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'Úlainn tË is fuar i.
An cuala sibh 's an ýite so,
Mu'n Ford a fhuair an Lamanach;
Gu fan i far am fýgar i,
Mur týirnear i cha ghluais i.
'S e sud an car tha cunnartach,
Ma thýras i air buill' thoirt dhuit;
An lýrach 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 dËan i cnoc Iain Shalaich dheth
'S cha toir a h-anail suas i.
'S gu'n d'thuirt DÚmhnall Angus ris
An dÈidh dha chuis a rannsachadh,
Tha 'n uidheam sti˜iridh cam oirre,
Mu'n dËan i call, cuir uait i.
Nis crÏochnaichidh mi'n dan so dhuibh
An d˜il gu'n dËan sibh fabhar leam:
Na inssibh e do'n Lamanach,
Mur fýs e ann an gruaim rium.
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 ghlË-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 fhËin e.
Ma gheibh mi airgiod
A bheir air falbh mi,
Gu lean mi Tormod
'S cha dealaichinn fhËin ris.
Mo cheist an cÏobair
Tha'n cois na frÏthe
'S mo chridhe 'g innse
Nach dean e feum dhomh.
Nach mi bha gÚrach
An duil ri pÚsadh
Gun stoc gun stÚras
Gun or gun Bheurla.
'S Gann Gun DÏrich Mi Chaoidh
'S gann gun dÏrich mi chaoidhDh'ionnsuidh frÏthean a' mhonaidh;
'S gann gun dirich mi chaoidh.
Fhuair mi litir a D˜n Eideann 'g rýdh
Nach feud mi dhol do 'n mhonadh.
'S tric a mharbh mi fiadh ard bheann
Air na glinn a b'ýille culaidh.
Fýgaidh mi a nis an tir seo, chan fhaigh
M'inntinn sÏth innt' tuilleadh.
Bheir mi ruaig gu cÚrs' nan Innsean
Feuch an dean mi fhÏn am buinnig.
'S Ì Bl·th geal Na SmÈar Ì
'S Ì Bl·th geal Na SmÈar Ì's Ì bl·th deas na s™ craobh Ì,
's Ì planda b'fhearr mÈin mhaith
le hamharc do sh™l;
's Ì mo chuisle, 's Ì mo r™n Ì,
's Ì bl·th na n-™ll gcumhra Ì,
is samhradh ins an fhuacht Ì
idir Nollaig is C·isc.
Gaidhlig
Gaelic Poetry (In English)
I Am Full of Care
Concerned am I a dhiu ro eileadhConcerned 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 moreTo 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 SÌdh 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"
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."
Return to
Indigenous Peoples' Literature
Compiled by: Glenn Welker
Copyright © 1996-2013
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