Bean torrach, fa tuar broide,
do bhí i bpríosún pheannaide,
berar dho chead Dé na ndúl,
lé leanabh beag sa bhríosún.
Ar n-a bhreith do bhí an macámh
ag fás mar gach bhfochlocán,
dá fhiadhnaibh mar budh each dhún,
seal do bhliadhnaibh sa bhríosun.
An inghean d’fhagháil bhroise -
meanma an leinbh níor lughaide,
sí dhá réir gé dho bhaoi i mbroid,
mar mhnaoi gan phéin gan pheannaid.
Do shoillse an laoi níor léir dhóibh
acht a bhfaicdís – fáth dobróin! –
do dhruim iodhan an achaidh
tré ionadh thuill tarathair.
Mun n-orchra níorbh ionann dál
dá mháthair is don mhacámh;
do aithrigh dealbh dá dreich gil
is an leanbh ag breith bhisigh.
An leanbh dá oileamhain ann
dob fheirrde aige an fhulang,
níor léir don bharrthais óg úr
nárbh fhód Parrthais an príosún.
Seisean ag breith ruag reabhraidh,
sise ag dul i ndoimheanmain;
mairg, thrá, nach tiobhradh dá aoidh
ionnramh na mná ’sa macaoimh. |
A pregnant woman (sorrow’s sign)
once there was, in painful prison.
The God of Elements let her bear
in prison there a little child.
The little boy, when he was born,
grew up like any other child
(plain as we could see him there)
for a space of years, in prison.
That the woman was a prisoner
did not lower the baby’s spirits.
She minded him, though in prison,
like one without punishment or pain.
Nothing of the light of day
(O misery!) could they see
but the bright ridge of a field
through a hole someone had made.
Yet the loss was not the same
for the son as for the mother:
her fair face failed in form
while the baby gained in health.
The child, raised where he was,
grew better by his bondage,
not knowing in his fresh frail limbs
but prison was ground of Paradise.
He made little playful runs
while her spirits only deepened.
(Mark well, lest you regret,
these deeds of son and mother.) |
