Is Fada Liom Oíche Fhírfhliuch

Aogán O’Rathaille (c. 1675-1729)

Is fada liom oíche fhírfhliuch gan suan, gan srann,

gan ceathra, gan maoin caoire ná buaibh na mbeann;

anfa ar toinn taoibh liom do bhuair mo cheann,

’s nár chleachtas im naíon fiogaigh ná ruacain abhann.

Dá maireadh an rí díonmhar ó bhruach na Leamhan

’s an ghasra do bhí ag roinn leis lér thrua mo chall

i gceannas na grcíoch gcaoin gcluthar gcuanach gcam,

go dealbh i dtír Dhuibhneach níor bhuan mo chlann.

An Carathach groí fíochmhar lér fuadh an mheang

is Carathach Laoi i ndaoirse gan fuascladh fann;

Carathach, rí Chinn Toirc, in uaigh ’s a chlann,

’s is atuirse trim chroí gan a dtuairisc ann.

Do shearg mo chroí im chlíteach, do bhuair mo leann,

na seabhaic nár fríth cinnte, agár dhual an eang

ó Chaiseal go Toinn Chlíona ’s go Tuamhain thall,

a mbailte ’s a dtír díthchreachta ag sluaghaibh Gall.

A thonnsa thíos is airde géim go hard,

meabhair mo chinnse cloíte ód bhéiceach tá;

cabhair dá dtíodh arís ar Éirinn bhán,

do ghlam nach binn do dhingfinn féin id bhráid.

The Drenching Night Drags On

Translated by Thomas Kinsella

The drenching night drags on: no sleep or snore,

no stock, no wealth of sheep, no horned cows.

This storm on the waves nearby has harrowed my head

—I who ate no winkles or dogfish in my youth!

If that guardian King from the bank of Leamhan lived on,

with all who shared his fate (and would pity my plight)

to rule that soft, snug region, bayed and harboured,

my people would not stay poor in Duibhne country.

Great Carthy, fierce and fine, who loathed deceit;

with Carthy of the Laoi, in yoke unyielding, faint;

and Carthy King of Ceann Toirc with his children, buried;

it is bitterness through my heart they have left no trace.

My heart has dried in my ribs, my humours soured,

that those never-niggardly lords, whose holdings ranged

from Caiseal to Clíona’s Wave and out to Thomond,

are savaged by alien hordes in land and townland.

You wave down there, lifting your loudest roar,

the wits in my head are worsted by your wails.

If help ever came to lovely Ireland again

I’d wedge your ugly howling down your throat!