A h-uiscidhe chroidhe HA

41 - A 41 M A 11 11.

11

2 h-uiridhe chroídhe na n-ánmánn,

leázánn tú Kir lár me,

bídhim zan chéill gán Kithne,

'Y é an t-eachránn do b'fhea̸rr liom ;

bídheann mo chótá stráca̸idhthe,

Agus chilim lekt mo charabhát,

A's bíodh A n-deárnáis máithmhe leát,
Acht teangmhaidh liom á márách.

An uigir éisdfidh tusá An t-Kithfrionn,
A's bheidh do shúilm ráidhte,

déin-ri 10nad-coinze liom,

A's teángmháidh liom A d-tigh an tKbháirine ;

Har a bh-feicir cáirt K's cnázáire,

A's coc A d-tóin An bhárra̸ile,

A's bíodh An íár Anáice leát,

A's rómhát-sa cuirfead fáilte.

1404

WHY, LIQUOR OF LIFE!1

TRANSLATED BY JOHN D'ALTON, ESQ.

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 cha̸rá tú,

Mo shiúr Agus mo bhrátháir,

Mo chúirt, mo thigh, mo thálámh tú,

Mo chruach Agus mo stách,

Mo threabhadh, mo chéuchd, mo chápáill tú, Mo bha 'r mo cháoíre geálá tú,

A's thár zách nídh d'a̸r Krimnízheás do chongbháidh me-si Páirt leát.

'YA mhuirnín mhuinte, mhásgálaich,
Is taithneámhách do Phóg liom,

HK diúltuigh fós do’m chárthánn<cht,
A's zur de'n chineádh chóir me :
Leanán-righe leám Zin <'s rum,

Brátháir gáoíl dámh bra̸én de'n t-sult,

Is cáirdea̸s-críost dámh boul of Punch,

A's teangmhaidh liom d' thópuídheacht.

Is iomdhá brúíghin K's ea̸chránin

bhídh cádráinn le ráithe,

Acht ní fhánánn brón Km Kigne,

'-uáir líontár chúcám Air c1⁄4μ 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!

2

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 Agus mo leanbh tu,

Mo mháthair agus m’KthKir tu, Mo chócá-món 's mo rapper tu,

'S ní 13árrfa̸idh mé go bráth leat.

Túid ná gáolta is feárra̸ Agám

Dá bh-fuil A d-talamh Eirea̸n,

LeAnn A's branndA, A's uisce-beatha,

Acht nach d-tágánn án cláráéitt liom ;

Bronnáim súd do'n n-Ea̸zluis,

Már is mór mo dhúil 's a' m-bea̸nduightheKcht,

'S gur mhaith leó bra̸én do bhlaiseadh dhe,

D' éis Kithfrinn do leughadh dhúinn.