File Mise ag Iarraidh Grás’ (1945)

Pádraig Ó Broin, composed in Toronto, Ontario

I read in my copy of the ‘[17th c.] Book of the Ó Broin’s,’

‘God be with you, Gaelic warriors!’

I remember them, oh Fitzpatrick,

Priest of God and hero and writer.

Léim im chóipse de ‘Leabhar Branach,’

‘Dia libh, a laochruidh Gaoidhiol!’

Cuimhním orthu, a Ghiollapádraig,

Sagart Dé is laoch is scríbhneóir.

In cold hills, in dark valleys,

You baptised children, and you interred

The multitude of dead; you fled from Cromwell,

The communion bread in the breast of your shirt.

I gcnocaibh fhuaraibh, i ngleanntaibh dhorchaibh,

Bhaistis linbh, is chuiris faoi chré

An iomad marbh; theithis roimh Chromail,

Arán na Beatha i mbrollach do léine.

‘Under the state’s nose’ - as said Keating -

You did your duty for God, for country;

You offered up the Sacred Mass

You inscribed parchment with line after line.

‘Fá srón an stáit’ - mar aduairt Céitinn -

Dheinis dualgas chun Dé chun tíre;

Thugas suas an tAifreann Naofa,

Bhreacais pár le líne tréis líne.

Oh shepherd of souls, oh lover of poets,

In smoky cabin, in field, in wood,

A moment then and a moment now,

You preserved for me the glory of my people.

A aoire anama, a shearcthóir file,

I mbothán toiteach, i ngort, i gcoill,

Nóimint ansin ‘s nóimint anois,

Leasaís dhomhsa glóir mo chine.

The original book burnt by an English churl,

Or it rotted like those of Fiachadh,

But the poems survive and they will live forever

Since you rewrote them all.

Loiscthe an bunleabhar le bodach gallda,

Nó lobh é mar cheann Fhiachaidh féin,

Ach maireann na dánta ‘s beofaid go bráth

Ó d’athscríobh tusa iad go léir.

You were killed by the deceiving enemy -

Good was your company: Tadhg Mac Dáire,

Dubhaltach Mac Firbisigh, Piaras Feiritéar,

And the new poets of Easter Week.

Marbhthar tusa leis an namhaid bréagach -

Maith do chuideacht: Tadhg Mac Dáire,

Dubhaltach Mac Firbisigh, Piaras Feiritéar,

‘S na filí nua Seachtaine na Cásc’.

I bend a knee at the consecration of the Mass

Announcing my battle on the Saxon English language;

I struck it from my own heart already,

I will strike it from my mind, from my tongue.

Cromaim glúin ar Shacráil an Aifrinn

Ag fógra mo chatha-sa ar Bhéarla Sacsan;

Stróiceas amach é óm chroí-se cheana,

Stróicfead amach é óm intinn, óm theangain.

I destroyed the English books in their hundreds,

I will destroy thousands and thousands still;

And I pray that I will see the dawn

Without a word of that howling noise in the world.

Mhilleas na leabhra gallda ‘na gcéadtaibh,

Millfead a mílte is mílte fós;

‘S guím go bhfeicfead fáinne an lae

Gan focal na glafarnaí úd sa ndomhain.

Until I am a Gaelic poet, my freedom;

In the wintry weather, alone, exiled,

But a branch of the true tree, the tree which bore

The poets of Ireland - and which will bear anew forever.

Go bhfile Gaelach mise, mo shaoráil;

In aimsir gheimhriúil, i m’aonar, im dheora,

Ach craobh an fhíorchrainn, crann a bheireas

Filí d’Éirinn - ‘s a bhéarfaidh go deo.

I rewrite that book to save you

And I remember them, oh Godly person;

I ask them to help me

That I may write well in the language of the Gael.

Athscríobhaim an leabhar úd a shábhail tusa

‘S cuimhním orthu, a dhuine Dé;

Iarraim orthu cabhair chugam

Go scríobhfad go maith i dteangain an Ghaeil.

Adapted from: Ó Broin, Pádraig. 1945. “File Mise ag Iarraidh Grás’.” Pádraig Ó Broin (J. Patrick Byrne) Papers. Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library. MS Coll 00247.

For citation, please use: Ó Broin, Pádraig. 1945. “File Mise ag Iarraidh Grás’.” Ó Dubhghaill, Dónall. 2024. Na Gaeil san Áit Ró-Fhuar. Gaeltacht an Oileáin Úir: www.gaeilge.ca