Transcript

Cé bhfaighidh muid tréadaí mar cheann ár gcreidimh?
Ach faraor géar níl sé dúinní i ndán;
Níl sé in Éirinn, i bhFrainc ná in Éijipt
Ná thart le chéilí sa nGearmáin.
Tharlaigh imithe é agus nach bhfuil gar dhá éagaoin,
Go bhfuil sé éagthaí i gcónra chláir;
Mo mhíle beannacht leis go ríocht an Aonmhic,
Le bheith ina ard-réalta (romh) chlainne Gael.

Nuair a scaip an scéala ar feadh na hÉirinn,
Tháinig cuma uaiféalta ar an sean is an t-óg;
Stop na sruthannaí[1] , thosaigh gach barr ag pléascadh
Le bruth[2] ró-éigéillí agus tonn ró-mhór.
Tháinig crith agus eagla ar na réaltaí,
Agus stop na héanachaí dhá bheith ag seinm cheoil;
Nach aoibhinn a áras i ngairdín pharthas,
Ar dheasláimh an Aird-Rí gach lá agus oích'.

Ba daingean í a fhoghlaim i dteangaidh Ghaeilge
Scríobhadh Gréigis le barr a phinn,
Laidin, an Fhraincis, gach údar Bhéarla,
Agus cé bhfaighfeá aon neach bhí (leath) chomh grinn?
Chuireadh scéala ar anró na hÉirinn
Ó d'éireodh grian go dtí dul faoi;
Nach stuama céiliúil John Bull a léighfeadh
Ar éagóir gach créatúir in Oileán na Naomh.

Gurb éard dúirt an tseanlaoch dho chomhrá cráití,
"Céard a dhéanfas sinn amáireach dho dhíobháil cíos?
Tiocfaidh an sirriam agus a chomplacht láidir,
Maorthaí is báillí, gan pínn le n-íoc.
D'fhreagair an seanfhear í dho bhriathraí cráití,
"Dhá mairfeadh an tAthair Páraic bheadh againn fuíoll,
Ní ligfeadh ár gcairde dho bharr na bpáistí
Gan fios cén t-ábhar le cúrsaí an dlí."

Translation

Where will we find a shepherd to lead our faith?
Alas, he is not in store for us;
He is not in Ireland, in France or in Egypt
Nor anywhere in Germany.
He is gone and there is no use lamenting him,
He is dead in a wooden coffin;
My blessings go with him to the kingdom of the Only Son,
To be a high-star for(?) the Gaels.

When the story spread across Ireland,
A terrible look came over old and young;
The streams came to a stop, every summit began to explode
The surf was wild and and the waves were huge.
The stars were shaken and frightened,
And the birds stopped making music.
How beautiful his abode in the garden of paradise,
At the right hand of the High-King every day and night.

Sound was his learning in the Irish Language
He used to write Greek with the top of his pen,
Latin, French, every English-language author,
And where would you find one who was half(?) as perceptive?
He used to recount the hardship of Ireland
From when the sun would rise until it set;
How sensibly and wise would John Bull discuss (?)
The injustices done to (?) every creature in the Island of Saints.

The old woman(?) said in tormented words,
"What will we do tomorrow without the rent?
The sheriff will come with his strong company,
Wardens and bailiffs without a penny to pay.
The old man answered her with tormented words,
"If Father Patrick lived we would have plenty,
He would not allow our friends, because of the children, (?)
To be without knowing the ways of the law (?)."

Footnotes

Commentary

A six-verse version of this song was published in Colm Ó Gaora (pseud. 'An Gruagach Bán), Sídheog na rann: seanamhráin Ghaedhilge ó chúige Chonnacht (Dublin, 1911), 23-5. Ó Gaora notes (p. 26-7) that he collected the song from one Máirtín Ó Calghaile of Gaoth Sáile (Gweesalia), county Mayo. He also notes that Ó Calghaile composed the lament for a kind priest who had lived in the area. He is probably to be identified as Rev. Patrick J. Malone (1820-72), to whom a chapter is devoted in Brendan Hoban's Trouble and strife: fifty Killala priests 1600-2000 (Ballina, 2012).