Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

A h-uiscidhe chroidhe HA 11 - A 41 M A 41 11.

A h-uiridhe chroídhe na n-ánm«nn,
Leázánn tú a̸ir lír me,
bídhim gán chéill gán Kithne,

'Y é an t-eachránn do b'fhea̸rr liom ; bidheann mo chótá stráca̸idhthe,

Agus chilim lekt mo chárábhát,
A's bíodh an-deárnáis máithmhe leat,
Acht teangmhaidh liom A márách.

An wiúir éisdfidh tufa̸ An t-Kithfrionn,
A's bheidh do shúilm ráidhte,

Déin-si ionad-coinze liom,

A's teángmhaidh liom A d-tigh An tKbháirine ;

Har a bh-feicir cáirt K's cnázáire,

A's coc Ad-tóin an bhárráile,
A's bíodh An íár Anáice leát,
A's romhat-sa cuirfea̸d fáilte.

[ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

The Bard addresses Whiskey.

Why, liquor of life! do I love you so,
When in all our encounters you lay me low?
More stupid and senseless I every day grow,

What a hint-If I'd mend by the warning!
Tattered and torn you've left my coat,
I've not a cravat—to save my throat,
Yet I pardon you all, my sparkling doat !

If you'll cheer me again in the morning.

Whiskey replies.

When you've heard prayers on Sunday next,
With a sermon beside, or at least—the text,
Come down to the alehouse-however you're vexed,

And though thousands of cares assault you:
You'll find tippling there—till morals mend,
A cock shall be placed in the barrel's end,
The jar shall be near you, and I'll be your friend,

And give you a “ Kead mille faulte !"

Och! mo stór Agus mo chárá tú,

Mo shiúr Agus mo bhrátháir,

Mo chúirt, mo thigh, mo thálámh tú,
Mo chruach Agus mo stácu̸,

Mo threabhadh, mo chéuchd, mo chápáill tú,
Mo bha 's mo cháoíre geala tú,
A's thár zách nídh d'a̸r Krimnígheús
Do chongbhaidh me-si Páirt leát.

'YA mhuirnín mhuinte, mhásgalaich,
Is táithneámhách do Phóg liom,
K diúltuigh fós do’m chárthánnacht,
Al's zur de'n chineadh chóir me :
leanán-fighe leím Zin K's Rum,

Brátháir gKoíl dámh bra̸én de'n t-sult,
Is cáirdea̸s-críost dámh boul of Punch,
A's tea̸ngmhaidh liom d'á thópuídheacht.

Is iomdhá brúighin <'s ea̸chránn

Bhídh cádráinn le ráithe,

Acht ní phánánn brón Am Kigne,

'-uáir líontár chúcúm áir clár tú:

The Bard resumes his address.

You're my soul, and my treasure, without and within,
My sister and cousin, and all my kin;
'Tis unlucky to wed such a prodigal sin,-

But all other enjoyment is vain, love !
My barley-ricks all turn to you, -
My tillage-my plough—and my horses too,-
My cows and my sheep they have—bid me adieu,

I care not while you remain, love !

Come, vein ’of my heart! then come in haste,
You're like Ambrosia, my liquor and feast,
My forefathers all had the very same taste

For the genuine dew of the mountain.
Oh, Usquebaugh !-I love its kiss !-
My guardian spirit 'I think it is,
Had my christening bowl been filled with this,

I'd have swallowed it—were it a fountain.

Many's the quarrel and fight we've had,
And many a time you made me mad,
But while I've a heart-it can never be sad,

When you smile at me full on the table:

Mo bhean <gus mo leanbh tu,

Mo mháthair Kgus m'athair tu, Mo chótá-mór 's mo Mapper tu,

Y ní rgárnikidh mé go bráth lent.

[ocr errors][merged small]

leann K's branndk, K's uisce-beátha,

Acht nach d-tagann an cláraéitt liom ;

bronnKim rúd do'n n-Eagluis,

Már is mór mo dhúil 'r «'m-beánduightheacht, 'Y gur mhaith leó bráén do bhlkiseadh dhe,

D'éis Kithfrinn do léughadh dhúinn.

« AnteriorContinuar »