Seán Ó Tuama, ed., Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire (Dublin, 1961; reprt. 1979), pp. 33-35.
(i)
Mo ghrá go daingean tú!
Lá dá bhfaca thu
Ag ceann tí an mhargaidh,
Thug mo shúil aire dhuit,
Thug mo chroí taitneamh duit,
D’éalaíos óm charaid leat
I bhfad ó bhaile leat.
(ii)
Is domhsa nárbh aithreach:
Chuiris parlús á ghealadh dhom
Rúmanna á mbreacadh dhom,
Bácús á dheargadh dhom,
Brící á gceapadh dhom,
Rósta ar bhearaibh dom,
Mairt á leagadh dhom;
Codladh i gclúmh lachan dom
Go dtíodh an t-eadartha
Nó thairis dá dtaithneadh liom.
(iii)
Mo chara go daingean tú!
Is cuimhin lem aigne
An lá breá earraigh úd,
Gur bhreá thíodh hata dhuit
Faoi bhanda óir tarraingthe,
Claíomh cinn airgid—
Lámh dheas chalma—
Rompsáil bhagarthach—
Fír-chritheagla
Ar namhaid chealgach—
Tú i gcóir chun falaracht,
Is each caol ceannann fút.
D’umhlaídís Sasanaigh
Síos go talamh duit,
Is ní ar mhaithe leat
Ach le haon-chorp eagla,
Cé gur leo a cailleadh tú,
A mhuirnín mh’anama.
(iv) (?)
A mharcaigh na mbán-ghlac!
Is maith thíodh biorán duit
Daingean faoi cháimbric,
Is hata faoi lása.
Tar éis teacht duit thar sáile
Glantaí an tsráid duit,
Is ní le grá dhuit
Ach le han-chuid gráine ort.
(v)
Mo chara thu go daingean!
Is nuair a thiocfaidh chugham abhaile
Conchubhar beag an cheana
Is Fear Ó Laoghaire, an leanbh,
Fiafróid díom go tapaidh
Cár fhágas féin a n-athair.
’Neosad dóibh faoi mhairg
Gur fhágas i gCill na Martar.
Glaofaid siad ar a n-athair,
Is ní bheidh sé acu le freagairt.
(vi)
Mo chara is mo ghamhain tu!
Gaol Iarla Antroim
Is Bharraigh ón Allchoill,
Is breá thíodh lann duit,
Hata faoi bhanda,
Bróg chaol ghallda,
Is culaith den abhras
A sníomhthaí thall duit.
(vii)
Mo chara thu go daingean!
Is níor chreideas riamh dod mharbh
Gur tháinig chugham do chapall
Is a srianta léi go talamh,
Is fuil do chroí ar a leacain
Siar go t’iallait ghreanta
Mar a mbítheá id shuí ’s id sheasamh.
Thugas léim go tairsigh,
An dara léim go geata,
An triú léim ar do chapall.
(viii)
Do bhuaileas go luath mo bhasa
Is do bhaineas as na reathaibh
Chomh maith is bhí sé agam,
Go bhfuaras romham tú marbh,
Cois toirín ísil aitinn,
Gan Pápa gan easpag,
Gan cléireach gan sagart
Do léifeadh ort an tsailm,
Ach seanbhean chríonna chaite
Do leath ort binn dá fallaing—
Do chuid fola leat ’na sraithibh;
Is níor fhanas le hí ghlanadh
Ach í ól suas lem basaibh.
Seán Ó Tuama and Thomas Kinsella, An Duanaire 1600-1900: Poems of the Dispossessed (Portlaoise, 1981; reprt. 1990), pp. 199-204.
(i)
My steadfast love!
One day when I saw you
by the market-house gable
my eye gave you a look,
my heart shone out to you,
I fled with you from my friends,
far away from home.
(ii)
And I never was sorry:
you had parlours painted for me,
rooms decorated for me,
an oven reddened for me,
loaves made up for me,
roasts on spits,
and cattle slaughtered for me;
I slept in duck-down,
till the late morning milking-time,
or later if I liked.
(iii)
My steadfast friend!
It comes to my mind
that fine spring day,
how well you wore the hat
with a drawn gold band,
the sword silver-hilted,
your fine brave hand
and menacing prance,
the fearful tremble
of a treacherous enemy—
You were set to ride
your slim white-faced steed;
the English bowed to you
down to the ground,
and not from good will
but with sheer terror,
—though you died at their hands,
My soul’s beloved.
(iv)
My fair-handed horseman!
You wore a breast-pin well,
firm beneath cambric,
and a lace-trimmed hat.
After you came from overseas
They used to clear the street,
and not because of love for you,
but out of sheer hatred.
(v)
My steadfast friend!
And when they come home,
little Conchúr, the pet,
and Fear Ó Laoghaire, the baby,
they will ask me at once
where I left their father.
I will tell them in woe
that he is left in Cill na Martar.
They will call for their father
and they will not get an answer.
(vi)
My friend and my beloved! [lit. gamhain ‘calf’]
a relative of the Earl of Antrim
and the Barrys from the Allchoill,
You wore a sword well,
and a hat with a band,
narrow foreign shoes,
and a suit of yarn
that was spun for you abroad.
(vii)
My steadfast friend!
I never believed you had died,
until your horse came home
and her reigns to the ground,
your heart’s blood on her cheek,
back to your polished saddle
where you sat and where you stood.
I gave a leap to the threshold,
the second leap to the gate,
the third leap on your horse.
(viii)
I clapped my hands quickly
and started mad running
as hard as I could,
until I found you dead
by a low furze-bush
without a Pope, without a bishop
without a cleric, without a priest
who would read the psalm over you,
but a spent old woman
who spread the corner of her cloak over you—
your blood streaming from you,
and I didn’t stay to clean it
but to drink it up with my palms.
