḟorlann Éireann)

Seaṫrún Céitinn cct. (d’éis 1607)

Óm’ sgeol ar árd-ṁaiġ Fáil ní ċodlaim oiḋċe
‘S do ḃreoḋ go bráṫ mé dála a pobail dílis;
Giḋ ró-ḟada atáid ‘na ḃfál re brosgar bíoḋḃaḋ,
Fá ḋeoiḋ gur ḟás a lán de’n ċogal tríoṫa.

A Ḟódla ṗláis, is nár naċ follus daoiḃ-se
Gur ċóra tál ar sáir-ṡlioċt ṁogail Ṁíleaḋ;
Deor níor fágḃaḋ i gclár do ḃrollaiġ ṁín-ġil
Nár ḋeolsad ál gaċ crána coigcríċe.

Gaċ treod gan tásg tar sáil dár ṫogair síneaḋ
Go hóir-ṡlioċt áluinn ársaiḋ Ċoḃṫaiġ Ċaoil-mbreaġ,
Is leo gan ġrásgar láṁ ar ndona-ḃruiḋne,
Gaċ fód is fearr dár n-áitiḃ eoċar-aoiḃne.

Atáid fóirne ag fás san ċlár so Loġa líoṁṫa,
Dár ċóir ḃeiṫ tláṫ giḋ árd a rolla ag sgaoileaḋ;
Síol Eoġain gan áird ‘s an Tál-ḟuil boḋar-ċlaoiḋte,
‘S na hóig ó’n mBán-tsraṫ sgáinte i gcoigcríoċaiḃ,

Na tóisiġ ṫáisg ó’n nár gan ḃogaḋ ḃríġ-nirt
I ngleo gér ġáiḃṫeaċ lá na lonna-ḃuiḋne,
Fá ṡróin an stáit ba ġnáṫ a gcogaḋ i ndíormaiḃ;
Ní dóiḃ ba nár aċt cáċ gan ċoṁall dliġe ar biṫ.

Dá mba beo árd-ḟlaiṫ Áine is Droma Daoile
‘S na leoġain láidre ó’n Ṁáiġ do ḃronnaḋ maoine,
Dar ndóiġ, níor ḃ’áit do’n táin so i n-osgail Ḃríġde
Gan geoin is gárṫa ós árd dá dtoġail-díbirt.

Muna ḃfóiriḋ ceárd na n-áird-reann pobal críoċ gCuirc
Ar ḟóirneart náṁad ndána n-ollaṁ ndíoġaltaċ,
Ní mór nár ḃ’fearr gan ċáirde a ḃfosgain-díoġlaim,
‘S a seolaḋ slán i ḃfán tar tonnaiḃ Clíoḋna!

(Lamenting the oppression of Ireland)

By Geoffrey Keating (after 1607)

From my grief on Fál’s proud plain I sleep no night,
And till doom the plight of her native folk hath crushed me:
Tho’ long they stand a fence against a rabble of foes,
At last there hath grown full much of the wild tare through them.

Ah, faithless Fódla, ‘tis shame that thou see’st not clearly
That ‘twere meeter to give thy milk to the clustering clan of Míleadh,—
No drop hath been left in the expanse of thy smooth white breast
That the litter of every foreign sow hath not sucked!

Every common crew that hath chosen to come across the sea
To the olden golden comely race of Cobhthach Caol mBreagh,
Theirs without challenge of battle are our stricken palaces,
Every field most fruitful of our pleasant-bordered places.

There are many waxing strong in this plain of Lugh the smooth,
Who ought to be weak, though high their roll extends;
Eoghan’s seed hath no honour, the Dalcassian blood dumb-stricken,
And the heroes from Strabane scattered in foreign countries.

The famous chiefs of Naas make no manly movement,
Though once those fiery bands were fierce in fight;
In the State’s despite they waged their war in squadrons—
Not theirs the shame, but of those who fulfilled not justice.

If the high chief lived of Aine and Druim Daoile
And the strong lions of Maigue who granted gifts,
There surely were no place for this rabble where Bride meets Blackwater,
But shouts and outcries on high announcing their ruin and rout.

Unless the artisan of the high heavens help the folk of Corc’s territories
Against the violence of bold, ever-ready, vengeful enemies,
‘Twere almost better that they were straight-way winnowed and gleaned,
And sent safe into exile over the waves of Clíodhna!