Is ó Bhrian @TheOneImage a bhfuir mé an t-eolas faoin mBlag Irish Poetry ar maidin. Fíorbhuíoch as.
File: Antoine Ó Raifteirí nó Antaine Ó Reachtabhra 1779–1835
Máire Ní Eidhin
(Pabhsae Gléigeal Bhaile Uí Lí)
- Ag gabháil ‘un an Aifrinn dom le toil na nGrásta
bhí an lá ag báisteach is d’athraigh gaoth.
Casadh an ainnir dhom ar bhruach Chill Tártain
is thit mé láithreach i ngrá le mnaoi.
2. Labhair mé léi go múinte mánla
is de réir a cáilíocht sea d’fhreagair sí.
Séard a dúirt sí: ‘Raiftearaí, tá m’intinn sásta
ach gluais go lá liom go Baile Uí Lí.’
3. Nuair a fuair mé an tairiscint níor lig mé ar cairde é
ach rinne mé gáire is gheit mo chroí,
Ní raibh le dhuil againn ach trasna páirce
níor thug muid an lá linn ach go tóin an tí.
4. Leag sí anuas bord a raibh gloine is cárt air
is a cúilín fáinneach le m’ais ina suí
‘Séard dúirt sí: ‘Raiftearaí, bí ag ól is céad fáilte
tá an siléar láidir againn i mBaile Uí Lí.’
5. ‘Sí Máire Ní Eidhin an chiúinbhean bhéasach
is deise méin ‘gus is áille gnaoi.
Míle cléireach a dhuil in éineacht
trian a tréathra ní fhéadfadh scríobh.
6. Bhuail sí Deirdre le breáichte is Véineas
dá n-abraínn Héilean ler scriosadh an Traoi.
Seo’d í an chraobh is cé a d’iarrfadh a héileamh
ar an bpabhsae gléigeal ‘tá i mBaile Uí Lí.
7. Nach aoibhinn aerach ar thaobh an tsléibhe
is tú ag féachaint síos uait ar Bhaile Uí Lí.
Ag siúl na ngleannta ag baint cnó is sméara
‘s ceiliúr éan ann mar na ceolta sí.
8. Níl brí sa méid sin dá bhfaigheá léargas
ar bhláth na gcraobh ‘tá lena thaobh.
Níl maith dá shéanadh níos faide ar aon neach,
a spéir na gréine, is tú grá mo chroí.
9. Dá siúlfá Sasana is an Fhrainc thré chéile
an Spáinn an Ghréig is ar ais aríst.
Ó bhruach Loch Gréine go béal Loch Éirne
is ní fheicfeá féirín ar bith mar í.
10. A grua thrí lasadh is a malaí caola
a haghaidh dá réir is a béal tais mín.
Scoth ban Éireann, is as ucht an scéil sin
a thug mé an chraobh duit i mBaile Uí Lí.
11. A réalt an tsolais, is a ghrian bhreá an fhómhair,
a chúilín ómra, a mheall mo chroí
Siúil ar uaigneas liom go ndéanam comhairle
faoi choinne an Domhnaigh cá mbeidh ár suí.
12. Níor mhór liom ceol duit gach aon tráthnóna
puins ar bord is dá n-óltá fíon
Ach a Rí na Glóire, go dtriomaí an bóthar
is go bhfágha mé an t-eolas ar ais aríst.
Leagan as Béarla
(The Most Beautiful Woman in the West)
Aistriúchán le Padraic Fallon
That Sunday, on my oath, the rain was a heavy overcoat
on a poor poet; and when the rain began in fleeces
of water to buck-leap like a goat, I was only a walking
penence reaching Kiltartan.
and there so suddenly that my cold spine broke out
on the arch of my back in a rainbow;
this woman surged out of the day with so much sunlight,
that I was nailed there like a scarecrow.
But I found my tongue and a breath to balance it,
and I said: ‘If I’d bow to you with this hump of rain, I’ll fall
On my collarbone, but luck I’ll chance it’; and after falling bow again
She laughed: Ah! she was gracious, and softly she said to me,
‘For all Your lovely talking I go marketing with an ass, I know him.
I’m no hill-queen, alas, or Ireland, that grass widow, So hurry on,
sweet Raftery, or you’ll keep me late for Mass!’
The parish priest has blamed me for missing second Mass
And the bell talking on the rope of the steeple,
But the tonsure of the poet is the bright crash
Of love that blinds the irons on his belfry.
Were I making an Aisling I’d tell the tale of her hair,
But now I’ve grown careful of my listeners
So I pass over one long day and the rainy air
Where we sheltered in whispers.
When we left the dark evening at last outside her door,
She lighted a lamp though a gaming company.
Could have sighted each trump by the light of her unshawled poll,
And indeed she welcomed me.
With a big quart bottle and I mooned there over glasses
Till she took that bird, the phoenix, from the spit;
And, ‘Raftery,’ says she, ‘a feast is no bad dowry, Sit down now and taste it.’
If I praised Ballylea before it was only for the mountains
Where I broke horses and ran wild,
And for its seven crooked smoky houses
Where seven crones are tied.
All day to the listening-top of a half door,
And nothing to be heard or seen
But the drowsy dropping of water
And a gander on the green.
But, Boys! I was blind as a kitten till last Sunday,
This town is earth’s very navel.
Seven palaces are thatched there of a Monday,
And O the seven queens whose pale
Proud faces with their seven glimmering sisters,
The Pleiads, light the evening where they stroll,
And one can find the well by their wet footprints,
And make one’s soul!
For Mary Hynes, rising, gathers up there
Her ripening body from all the love stories;
And rinsing herself at morning, shakes her hair
And stirs the old gay books in libraries;
And what shall I do with sweet Boccaccio?
And shall I send Ovid back to school again
With a new headline for his copybook,
And a new pain?
Like a nun she will play you a sweet tune on a spinet,
And from such grasshopper music leap
Like Herod’s hussy who fancied a saint’s head
For grace after meat;
Yet she’ll peg out a line of clothes on a windy morning
And by noonday put them ironed in the chest,
And you’ll swear by her white fingers she does nothing
But take her fill of rest.
And I’ll wager now that my song is ended,
Loughrea, that old dead city where the weavers
Have pined at the mouldering looms since Helen broke the thread,
Will be piled again with silver fleeces:
O the new coats and big horses! The raving and the ribbons!
And Ballylea in hubbub and uproar!
And may Raftery be dead if he’s not there to ruffle it
On his own mare, Shank’s mare, that never needs a spur.
But ah, Sweet Light, though your face coins
My heart’s very metals, isn’t it folly without a pardon
For Raftery to sing so that men, east and west, come
Spying on your vegetable garden?
We could be so quiet in your chimney corner–
Yet how could a poet hold you any more than the sun,
Burning in the big bright hazy heart of harvest,
Could be tied in a henrun?
Bless your poet then and let him go!
He’ll never stack a haggard with his breath:
His thatch of words will not keep rain or snow
Out of the house, or keep back death.
But Raftery, rising, curses as he sees you
Stir the fire and wash delph,
That he was bred a poet whose selfish trade it is
To keep no beauty to himself.