Fuinseog trí thine
gruaig do chinn
ag mealladh fuiseoige
le do ghlór binn
i bhféar glas,
is scata nóiníní
ag súgradh leat
is scata coiníní
ag damhsa leat
an lon dubh
is a órghob
mar sheoid leat
lasair choille
is a binneas
mar cheol leat.
Is cumhrach tusa,
is mil, is sú talún:
ceapann an beach féin
gur bláth sa pháirc thú.
A bhanríon óg thír na leabhar,
go raibh tú mar seo go deo
go raibh tú saor i gcónaí
ó shiabhra an bhróin.
Seo mo bheannacht ort, a chailín,
is is tábhachtach mar bheannú é
go raibh áilleacht anama do mháthar
leat is áilleacht a gné. |
An ashtree on fire
the hair of your head
coaxing larks
with your sweet voice
in the green grass,
a crowd of daisies
playing with you
a crowd of rabbits
dancing with you
the blackbird
with its gold bill
is a jewel for you
the goldfinch
with its sweetness
is your music.
You are perfume,
you are honey,
a wild strawberry:
even the bees think you
a flower in the field.
Little queen of the land of books,
may you always be thus
may you ever be free
from sorrow-chains.
Here’s my blessing for you, girl,
and it is no petty grace –
may you have the beauty of your mother’s soul
and the beauty of her face. |
