Irish Review (Dublin)

Two Irish Folk Songs with Translation / Láimhsgríbhinní Airt Mhic UidhirAuthor(s): Sean Mac Giolla-an-ataSource: The Irish Review (Dublin), Vol. 2, No. 16 (Jun., 1912), pp. 215-219Published by: Irish Review (Dublin)Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/30062832 .

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conn 5m6a 'ouaet, cA an r4oaLt o ceae irot me sc to

x 215

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THE IRISH REVIEW

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IRISH FOLK SONGS

fli Vo'ftieapl61 nA oo tAltltt tup tsar 5pA tplatfi nA taltneatfi,

Adc 'o Buagaittinn an thottals St6git, 'rd ba thlian trom beit im' aOe.

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ir vitteadcalbe Arin me San hiAtait San atatp,

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flit Etnne ap an rao]at ro ,a

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A CtattAlS, nA ;A sit' tiarO mt map Seatt ap s6tate: nA ap tatawtf,

mAp 'r Sop1n t)A beat poptc nv mOna a5 bpeit b6 unai LA eappasi. D)o b'Weapp 'uitr caitin 65 Dear a beit pottiar azge balte,

A. ra*1tbpear Ctllp rf6ta, rl cO P6ta Le to caittS.

CA bionn ap mo Cpoite-re torh clop-tub to thaUa, rl cA bpOn ap m'innrAnn rlpdiopi nA Obpuit

au5 rSape.

CA mo sAO-ra 1 n5teann 6tESn, ir ni p6mpo tiom 6 a tfiiettat, ACte mapA OpAaS'O to bp6asa 6, beit mo taeteainra d alplo.

(TRANSLATION)

CASTLE O'NEILL

Farewell to last night-my sorrow that it is not to-night. My gentle lad, 'tis he would pet me awhile on his knee. If I told you my story, I fear you would not be discreet; My White-Love is deserting me, and, God and Mary, is it not grievous!

You promised me that you would be first to pet my child, You promised me the one roof over the both of us, Promising every day until I gave you all I had, And, my grief, sore, sharp, dark, the world now comes between us.

217

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THE IRISH REVIEW

This grief, my own Love, coils round by heart, The full of my two shoes of tears have I shed. The love of a young lad 'twas weakened me and took the sense from me, But not a moment will I live if you marry the dark girl of the mountain.

My garden is a wild, Bright Love, and how little you care, Every sweetest fruit unplucked on the tops of the boughs. In all the village I hear neither harp, nor the music of birds Since my Cidilin fled from me to Castle O'Neill.

O, that I may live till these bad days are past, 'Till I have cows and flocks and one house with my Love. The Friday or holiday fast I shall not keep, And how short would the night be stretched by your bright breast.

It is said that I have the luck of the pretty women: If I have, dear Love, sure you do not mind? Nine days, nine times, in eleven weeks did I spend By the house of my love picking sloes from the top of the branches.

Plighted Love, Dearest, in early summer would you not come with me To the glens or to the little islands where the sun sets? Cows, sheep, or calves, I would not covet as a fortune with you; Enough that your head should rest on my arm, and that I might talk with you

till the stroke of twelve.

Come, let us go together to the house of the priest of the North, Where we shall hear birds' music, late and early, lulling us to rest. Never in the world did any one come to put a spell on me Until you drew to my side with your little mouth sweeter than the cuckoo.

MY LAD OF THE WHITE BREAST

No weaver or tailor did I ever love or like, But my lad of the white breast, 'twas he I wished by me. I care not what any one says; 'tis not my First-Love finds fault in me: But if it's his mother that grudges him to me, may her soul never see God's

light. 218

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IRISH FOLK SONGS

Helpless, alone, am I, without mother or father, But if my love be in store for me, I shall not fear to be poor. No one on this world would wrong such as me, No one that had any thought of his welfare or of going at all to Heaven.

O Sweetheart, don't leave me for cattle or land: It is soon the bog-hole on a Spring day would snatch a cow from you: Better for you before you at home a fine young girl Than the riches of the plain of Fodhla and you marrying a withered woman.

There's gloom on my heart, the deep-black of a hat, There's a sorrow in my mind that will not go away: My Grdh is in some glen and I cannot coax him, But if I fail to entice him, my days will be short.

sedn m4c s1ottk4-An-.ta.

219

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