Seán O'Duibhir a' Ghleanna
(John O'Dwyer of the Glen)

As Gaeilge
(Original in Irish)

Translation
George Sigerson

Translated version
Thomas Furlong

Ar m'éirighe dhom ar maidin,

Grian a' tsamhraidh 'g taitneamh

Chuala 'n uaill dá casadh,

'Gus ceol binn na n-éan;

Bruic is míolta gearra,

Creabhair na ngob fada

Fuaim ag a' macalla

'Gus lamhach gunnaí tréan

An sionnach rua ar a' gcarraig

Míle liú ag marcaigh

Is bean go dúch sa' mbealach

Ag áireamh a cuid gé.

Anois tá 'n choill dá gearra

Triallfaimíd thar caladh

'S a Sheáin Ó Dhuibhir a' Ghleanna

Chaill tú do chéim!

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Is é sin m'uaigneas fada

Scáth mo chluais dá ghearradh

An gaoth aduaidh ag leathadh

'Gus bás ins an aer.

Mo ghadhairín suairc dá cheangal

Gan chead liú ná aisdíocht

Do bhainfeadh gruaim den leanbh

I méan ghil an lae.

'Sé rí na h-uaisle 'r an gcarraig

An céafrach buachach, beannach,

Do thiocfadh suas ar aiteann

Go lá deire 'n tsaoil;

'S dá bhfaghainn-se suaimhneas tamall

ó dhaoinimh uaisle 'n bhaile

Do thriallfainn féin ar Ghaillimh

Agus d'fhágfainn an scléip.

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Táid fearann ghleanna 'n tsrotha

Gan ceann ná teann ar lochtaibh

I sráid na gcuach ní molfar

A sláinte ná a saol;

Mo loma 'luain gan fosga

Ó Chluain go Stuaic na gcolum,

'S an gearrfhia ar bhruac an Rosa

Ar fán le n-a ré.

Créad í an ruaig so ar thoraibh,

Buala buan a mbona?

An smóilín binn 's an londubh

Gan sár-ghuth ar ghéig;

'S gur mór an tuar chun cogaidh

Cléire go buartha 's pobail,

Dáseóla 'gcuantaibh loma

I lár ghleanna 'n tslé

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Is é mo chreach ar maidin

Nach bhfuair mé bás gan pheacadh

Sar a bhfuair mé scannail

Fá mo chuid féin -

'S a liacht lá breá fada

Thig úla cumhra 'r crannaibh

Duilliúr ar an dair

Agus drúcht ar an bhféar.

'Nois táim-se ruaighthe óm fhearann

I n-uaigneaas 'bhfad óm charaid

Im luí go duairc faoi sgairtibh

'S i gcuasaibh am tslé;

'S muna bhfagha mé suaineas feasta

Ó dhaoinibh uaisle 'n bhaile

Tréigfidh mé mo shealbh

Agus fágfad an saol.

Oft at pleasant morning,

Sunshine all adorning,

I've heard the horn give warning,

With birds' mellow call:

Badgers flee before us,

Woodcocks startle o'er us,

Guns make ringing chorus

Mid the echoes all;

The fox run high and higher

Horsemen shouting nigher,

The maiden mourning by her

Fowl he left in gore.

Now, they fell the wild-wood,

Farewell, home of childhood,

Ah, Seán Ó Duibhir a' Ghleanna,

Thy day is o'er!

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It is my sorrow sorest

Woe - the falling forest!

The north wind gives me no rest

And death's in the sky:

My faithful hound's tied tightly,

Never sporting brightly,

Who'd make a child laugh lightly,

With tears in my eye.

The antlered, nobel-hearted

Stags are never started,

Never chased nor parted

From the furzy hills.

If peace came, but a small way,

I'd journey down on Galway

And leave, though not for always,

My Erin of ills.

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The land of streamy valleys

Hath no head nor rallies,

In city, camp or palace

They never toast her name.

Alas, no warrior column

From Cloyne to peaks of Colum

O'er wasted fields and solemn

The shy hares grow tame.

Oh, when shall come the routing,

The flight of churls and flouting?

We hear no joyeous shouting

From the blackbird brave:

More warlike is the omen,

Justice comes to no men,

Priests must flee the foemen

To the mountain cave.

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It is my woe and ruin

That sinless death's undoing

Cane not ere the strewing

Of all my bright hopes.

How oft, at sunny morning,

I've watched the spring returning,

The autumn apples burning,

And dew on woodland slopes!

Now my lands are plunder,

Far my friends asunder,

I must hide me under

Branch and bramble screen;

If soon I cannot save me

By flight from foes who crave me,

O Death, at last I'll brave thee

My bitter foes between!

Blithe the bright dawn found me,

Rest with strength had crown'd me,

Sweet the birds sung round me,

Sport was all their toil.

The horn its clang was keeping,

Forth the fox was creeping,

Round each dame stood weeping,

O'er that prowler's spoil.

Hark, the foe is calling

Fast the woods are falling,

Scenes and sights appalling

Mark the wasted soil.

War and Confiscation

Curse the fallen nation;

Gloom and desolation

Shade the lost land o'er.

Chill the winds are blowing,

Death aloft is going;

Peace or hope seems growing

For our race no more.

Hark the foe is calling,

Fast the woods are falling,

Scenes and sights appalling

Throng our blood-stained shore.

Where's my goat to cheer me?

Now it plays not near me;

Friends no more can hear me;

Strangers round me stand.

Nobles once high-hearted,

From their homes have parted,

Scatter'd, scar'd, and started

By a base-born band.

Hark the foe is calling,

Fast the woods are falling,

Scenes and sights appalling

Thicken round the land.

Oh! That death had found me

And in darkness bound me,

Ere each object round me

Grew so sweet, so dear.

Spots that once were cheering,

Girls beloved endearing,

Friends from whom I'm steering,

Take this parting tear.

Hark, the foe is calling,

Fast the woods are falling;

Scenes and sights appalling

Plague and haunt me here.