Gaelic Poetry (In Gaelic)


Dan Do Shean Ford

Tha buaidh air an uisge bheatha,
Tha buaidh air 's cha ghabh e cleith;
Tha buaidh air an uisge bheatha,
Dh'┌lainn t╦ is fuar i.

An cuala sibh 's an řite so,
Mu'n Ford a fhuair an Lamanach;
Gu fan i far am fřgar i,
Mur třirnear i cha ghluais i.

'S e sud an car tha cunnartach,
Ma thřras i air buill' thoirt dhuit;
An lřrach far an cuir i thu,
Gu fuirich thu 'nad shuain ann.

Ma ghluaiseas e do do'n bhaile rith,
A steach Black Brook gu'n caillir i,
Cha d╦an i cnoc Iain Shalaich dheth
'S cha toir a h-anail suas i.

'S gu'n d'thuirt D┌mhnall Angus ris
An d╚idh dha chuis a rannsachadh,
Tha 'n uidheam sti˜iridh cam oirre,
Mu'n d╦an i call, cuir uait i.

Nis cr¤ochnaichidh mi'n dan so dhuibh
An d˜il gu'n d╦an sibh fabhar leam:
Na inssibh e do'n Lamanach,
Mur fřs e ann an gruaim rium.


Tha Mi Fo Ch˜ram

Tha mi fo ch˜ram a dhiu ro eileadh
Tha mi fo ch˜ram 's fo mhoran tursa.
'S mo cheist air c˜irteir a' bhrollaich ghl╦-ghil.
Tha mi fo ch˜ram a dhiu ro eileadh.

Tha mi fo ghruaimean
'S gur fhad o'n uair sin
Mo ghaol a' bhuachaill
'S cha chual e fh╦in e.

Ma gheibh mi airgiod
A bheir air falbh mi,
Gu lean mi Tormod
'S cha dealaichinn fh╦in ris.

Mo cheist an c¤obair
Tha'n cois na fr¤the
'S mo chridhe 'g innse
Nach dean e feum dhomh.

Nach mi bha g┌rach
An duil ri p┌sadh
Gun stoc gun st┌ras
Gun or gun Bheurla.


'S Gann Gun D¤rich Mi Chaoidh

'S gann gun d¤rich mi chaoidh
Dh'ionnsuidh fr¤thean a' mhonaidh;
'S gann gun dirich mi chaoidh.

Fhuair mi litir a D˜n Eideann 'g rřdh
Nach feud mi dhol do 'n mhonadh.

'S tric a mharbh mi fiadh ard bheann
Air na glinn a b'řille culaidh.

Fřgaidh mi a nis an tir seo, chan fhaigh
M'inntinn s¤th innt' tuilleadh.

Bheir mi ruaig gu c┌rs' nan Innsean
Feuch an dean mi fh¤n am buinnig.


'S ╠ BlĚth geal Na Sm╚ar ╠

'S ╠ BlĚth geal Na Sm╚ar ╠
's ╠ blĚth deas na s™ craobh ╠,
's ╠ planda b'fhearr m╚in mhaith
le hamharc do sh™l;
's ╠ mo chuisle, 's ╠ mo r™n ╠,
's ╠ blĚth na n-™ll gcumhra ╠,
is samhradh ins an fhuacht ╠
idir Nollaig is CĚisc.


Gaidhlig

  • AmhrĚn Gaelach
  • Bunl╚itheoireacht Ghalach
  • Chengey-ny-Mayrey Vannin
  • Fřilte gu Sabhal M█r Ostaig
  • Freumh nan Ceilteach
  • Leasain Na Ghřidhlig
  • Nuadh Bunl╚itheoireacht Ghalach
  • Poetry by Seamus Heaney
  • Sean Bhunl╚itheoireacht Ghalach


    Gaelic Poetry (In English)

    I Am Full of Care

    Concerned am I a dhiu ro eileadh
    Concerned am I, and very sorrowful
    My desire being the fair-breasted one
    Concerned am I a dhiu ro eileadh

    Downcast am I
    And long since about my love
    Of the shepherd
    And he not knowing of it.

    If I come into money
    Which will enable me to get away
    I shall follow Norman
    And never part with him.

    My love is the shepherd
    Close to the deer-forest
    And my heart telling me that
    It will little avail me.

    How silly I was
    To think of marriage
    Without stock or possessions
    Without gold or English.


    I Will Climb No More

    I will climb no more
    To the wilds of the moorlands;
    I will climb no more.

    I received a letter from Edinburgh
    Saying I must not go to the moorland.

    Often I killed the deer in the high mountains,
    In the glens with thickest cover.

    I'll be leaving this country now;
    I can no longer find peace here.

    I'll be leaving for the Indies
    To try to make myself a fortune.


    She's the Blackberry-Flower

    She's the blackberry-flower,
    the fine raspberry-flower,
    she's the plant of best breeding
    your eyes could behold;
    she's my darling and dear,
    my fresh apple-tree flower,
    she is Summer in the cold
    between Christmas and Easter.


    "Behold the S╠dh before your eyes,
    So clearly a royal mansion,
    Which was built by the firm Dagda,
    Wonder, court, admirable hill."
    MacNia, Book of Ballymote.



    " Adieu, sweet Angus, Maeve and Fand,
    Ye plumed yet skinny shee,
    That poets played with hand in hand
    To learn their ecstasy."
    J.M. Synge: The Passing of the Shee.



    "I went out to the hazel wood,
    Because a fire was in my head,
    And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
    And hooked a berry to a thread;
    And when white moths were on the wing,
    And moth-like stars were flickering out,
    I dropped the berry in a stream
    And caught a little silver trout.

    When I had laid it on the floor
    I went to blow the fire aflame,
    But something rustled on the floor,
    And some one called me by my name.
    It had become a glimmering girl
    With apple blossom in her hair
    Who called me by my name and ran
    And faded through the brightening air.

    Though I am old with wandering
    Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
    I will find out where she has gone,
    And kiss her lips and take her hands;
    And walk among long dappled grass,
    And pluck till time and times are done
    The silver apples of the moon,
    The golden apples of the sun.
    W.B. Yeats. The Song of Wandering Aengus.


    Modern Irish Poetry:
    "People of the People"

    Hunger Poems

    Irish Famine

    Gruel Cauldron
    The Great Famine
    Irish Famine 1845-1848
    Passing of the Gael
    Skibbereen
    Victory in the Time of Famine


    "Oh father dear, I oft-times hear you speak of Erin's isle
    Her lofty hills, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild
    They say she is a lovely land wherein a saint might dwell
    So why did you abandon her, the reason to me tell."


    Indigenous Peoples' Literature Return to Indigenous Peoples' Literature
    Compiled by: Glenn Welker

    Copyright ę 1996-2013



    This site has been accessed 10,000,000 times since February 8, 1996.