Í Breasail, nó Beag-Árann (1857)

Tomás Ua Baíghell, composed in South Gloucester, Ontario

This poem talks about a mythical island called Hy-Brasil. It's a magical place off the coast of Ireland. According to the story, an eternal high king named Breasail lived there. But the island was hidden by thick mist, and people could only see it once every seven years when Breasail held court. Even on that special day, regular people couldn't go there because it was like a paradise, and only special beings could visit this incredible island.

Is bímse tnútháil le só na gréine,

Á ghabhas siar tharam go beag-Árainn;

Is leanann m’aigne na sluaite Féinne,

Go haoibhinn, saor, sámh, atá san áit sin!

Is ansin uraíonn i dtoibreacha,

Faoi charn gach oíche, an ghrian a ghaetha; -

Is ann a chónaíonn, go hóg is choíche,

Na Gaeil, mar deirtear, gan bhrón, gan sacadh!

And I envy the ease of the sun,

Passing back over me to little Aran,

And my mind follows the host of Fenians,

Beautifully free at ease in that place there!

And there in wellsprings eclipses,

Under a cairn each night, the sun their spears; -

There lives, young forever,

The Gaels, as is said, without sorrow, without burden!

Tá togha gach bídh ann, is rogha gach dí ann,

Ní bhíonn ann críonna ná taom na haoise!

Is suairc gach saoi ann, is fial gach croí ann,

Is áilíos dán agus aos gach gaoise!

A gleannta ‘s scáfaire, a cluinte ‘s cumhra,

A srutháin álainn, is fionnúar, foghrach;

‘S a coillte crágach caoin, síoraí-úra,

Le ceiliúr éanlaith’ breá binn, allabhrach!

There is the choice of every food, and every drink there,

No greyness or attack of old age there!

Every wise person is merry, every heart is generous,

There is a desire for arts and folk of every widsom

Its most shadowy glens, its most fragrant fields,

Its beautiful streams, coolest, resounding;

And its branched delicate forests, ever-green,

With the songs of birds, beautifully sweet, evocative!

An uair a théarnaíonn an samhradh aoibhinn,

An uair a feoitear gach bláth ba mhilse,

An uair a sostaíonn na ceolta síbhinn,

Is críontar óige ’gus cáirde dílse,

Nach mbíonn ár n-intinn uainn siar ag éaló,

Go Tír na hÓige úd, mar deir na scéalta, -

In ucht na bóchna, faoi dhraíocht, is néalcheo,

A chumhdaíonn dúinne, go buan, ár ngaolta!

The time that the beautiful summer comes to an end,

The time that each of the most beautiful flowers wither,

The time that ceases the beautiful fairy-like music,

And youth and loyal friends grey,

Doesn’t our mind escape from us back,

To that land of youth, as the stories say, -

In the breast of the ocean, magical, and a cloud of mist,

Which provides for us, forever, our relations!

For citation, please use: Ua Baíghell, Tomás. 1857. “Í Breasail, nó Beag-Árann.” Ó Dubhghaill, Dónall. 2024. Na Gaeil san Áit Ró-Fhuar. Gaeltacht an Oileáin Úir: www.gaeilge.ca

Adapted from: The Irish American. 1857 (10 Oct). New York: Lynch, Cole & Co. See the original here.