2. Ar fissid, ar fer dána
Téit lá d’iarraid éddála,
Trí cuile fúair in t-ollaṁ,
Ní ḋuaid uile hi comlongad.
3. Tinóilis lán a brasċúig mér
da ingnib donna in dreén,
Na trí ceṫri ’mon cuitig,
Da trí ferṫain fliuċbuidir.
4. Aċan! is trúag lem’ċride
bás clainde na cuirrcige,
cuirrceċ ar n-éc a dá hén-
dá buirrceċ déc ’con dreén.
Dondchad Mór sang—
1. Wren of the marsh, dear to all,
Conversing with us every hour,
A bird, and a hole through its house,
My goose, my crane, my cock.
2. Our wise man, our poet,
Went one day to seek spoil;
Three gnats the ollave found,
He did not eat them all in one feast.
3. He gathered the full of his five fingers
With his dun claws, the wren;
The thrice four around the repast,
Whence a wet, deafening shower will
come.
4. Ochone! sad to my heart is
The death of the plover’s offspring;
The plover after the death of her two
birds,
Twelve denizens has the wren.
Kuno Meyer.
A SONG FROM CORK.
AN RIDIRE BRIANACH.
Uilliam Buingeán cct.
Hurá! a Ridire ċumasaiġ Bhrianaiġ!
Hurá! a Ridire ṫrúpa na srianta!
Hurá! a leinḃ nár geineaḋ as fiaḋaile,
Aċt as ceart-lár ríġṫe ’ġníoḋ dliġṫe ⁊
riaġalta!
Mo ġráḋ-sa an leanḃ nár easguir[1]
i n-éinfeaċt,
Aċt d’ḟás seaċd dtroiġṫe go tara le
ċéile;[2]
Mac an ṁarcaiġ do ġreadaḋ na
méirliġ
Ó Léim an Chapaill go M’alla na
méaṫ-ṁart.
Hurá! a Ridire ⁊c.
Sin laċt luinge ’na ṫuille tré ṡliaḃ
ċuġainn
D’ḟíon ḃreaġ ḃorb gan doċal[3] ’n-a
ḋiaiḋ ḋúinn!
Líontar gloine agus fiċe ċum ’Liaim de!
Sláinte an Ridire ċumasaiġ Bhrianaiġ
Hurá! a Ridire ⁊c.
Ní’l fiú leanḃ ná seana-ḃean ċríonda
O Bhunraite go Mainistir Ínse
Naċ ḃfuil ag preabaḋ ċum baluiṫe
an ḟíona,
A’s é tá ċaiṫeaṁ ag maiṫiḃ na tíre!
Hurá! a Ridire ⁊c.
