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Ábhar i nGaeilge Saothar Ealaíne

Bile a Thit

Dán le Máirtín Ó Direáin

Ómós do Mháirtín Ó Cadhain, as Máirtín Ó Direáin: Dánta 1939–1979.

Fuil na bua a théachtaigh
Is bile ár gcleacht a thit:
Tásc na tubaiste fuaire
A rinne oighear den mheidhir sna fir.

Ba feannta an uair í,
Ba chaillte an mhaidin,
Ar leagadh san uaigh tú,
Is cé nach í cré do mhuintire
A dáileadh síos leat
Ní miste an cumasc duitse
A ghlac Éire uile
Le páirt di is tairise di.

Mallmhuir ní luaifear leat
Ná Go brách lagtrá:
Ba rabharta uile a théadh thar maoil
Do bhruth is do chumas;
Ach is olc a théann an rabharta
Ar an mallmhuir dúinne.

Le fíoch ba mhinic a d’fhiuchais:
Truabhail do chleacht
A líon do racht gur scaoil.

Mura ndeachaigh namhaid ná cara féin slán
Ó aghaidh do chraois
Maitear gach ní do rí an fhocail;
Maithfear duitse mar sin
I do rí gan fhreasúra a chuais go Cill.

Ach ní tú a thit ann:
Meirge Mhurchú a thit arís;
Cionn tSáile eile a briseadh orainn,
Eachroim an Áir is Scairbhsholais.

Saothar ealaíne le Seán Ó Flaithearta

As an mbailiúchán Go bhfeicfidh tú dán.

Tá Iontaobhas Uí Chadhain an-bhuíoch do Chló Iar-Chonnachta as ucht a chead an dán seo a fhoilsiú, agus do Sheán Ó Flaithearta as ucht cead an pictiúr a fhoilsiú ina theannta.

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Material in English Saothar Ealaíne

Máirtín Ó Cadhain (a Poem)

A Poem by John Montague. From the collection Patriotic Suite.

The tribes merged into the hills,
The ultimate rocks where seals converse.
There they supped rain-water, ate sparse
Berries and (grouped around pale fires
At evening) comforted themselves
With runics of verse.

The nation forgot them until
There was a revolution. Then soldiers
Clambered the slopes, saluting
In friendliness: Come down!
You are the last pride of our race,
Herdsmen aristocrats, who have kept the faith.

As they strayed through the vertical cities
Everyone admired their blue eyes, open smiles
(Vowels, like flowers, caught in the teeth)
The nervous majesty of their gait:
To the boredom of pavements they brought
The forgotten grace of the beast.

Soon townspeople tired of them,
Begin to deride their smell, their speech.
Some returned. Others stayed behind,
Accommodating themselves to a new language.
In either case, they may be dying out.
A tragedy anticipated in the next government report.

Iontaobhas Uí Chadhain is very grateful to Elizabeth Wassell for permission to publish this poem here.