Caoine Cill Cháis

Caoine Cill Cháis

Cad a dhéanfaimid feasta gan adhmad?
Tá deireadh na gcoillte ar lár;
níl trácht ar Chill Chais ná ar a teaghlach
is ní bainfear a cling go bráth.
An áit úd a gcónaíodh an deighbhean
fuair gradam is meidhir thar mhnáibh,
bhíodh iarlaí ag tarraingt tar toinn ann
is an t-aifreann binn á rá.

Ní chluinim fuaim lachan ná gé ann,
ná fiolar ag éamh cois cuain,
ná fiú na mbeacha chun saothair
thabharfadh mil agus céir don tslua.
Níl ceol binn milis na n-éan ann
le hamharc an lae a dhul uainn,
ná an chuaichín i mbarra na ngéag ann,
ós í chuirfeadh an saol chun suain.

Tá ceo ag titim ar chraobha ann
ná glanann le gréin ná lá,
tá smúid ag titim ón spéir ann
is a cuid uisce go léir ag trá.
Níl coll, níl cuileann, níl caor ann,
ach clocha is maolchlocháin,
páirc an chomhair gan chraobh ann
is d’imigh an géim chun fáin.

Anois mar bharr ar gach míghreann,
chuaigh prionsa na nGael thar sáil,
anonn le hainnir na míne
fuair gradam sa bhFrainc is sa Spáinn.
Anois tá a cuallacht á caoineadh,
gheibheadh airgead buí agus bán;
s í ná tógfadh seilbh na ndaoine,
ach cara na bhfíorbhochtán.

Aicim ar Mhuire is ar Íosa
go dtaga sí arís chughainn slán,
go mbeidh rincí fada ag gabháil timpeall,
ceol veidhlín is tinte cnámh;
go dtógtar an baile seo ár sinsear
Cill Cháis bhreá arís go hard,
is go bráth nó go dtiocfaidh an díle
ná feictear é arís ar lár.

The Lament for Kilcash

What will we do without wood now?
The end of the forest has come.
No word from Kilcash nor the household
Where the bell will no longer be rung.
That place wherein lived a fair woman
Who found praise and reward above all
For whom earls would come over the ocean
And the mass would sweetly be sung.

I hear neither the duck nor the goose now.
Nor the hawk calling over the shore
Not even the bees at their labour,
Making honey and wax for us all.
There’s no more sweet music of birds there
As the the sun it goes down in the west,
No cuckoo’s song from the branches,
Putting the world to rest.

A fog descends on the trees there,
The light of the day cannot break,
A smoke tumbles down from the sky
And the water dries up from the lake.
No hazel, nor holly, nor berry
But stones and bare stone-flakes,
The parks of our neighbour lie barren,
And the game does the land now forsake.

And now on top of our sorrow,
The prince of the Gaels fled in vain,
Away with that vision of beauty,
Who found fame in both France and in Spain.
Her company mourns for her absence,
White coins and yellow she’d spend,
Would never take land from the people,
To the poorest of us was a friend.

I cry out to Mary and Jesus
To bring her back home to us safe.
And the music of fiddles will please us,
We’ll dance at a bonfire feast.
And rebuild it, the town of our people,
Kilcash rising up from the waste,
Eternal, or come the next deluge,
We no more will see it debased.