An Deoraí as Éirinn (1857)

Tomás Ua Baíghell, composed in South Gloucester, Ontario

Faoin ár gcuan tháinig deoraí bocht, brónach as Éirinn,

Ba trom earraí éadrom le drúcht fras, fuar;

As a chroí bhain a dhúchas an t-osna ba ghéar rinn,

Faoi lomchruach go haonrach, mar ghluais i moch-uair:

Ach thug réaltóg an lae, óna shúilibh sruth deorach,

Ar a fháil na bóchna, mar d’éirigh go treorach.

In ar ghnáth leis in óige go suairc, milis, glórach,

Bheith gabháil fhuinn, go saorbhinn, ar Éirinn go Bráth.

To our harbour, a poor, sad exile came from Ireland,

The meager goods were heavy with sprinkling, cold dew;

From his heart his heritage brought the sharpest sigh to us,

About the bare lonely hill, as he moved in the early hour:

But the morning star brought, from his eyes, a tearful stream,

Upon taking to the ocean, as it rose strongly.

In which is was usual for him in youth, cheerfully, sweetly, sonorously,

To be singing a song, freely sweet, about Ireland forever.

Nach crua, bhúir an deoraí go cráite, mo ghluaiseacht,

Faoi choillte tá foscadh ag faol is ag fia!

Ach táimse gan dídean ó ghorta ‘na ghuasacht,

Níl áras ná dúchas i ndan dom níos sia!

Faraor! faoina cluainte glaschraobhach, tiugh-scáfar,

Sean-áras mo shinsir, ní chónód go bámhar,

Ag gléas mo caoinchláirsí, le cumhracht bhog bhláfar,

‘Na seoladh a téadracha ar Éirinn go Bráth!

Isn’t it harsh, bellowed the exile bitterly, my journey,

In the woods where are the shadowy forms of wolves and deer!

But I am without shelter from famine in its horrors,

There is no home or native land destined for me any longer!

Alas! About the green-branched meadows, thick and dreadful,

The old home of my ancestors, I will not reside in comfort,

Playing my gentle harp, with soft, flowing fragrance,

Its strings calling out to Ireland forever!

Is cá bhfuil anois, mo bhothán a bhíodh luibh coille craobhaí

Mo shiúir nó mo mhuintir, ag caoineadh faoi lár?

Nó cá bhfuil fós, an mháthair, tús m’óige ghrá shaobhaigh

Nó a croí cumann dílis, ab ansa ’s ab fhearr,

Och! maothsacht mo chroí s’ ar am báis bheidh go brách,

Cad fáth ar chuir ró-dhóchas in ionnúis so-mhaiteach

‘Nois na deora ag síleadh go buan, go síorcheathach,

Aon aoibhneas mar bhlais tráth, ní fhillfidh go deo!

And where is now my hut with the herbs of the branched forest,

My sister or my people, crying on the ground?

Or where yet, the mother, start of my loving, foolish youth

Or her loyal, friendly heart, most loved and best,

Oh! tenderness of my heart and at the time of my death it will be forever,

Why was too much hope put into easily had resources

Now the tears are permeanently falling, eternally showering,

Any happiness you had, it will never return.

Is Ógh-Éire, a Chuisle! Cé táim tuirseach léanmhar,

In aislingibh bhéarfaidh mé cuairt ort gach tráth;

Ach mo chrá géar! I dtír alla m’éirí go faonmhar

Gan súil le mo chaomhcharaid fheiceadh! go bráth!

Och ! brón ort, a chrua-Dháil, a seolfar go deo mé,

Go háit a mbíodh suaimhneas, ‘s nach mbuairfear le gleo

Mo léan géar! ní fháilteoidh mo bhráithre níos mó mé!

Is cloíte i mo dháil iad, nó ’s fann faoi bithbhrón!

And Holy Ireland, my heartbeat! Though I am weary and grieved,

In dream-visions I will visit you every chance

But my bitter torment! In this wild land I am becoming weak

Without hope of seeing my gentle friends! Forever!

Oh! You are saddened, oh harsh judgment, that I will be sent away forever

To a peaceful place, where strife will not grieve

My bitter anguish! My brothers will no longer welcome me!

They are oppressed along with me, or wandering under perpetual sorrow

But still above all thoughts that perpetually go through my mind,

The one loyal thing demands the devotion of my heart

May you be prosperous, Ireland! And strong for my people!

Oh native land of my own ancestors, Ireland forever!

Cold, astray, in the clay will I be when defeated,

Oh fresh jewel of the waves! May your plains be ever green!

And your harps resoundingly beautiful, recounting your wise men!

Holy Ireland, my heartbeat! One-hundred farewells forever!

Ach fós thar gach smaoiniú a shíorghabhas m’aigne,

Aon dílbhua amháin iarrann dúracht mo ghrá

Go mba séanmhar tú, Éire! ’gus tréanmhar do m’aicne!

A dhúchais mo shinsirse, Éire go bráth!

Go fuar, fann, i gcré nuair a bheas mé cloíte,

A sheoid úr na dtonn! go mba síorghlas do mháighte!

Is do chláirsigh go lánbhinn, ag seoladh do shaoite!

Ógh-Éire, a Chuisle! céad slán leat go bráth!

For citation, please use: Ua Baíghell, Tomás. 1857. “An Deoraí as Éirinn.” Ó Dubhghaill, Dónall. 2024. Na Gaeil san Áit Ró-Fhuar. Gaeltacht an Oileáin Úir: www.gaeilge.ca

Adapted from: The Boston Pilot. 1857 (4 Apr). Boston: Patrick Donohue. See the original here.