Ochón ! a Dhonncha… (le Pádraig Ó hÉigeartaigh 1871 -1936)

 

Rugadh Pádraig Ó hÉigeartaigh i nDromad i gCiarraí.  Ní raibh sé ach 12 bhliain d’aois nuair a d’imigh sé féin lena mhuintir go Meiriceá (1883).  Bhí sé ag obair i muileann cadáis ansin. Phós sé cailín as Conamara agus bhí conaí orthu in Springfield, Massachusetts.  Bádh a mac go tragóideach nuair nach raibh sé ach 6 bliana d’aois. Cailleadh an file sa bhliain 1936.

 

 

Ochón! a Dhonncha, mo mhíle cogarnach, fén bhfód so sínte;                             Fód an doichill ina luí ar do cholainn bhig, mo loma-sceimhle!                          Dá mbeadh an codladh so i gCill na Dromad ort nó in uaigh san Iarthar             Mo bhrón do bhogadh, cé gur mhór mo dhochar, is ní bheinn id’ dhiaidh air

 

 

Is feoite caite ‘tá na blátha scaipthe ar do leaba chaoilse                                       Ba bhreá iad tamall ach thréig a dtaitneamh, níl snas ná brí iontu;                     Is tá an bláth ba ghile liom dár fhás ar ithir riamh ná a fhásfaidh choíche     Ag dreo sa talamh, is go deo deo, ní thiocfaidh ag cur éirí croí orm.

 

 

Och a chumannaigh! Nár mhór an scrupall é an t-uisce do do luascadh,          Is gan neart i do chuisleannaibh ná éinne i ngaire duit a thabharfadh fuarthan                                                                                                                                    Scéal nár tugadh chugam ar bhaol mo linbh ná ar dhéine a chruatain –          Ó! Is go rachainn go fonnmhar ar dhoimhin-lic Ifrinn chun tú a fhuascailt.

 

 

Aistriúchán lom:

Oh, my Donncha, my thousand whispers, stretched out under this sod,                              This unfriendly sod lying on your little body, my outright terror,                                              If this, your ‘sleep’ were in Killdromad or in a grave in the West (of Ireland), My sorrow would be less, though great is my upset, I’d not be so distraught over it.

It is withered and spent the flowers are, that are scattered on you narrow ‘bed’.               They were once fine, but their sheen has gone, they’ve no lustre or vitality in them,        And the brightest flower that grew in soil or shall ever  grow,                                                    Is withering in the ground and will never ever come (to me) to raise my spirits.

Oh, my companion!  Isn’t is a great misfortune the water to be tossing you,                          And you without strength in your sinews, or anyone (nearby) who might help you,              News wasn’t brought to me of my child in danger or about the severity of his plight,          Oh, I would willingly go to the lowest plinth of hell in order to save you.