Modern Irish - Tarla gné dhaoldatha d’fhoiligh gach rian
A chafer-like blackness that has hidden every path
Séamas Mac Coitir cct i modh acrostic ar bhás Taidhg mhic Conchubhair Uí Bhriain Choille na Curra noch d’éag le bolgaidh 1731.
- Tarla gné dhaoldatha d’fhoiligh gach rian
Um chláraibh réidhe raonghlana Chonaire ar dtiacht
Nach ráinig an cé céasta sa a chosmhaile riamh
Amháin acht éag éindeise, Murchadh is Brian. - Ar bhfáil na laoch léanaithe i ngoradh na ngliadh
Gach ráth tug taom claonta ’s do dhoirchigh an iath,
Blátha craobh, céir, mil is torchartha iasc,
Grán is tréad Éireann, do locadar siad. - D’fhás an scéimh chéanna go follas ’man bhfiadh
Led bhás-sa, a ghéag ghléigeal de mhogall-choill Bhriain;
Ní nár do chéile Éibhir an conchlann ciaigh,
Gach lá dhod ré is léir gur ba cothrom tú is iad. - H’áras caol aonair, mo dhoilbheas dian
Nach bánbhróg aolta aerach acht fothrach riabhach,
Gan fáidhe scéimhe, éigse, ná coigeadal cliar
Ná táirdeal tréan saorfhlaith fád toichim ag trial, - Gan gártha mbléidheadh mbéilgheal ná corn ag riar
Ná sárchrot saobh séisbhinn dob oirfid do thriath
Ná lámhach laoch léidmheach le fothram sciath
Ná stáideach éasca éadrom na mborbchon bhfiaigh. - Och! clár ceart saor t’éadain ná choirtithe ciar,
Do dhá rosc réidhe réalta ba gormghlas niamh,
Do bhráid ’s do bhéal déidgheal mar chorcaraibh liag
In áras cré ag daolaibh, mo dhochar! mar bhia. - Barr do chraobh gclaen-ghleannach gcochaill-bhfionn bhfiar
Dár thálsad scao saorbhruinneall solasta a mian
’Na sámhchuilt fén bpéist nduibh chum codalta, is ciach!
Is gan d’ábhar lé a dhéanamh acht bolgach liath. - Ráib na séad saolta do bhronnadh go fial
Nár ghráigh sin céim cléchlis ná sonnadh ar bith siar
Acht crábhadh, déirc, daonnacht is foirfeacht ria,
Áis is féile, aobhdhacht le foirtile is ciall. - Iar dtásc an scéil éignigh fán gconair do riacht
Níor fhág soin taobh Gaelach gan gonadh go grian
Go ndearna sé d’éachtmhaighibh oirir na bhfian
Árthach créacht créimnimhe is othras liach. - ’Ardmhac Dé daoradh mar chrochaire ar sliabh
Mar pháis san mhéid dhéineam-na d’olcaibh ar Dhia,
Cé bhásaigh gléir tsaormhaicne Mogha le cian
’Sé an t-ár so an lae dhéanaigh is dona fa-riar! - Iar dtámh don tréad éigeas do ghoilfeadh ’na dhiaidh
’S nach ránga féin aosta ná foilcithe i sians,
Cá beag é ar aon chor de mholadh air ná hiarr
Acht a fhás de phréimh réimchliste mbrollaigh Í Bhriain. - Ná cráigh an té ghéarchuir an osna so im chliabh,
A bhláith an tséin d’aomh teacht dár bhfortacht ón ndiabhal, Táid seacht gcéad déag ann, trí coda agus bliain, Acht fáiltigh é id aontaidh gan fothragadh fiach.
An ceangal - Cúis dhoilbhis ag pobailibh nach leighiseann liaigh
Plúr oirdheirc ghuirt Oiliolla go domhain i gcriaidh,
Cnú chobhartha na boichtine le Tadhg Ó Briain;
An chúirt shoilbhir dá shochar soin go bhfaghaidh ó Dhia!
Séamus mac Coitir composed this in the manner of an acrostic upon the death of Tadhg (son of Conchobhar) Ó Briain of Kilcor who died of small pox 1731.
- A chafer-like blackness that has hidden every path has descended about the smooth trail-marked plains of Conaire’s land, the like of which never visited this cruel earth before except for the death of two alone, Murchadh and Brian.
- When those heroes were wounded in the smelting of battle every mound shook suddenly (?) and the earth darkened, the blossom of branches, bees’ wax, honey, fish-produce, grain crops, and the herds of Ireland failed.
- The same aspect manifested clearly about the land upon your death, o bright scion of the meshed woodland of Brian’s kin; no shame is it that a matching bond of grieving affects Éibhear’s spouse since truly you were their equal all the days of your life.
- Your lonely narrow dwelling —alas for me!—is no bright airy castle but a dark cave without gentle scholars or poets or chime of clergy or steady procession of noble princes coming to visit you,
- Or clamour of bright-mouthed cups and goblets dispensing, or sweet melody of excellent harps giving royal entertainment, or the jousting of brave heroes and the clash of spears, or loose nimble steeds with fierce hounds of the hunt.
- Alas! The fair noble surface of your forehead whose aspect never darkened, your two steady clear blue-grey eyes, your breast and your mouth with pearl-like bright teeth, (are) in a keep of clay, to my grief, as food for worms.
- Your head of wavy full fair ruffled tresses over which a host of noble lustrous maidens lavished their affections are a quilt for black worms to sleep on—alas!—caused to be made only by the dark pox.
- Bountiful champion bestower of worldly gifts who never leaned towards playing foul or making an oppressive thrust, but only towards piety, charity, humility, and goodness to boot, faithfulness and generosity, cheer, valour and sound sense.
- Once the report of the fatal news spread about, deep devastation affected every Gael such that it transformed the plains of the land of champions where feats were performed into a vessel of wounds of gnawing poison and searing ills.
- O exalted God-Son condemned as a villain upon a hill to atone by (the) Passion for what we do of evil against God, though many a noble scion of Mogh’s descendants has perished before now it is this recent day’s destruction that is worst of all, alas!
- Now that the troop of poets who might weep after him has fallen silent and that I myself am neither old nor bathed in (their) craft, ask not for praise upon him, however small though it be, but only that he sprang from the foremost stock of Ó Briain of skilled feats.
- Do not torment the one who implanted this bitter sorrow in my side, o flower of joy who deigned to come to redeem us from the devil seventeen hundred and thirty-one years ago, but bid him welcome into your fellowship without immersion of penalties.
- It is a cause of sorrow to the people which no surgeon can heal that the noble flower of the land of Ireland is buried deep in the clay with Tadhg Ó Briain, succour of the poor; may he obtain the serene court as a reward for it from God.
