Maireann an t-Seanmhuintir The Old Live On
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Maireann an t-Seanmhuintir The Old Live On
Thaithin leo an t-éadan ard ar mhnaoi –
Faisean an ghlibe ar bhaineannach ní bhfuair cion –
Agus scaradh leathan na súl
Agus an séanas mealltach chun tosaigh sa chár gléigeal:
Canóin na háilleachta ’ceapadh roimh theacht do Chríost …
Agus shamhlaíos dom féin go mbreacfainn a dtuairisc,
Mar, nuair nach ann dár nglúin-ne,
Cé bhlaisfidh a séimhe siúd ’bhéascna?		 They liked a high forehead on a woman –
The fashion for fringes on females was not prized –
And the broad separation of the eyes,
And the charming gap between the very white front teeth:
The canon of beauty laid down before the coming of Christ
And I thought I would jot down their tidings,
For, when our generation is no more,
Who will taste the gentleness of their conventions?

Tharla mé ag múineadh scoile thiar ag an am san,
Agus ansan ar an mbinse leanbh mar lile:
Coimheascar na rós ar a leacain
Is a cúl dob’ órbhuí,
Gorm a rosca agus mall,
Caoincheart a braoithe,
Agus a béilin úr mar shú na gcraobh insa Mheitheamh.
Aon bhliain déag do chláraigh
Is splanc ní raibh ina cloigeann,
Ná í in aon chor ’na thinneas,
Ba leor bheith ann is bheith amhlaidh.
I happened to be teaching school at that time in the West,
And there on the bench [sat] a child like a lily,
A conflict of roses on her cheeks
And her head of hair golden-yellow,
Her eyes blue and slow-moving,
Her brows precisely drawn,
And her small fresh mouth like raspberries in June.
She registered eleven years
And there wasn’t a spark of sense in her head,
Nor was she at all worried by that,
It was enough to be there and be thus.


Tháinig an focal ‘bé’ i dtreis le linn teagaisc;
‘Sin focal ná beidh agaibh,’ do ráidh an mháistreás leo.
Phreab an lámh bheag in airde:
‘Thá sé agamsa’…
Íoróin throm an mhúinteora scaoileas den éill léi:
‘Inis má sea don rang é, a Treas, a’ stór do chuid eolais.’
Dána is teann as a gleoiteacht do raid sí an freagra:
‘Bean gan aon éadach uirthi!’…
Do gháir Eoghan Rua.


The word for ‘muse’ cropped up during teaching;
‘That is a word you won’t know,’ the mistress declared to them.
The little hand shot up:
‘I know it . . .’
I unleashed the teacher’s heavy irony at her:
‘Tell it then to the class, Teresa, from the store of your knowledge.’
Bold and confident in her loveliness, she shot back the answer:
‘A woman with no clothes on!’ . . .
Eoghan Rua laughed.

 
   

Máire Mhac an t-Saoi
b.1922

Ealaíontóir/Artist:
Peannaire/Calligrapher:
Aistritheoir/Translator:
Ainmníodh ag/Nominator:		 Patricia Looby
Frances Breen
The Author
The Author

 

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