go gcóireod duitse leaba
faoi bhairlíní geala,
faoi chuilteanna breátha breaca,
a bhainfidh asat allas
in ionad an fhuachta a ghlacais.
x.Deirfiúr Art:
Mo chara is mo stór tú!
Is mó bean chumtha chórach
ó Chorcaigh na seolta
go Droichead na Tóime,
do thabharfadh macha mór bó dhuit
agus dorn buí-óir duit,
ná raghadh a chodladh ’na seomra
oíche do thórraimh.
ix.
O my belovèd, steadfast!
Rise up now, do, stand,
come home with me, hand in hand,
where I’ll order cows slaughtered,
and call a banquet so vast,
with music surging loud and fast.
I’ll have a bed dressed
in bright blankets
and embellished quilts,
to spark your sweat and set it spilling
until it chases the chill that you’ve been given.
x. Art’s sister:
O, my darling, my pal,
many’s the lady – buxom and chic –
from Cork of tall sails
all the way to Toomsbridge
who’d have brought you pastures of cattle
and gold by the fistful,
and not one among them would have dared doze
on the night of your wake, as you lay cold.
xi. Eibhlín Dubh
Mo chara is m’uan tú!
Is ná creid sin uathu,
ná an cogar a fuarais,
ná an scéal fir fuatha,
gur a chodladh a chuas-sa.
Níor throm suan dom:
ach bhí do linbh ró-bhuartha,
’s do theastaigh sé uathu
iad a chur chun suaimhnis.
xii.
A dhaoine na n-ae istigh,
’bhfuil aon bhean in Éirinn,
ó luí na gréine,
a shínfeadh a taobh leis,
do bhéarfadh trí lao dhó,
ná raghadh le craobhacha
i ndiaidh Airt Uí Laoghaire
atá anso traochta
ó mhaidin inné agam?
xi. Eibhlín Dubh
O, my friend and my lamb!
Don’t you believe that old babble,
the overheard whispers
and hateful scandals
that claim I was napping.
No slumber hampered me, it was only
that your children were so distressed,
and they wept for your presence
to soothe them to rest.
xii.
O noble kin, listen,
is there in all of Ireland any woman,
having spent sunsets
stretched next to him,
having carried three calves for him,
who wouldn’t be tormented
after losing Art Ó Laoghaire,
he who lies so cold here now
since early yesterday, when he was ground down?
xiii.
A Mhorrisín léan ort!-
Fuil do chroí is t’ae leat!
Do shúile caochta!
Do ghlúine réabtha!-
A mhairbh mo lao-sa,
is gan aon fhear in Éirinn
a ghreadfadh na piléir leat.
xiv.
Mo chara thú ’s mo shearc!
Is éirigh suas, a Airt,
léimse in airde ar t’each,
éirigh go Magh Chromtha isteach,
is go hInse Geimhleach ar ais,
buidéal fíona id ghlaic –
mar a bhíodh i rúm do dhaid.
xv.
M’fhada-chreach léan-ghoirt
ná rabhas-sa taobh leat
nuair lámhadh an piléar leat,
go ngeobhainn é im’ thaobh dheas
nó i mbinn mo léine,
xiii.
Morris, you runt; on you, I wish anguish! –
May bad blood spurt from your heart and your liver!
Your eyes grow glaucoma!
Your knee-bones both shatter!
You who slaughtered my bull calf,
and not a man in all of Ireland
who’d dare shoot you back.
xiv.
O my friend and my heart!
Rise up now, dear Art,
trot in to Macroom,
then on to Inchigeelagh and back
with a wine bottle in hand,
as you always had at home with your Dad.
xv.
An ache, this salt-sorrow of mine,
that I was not by your side
when that bullet came flying,
I’d have seized it here in my right side,
or here, in my blouse’s pleats, anything,
is go léigfinn cead slé’ leat
a mharcaigh na ré-ghlac.
xvi. Deirfiúr Art:
Mo chreach ghéarchúiseach
ná rabhas ar do chúlaibh
nuair lámhadh an púdar,
go ngeobhainn é im’ chom dheas
nó i mbinn mo ghúna,
is go léigfinn cead siúil leat
a mharcaigh na súl nglas,
ós tú b’fhearr léigean chucu.
xvii.
Mo chara thú is mo shearc-mhaoin!
Is gránna an chóir a chur ar ghaiscíoch
comhra agus caipín,
ar mharcach an dea-chroí
a bhíodh ag iascaireacht ar ghlaisíbh
agus ag ól ar hallaíbh
i bhfarradh mná na ngeal-chíoch.
Mo mhíle mearaí
mar a chailleas do thaithí.
anything to let you gallop free,
o bright-grasped horseman, my dear.
xvi. Art’s sister:
This raw regret is mine:
that I wasn’t there too, just behind
when that gunpowder blew bright.
I’d have seized it here, in my right side,
or here, in my gown’s deep pleats,
anything to let you to stride away free,
oh grey-gazed horseman,
learnèd and gentlemanly.
xvii.
O, my friend, my belovèd-treasure!
How grotesque to witness
the grimace of death-cap and coffin
on my kind-hearted horseman,
he who fished the green streams
and drank in grand mansions
with bright-breasted ladies.
Oh, my thousand bewilderments,
I’m dizzied by the loss of your company.
xviii.
Greadadh chughat is díth
a Mhorris ghránna an fhill
a bhain díom fear mo thí,
athair mo leanbh gan aois:
dís acu ag siúl an tí,
’s an triú duine acu istigh im chlí,
agus is dócha ná cuirfead díom.
xix.
Mo chara thú is mo thaitneamh!
Nuair ghabhais amach an geata
d’fhillis ar ais go tapaidh,
do phógais do dhís leanbh,
do phógais mise ar bharra baise.
Dúraís, ‘A Eibhlín, éirigh id’ sheasamh
agus cuir do ghnó chun taisce
go luaimneach is go tapaidh.
Táimse ag fágáil an bhaile,
is ní móide go deo go gcasfainn.’
Níor dheineas dá chaint ach magadh,
mar bhíodh á rá liom go minic cheana.
xviii.
Trouncings and desolations on you,
ghastly Morris of the treachery,
you who thieved my man from me,
the father of my babies,
the pair who walk our home steadily,
and the third, still within me,
I fear will never breathe.
xix.
&n
bsp; O, my friend and my pleasure!
Through the gateway, you were leaving
when you turned back swiftly
and kissed your two babies.
Heart of the palm, your kiss for me,
and when you said, ‘Rise, Eibhlín,
settle your affairs neatly,
be firm about it, move quickly.
I must leave the home of our family,
and I may never return to ye,’
oh, I only chuckled in mockery,
since you’d made such warnings so frequently.
xx.
Mo chara thú is mo chuid!
A mharcaigh an chlaímh ghil,
éirigh suas anois,
cuir ort do chulaith
éadaigh uasail ghlain,
cuir ort do bhéabhar dubh,
tarraing do lámhainní umat.
Siúd í in airde t’fhuip;
sin í do láir amuigh.
Buail-se an bóthar caol úd soir
mar a maolóidh romhat na toir,
mar a n-umhlóidh romhat mná is fir,
má tá a mbéasa féin acu –
’s is baolach liomsa ná fuil anois …
xxi.
Mo ghrá thú is mo chumann!
’s ní hé a bhfuair bás dem chine,
ná bás mo thriúr clainne;
ná Domhnall Mór Ó Conaill,
ná Conall a bháigh an tuile,
ná bean na sé mblian ’s fiche
do chuaigh anonn thar uisce
’déanamh cairdeasaí le ríthe –
xx.
O, my friend and my lover!
Dear horseman of the bright sword,
rise up now,
pull on your uniform
of noble, bright cloth
and the dark beaver-skin,
then tug up your gloves.
Look, your whip is hung up above.
Your mare waits beyond.
Hit that narrow road east
where each tree will kneel for you,
each stream will narrow for you,
and all men and women will bow for you,
if they remember the old manners,
though I fear they no longer do …
xxi.
O, my friend, my companion,
neither my deceased kin,
nor my family’s three dead belovèds –
not Domhnall Mór Ó Conaill,
nor Conall drowned by flooding,
not even the twenty-six-year-old lady
who went overseas
to become a companion to royalty –
ní hiad go léir atá agam dá ngairm,
ach Art a bhaint aréir dá bhonnaibh
ar inse Charraig an Ime!
Marcach na lárach doinne
atá agam féin anso go singil –
gan éinne beo ’na ghoire
ach mná beaga dubha an mhuilinn,
is mar bharr ar mo mhíle tubaist
gan a súile féin ag sileadh.
xxii.
Mo chara is mo lao thú!
A Airt Uí Laoghaire
Mhic Conchubhair, Mhic Céadaigh,
Mhic Laoisigh Uí Laoghaire,
aniar ón nGaortha
is anoir ón gCaolchnoc,
mar a bhfásaid caora
is cnó buí ar ghéagaibh
is úlla ’na slaodaibh
’na n-am féinig.
Cárbh ionadh le héinne
dá lasadh Uíbh Laoghaire
agus Béal Átha an Ghaorthaigh
is an Guagán naofa
i ndiaidh mharcaigh na ré-ghlac
oh no one else do I grieve now,
but my own Art, struck down at dusk
and torn from us!
Only the brown mare’s horseman
do I still hold, he, alone –
and now none will come close,
only the dark-cloaked little mill-women,
and to multiply my thousand cataclysms,
not one of them will summon a tear for him.
xxii.
O, my friend and my bull calf!
Dear Art Ó Laoghaire,
son of Conor, son of Keady,
son of old Laoiseach Ó Laoghaire
from back west in The Gearagh,
of those who came east from sheer peaks
where sheep grow plump, and branches
grow heavy with clusters of nuts,
where apples spill lush
when their sweet season rises up.
What wonder, now, to anyone
should they all blaze up, all the people
of Iveleary, Ballingeary,
and those of Gougane Barra’s holy streams,
howling in grief for our steady-handed horseman,
a mbíodh an fiach á thraochadh
ón nGreanaigh ar saothar
nuair stadaidís caol-choin?
Is a mharcaigh na gclaon-rosc –
nó cad d’imigh aréir ort?
Óir do shíleas féinig
ná maródh an saol tú
nuair cheannaíos duit éide.
xxiii. Deirfiúr Art:
Mo chara thú is mo ghrá!
Gaol mhathshlua an stáit,
go mbíodh ocht mbanaltraí déag ar aon chlár,
go bhfaighidís go léir a bpá –
loilíoch is láir,
cráin ’s a hál,
muileann ar áth,
ór buí is airgead bán,
síodaí is bheilbhit bhreá,
píosaí tailimh eastáit,
go nídís cíocha tál
ar lao na mascalach mbán.
he who exhausted the hunt
that day in Grenagh, when his exertions were such
that even the most muscular hounds gave up?
And o, my horseman of firm stare,
what went awry last night?
I never imagined
as I chose your clothes – so elegant and fine –
that you could ever be torn from this life.
xxiii. Art’s Sister:
O, my pal, o, my brother!
Kin of nobility,
you kept eighteen wet nurses toiling
and they each earned their salary,
paid in heifers and mares,
in sows and in piglets,
in mills fording rivers,
in bright golds and silvers,
in silks and in velvets,
in vast estate pastures –
all that suckling staff
who worked to serve our fine bull calf.
xxiv.
Mo ghrá is mo rún tú!
’S mo ghrá mo cholúr geal!
Cé ná tánag-sa chughat-sa
is nár thugas mo thrúip liom,
níor chúis náire siúd liom
mar bhíodar i gcúngrach
i seomraí dúnta
is i gcomhraí cúnga,
is i gcodladh gan mhúscailt.
xxv.
Mara mbeadh an bholgach
is an bás dorcha
is an fiabhras spotaitheach,
bheadh an marc-shlua borb san
is a srianta á gcrothadh acu
ag déanamh fothraim
ag teacht dod’ shochraid
a Airt an bhrollaigh ghil …
xxvi.
Mo ghrá thú is mo thaitneamh!
Gaol an mharc-shlua ghairbh
a bhíodh ag lorg an ghleanna,
xxiv.
O my love and my dear!
O my love and my bright dove!
Though I could neither come to your aid
nor bring troops your way,
that’s no cause for shame –
for they were all restrained
in their dark place, locked
in coffins and tightly sealed
by wakeless sleep.
xxv.
Were it not for the smallpox,
the Black Death
and the fever-spots,
those gruff hordes would surely have come,
shaking their reins
and raising glorious tumult
as they arrived at your funeral,
dear Art, whose chest was once luminous …
xxvi.
O, my belovèd, my pleasure!
Kin to the rough horde
who hunted the gorge,
mar a mbainteá astu casadh,
á mbreith isteach don halla,
mar a mbíodh faobhar á chur ar sceanaibh,
muiceoil ar bord á gearradh,
caoireoil ná comhaireofaí a heasnaí,
coirce craorach ramhar
a bhainfeadh sraoth as eachaibh –
capaill ghruagach’ sheanga
is buachaillí ’na n-aice
ná bainfí díol ina leaba
ná as fásach a gcapall
dá bhfanaidís siúd seachtain,
a dheartháir láir na gcarad.
xxvii.
Mo chara is mo lao thú!
Is aisling trí néallaibh
do deineadh aréir dom
i gCorcaigh go déanach
ar leaba im’ aonar:
gur thit ár gcúirt aolda,
gur chríon an Gaortha,
nár fhan friotal id’ chaol-choin
ná binneas ag éanaibh,
nuair fuaradh tú traochta
ar lár an tslé’ amuigh,
how you led them twisting and turning,
all, then steered them back to the hall,
where blades were sharpening
over pork set for carving,
with countless ribs of mutton,
and oats so tasty
they’d draw speed from each steed,
the stallions, slender and thick-maned,
all attended by stable-boys with care,
and not a soul charged for their beds,
for expenses, or for board of their horses,