AR M-ÉIRÍ DHOM AR MAIDIN ... ON ARISING THIS MORNING ...
Seán Ó Duibhir an Ghleanna tr. Michael Smith

Ar m-éirí dhom ar maidin,
Grain an tsamhraidh at taitneamh
Chuala an uaill dá casadh
....Is ceaol binn na n-éam;

Broic is míolta gearra,
Creabhair na ngoba bhfada,
Fuaim ag an macalla
....Is lamhach gunnaí tréan:

An sionnach rua ar an gcarraig,
Míle liú ag marcaigh,
Is bean go dubhach san mbealach
....Ar áireamh a cuid gé

Anois tá an choill dá gearradh;
Triallfaimid thar caladh,
Is a Sheáin Uí Dhuibhir an Ghleanna
....Tá tú gan géim.

Is é sin mo uaigneas fada,
Scáth mo chluas dña ghearradd;
An ghaoth aduaidh am leathadh
....Is an bás ins an spéir;

Mo ghadh suairc dá cheangal
Gan chead léith ná aistñiocht',
Do vhainfeadh gruaim den leanbh
....I meán ghile an lae;

Croí na huaisle ar an gcarraig,
Go ceáfrach buacach beannach,
Do thiocfadh suas ar aiteann,
....Go lá deire an tsaoil,

Dá bhaighinnse suaomhneas tamall
Ó dhaoine uaisle an bhaile,
Do thriallfainn féin ar Ghaoillimh,
....Is d'fhágfainn an scléip.

Táid fearainn Ghleanna an tSrutha
Gan ceann ná teann ar luchta,
I mbléide ná i gcuach ní hóltar
....A sláinte ná a saol;

Mo lomadh luain gan foscadh
Ó Chluain go Stuaic na gColm,
Is an giorria ar bhruach an rosa
....Ar fán lena rñe.

Cad i an ruaig sea ar Ghalla,
Bualadh, buaint, is cartadh?
An smóilín binn is an londubh
....Gan sárghuth ar ghéig;

Is gur mór an tuar chun cogaidh,
Cléir go buartha is pobal
Dá seoladh go cuanta loma
....Nó i lár ghleanna an tsléibhe.

Is é mo ró'chreach maidne
Ná fuair mé bás gan pheachadh
Sul a bhfuair mé scannal
....Fé mo chuid féin;

Is a liacht lá breá fada
'Dtig úlla cumhra ar chranna,
Duilliúr ar anndair,
....Is drúcht ar an bhféar;

Anois táimse ruaigthe ón fhearann,
In uaigneas i bhfad óm chraid,
Im luí go duairc faoi scearta,
....Is i gcuasaí an tsléibhe.

Is muna bhfaigheadsa suaimhneas feasta
Ó dhaoine uuisle an bhaile,
Tréigfidh mé mo shealbh
....Mo dhuthaigh is mo réim.

Anois táimse ruaigthe.

On arising this morning,
the summer sun shining,
I heard dogs barking
....and sweet birdsong.

Badgers and small creatures,
the long-beaked woodcock,
the echo of sound
....and great guns blasting.

The red fox on the rock,
countless shouts of riders,
a lone woman by the roadside
....counting her geese.

Now the woods are being cut down
we will go beyond the harbour;
thanks to Seán O'Dwyer of the
....Glen you are spiritless.

My long desolation,
my shelter is being cut down,
the north wind at my side
....and death in the sky.

My cheerful little dog is tied up
so he can't rove or play to
lift a child's gloom
....in the midday's brightness.

The heart of the stag on the rock
frisky, proud, antlered –
it would thrive in furze
....till the end of the world.

If I could ask a short peace
from the gentry of the town
I would travel to Galway
....and leave the hurly-burly.

The doves of Stream Glen
are leaderless in their lofts;
no praise in Cuckoo Street
....nor toasts to their health.

My desolation! No shelter
from the upland pastures to Doves' Height;
the hare at the copse edge
....will stray till his life ends.

What is this rout by men,
striking, cutting down, uprooting;
the sweet thrush and blackbird
....songless on branches.

A great omen of war,
clergy and people driven
to desolate harbours
....or the middle of mountain glens.

It is my great loss
that I did not die sinless
before I was disgraced
....by my own people.

It is many the fine long day
there were sweet apples on the trees,
leaves on the oaks
....and dew on the grass.

Now I am chased from my land,
lonely, far from my friends,
gloomily lying under bushes
....in the hollows of mountains.

If I can't find a lasting peace
from the gentry of the town
I will abandon my possessions,
....my homeland and my estate.

Now I am chased from my land.

Trans. copyright © Michael Smith 2004


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