Soraidh slán don oidhche a-réir,
fada géar a dul ar gcúl;
dá ndáiltí mo chur i gcroich,
is truagh nach í a-nocht a tús.
Atáid dias is tigh-se a-nocht
ar nách ceileann rosg a rún;
gion go bhfuilid béal ri béal,
is géar géar silleadh a súl.
Tocht an ní chuireas an chiall
ar shilleadh siubhlach na súl.
Cá feirrde an tocht do-ní an béal
sgéal do-ní an rosg ar a rún?
Uch, ni léigid lucht na mbréag
smid tar mo bhéal, a rosg mhall;
tuig an ní-se adeir mo shúil,
agus tú insan chúil úd thall.
‘Cuinnibh dhúinn an oidhche a-nocht,
truagh gan sinn mar so go brách;
ná léig an mhaidean is-teach,
éirigh ’s cuir a-mach an lá!’
Uch, a Mhuire, a bhuime sheang,
ós tú is ceann ar gach cléir,
tárthaigh agus gabh mo lámh –
soraidh slán don oidhche a-réir! |
Farewell forever to last night,
the memory of it will be piercing and long-lasting;
though it were ordained that I should be hung,
it is a pity that it does not begin again tonight.
There are two in this house tonight
from whom the eye does not hide their secret;
though they are not lip to lip,
keen, keen is the glancing of their eyes.
Silence is the thing that puts meaning
into the fervent glancing of the eyes.
How is the silence that the mouths make
the better than the tale the eyes tell of their secret?
Alas, the people who carry lies do not allow
a single syllable to pass my lips, o languid eye,
understand this that my eye says
and you in yonder corner.
‘Hoard up for us this night,
it is sad that we are not thus forever;
do not let the morning in,
rise up and drive out the day!’
Ah, Mary, lithe foster-mother,
since you are at the head of all poet-bands,
go near and take my hand –
farewell forever to last night. |
