Seoithín Seó
Tàladh
Rockabye Baby
Mar nár rith linn maireachtaint
Dhein leaba ár mbáis den leaba luí seoil
A d’fhág ar imeall an chiúnais sinne
Sara raibh deis againn béic a ligint
Sarar bhlaiseamar de chompord an tsaoil
Ó chíoch bhainniúil a shil deora ceana.
Le faobhar nó le dorchadas na hoíche
’Sea thuisligh ár n-aithreacha, a mbeartán fillte
Féna n-ascaill, go dtí Baile na Cille.
Obair dhuaisiúil, gan de bheannacht
Ach a n-osnaíl chráite, d’fhág leac bheag,
Gan ainm, os ár gcionn in airde.
Fós, tá cré na cuimhne naomhaithe
Ag timpill an turais Aoine an Chéasta
Is tá beirthe isteach orainn i mbarróg ghlas
Ghleann na hÍne, i lúb na habhann a thriomaigh,
Fé na cnoic is na sléibhte a fhaireann ár suan
Ar nós tuismitheoirí dílse i mbun a gcúraim.
A chionn ’s nach do mhair sinn,
Chaidh leabaidh ar breith na leabaidh-bhàis dhuinn,
A dh’fhàg air iomall an tost sinn
Mus leigeamaid èigh,
Mus blaiseamaid air sòlas na beatha
O chìch a’ sileadh dheur bàidh.
Chaidh leabaidh ar breith na leabaidh-bhàis dhuinn,
A dh’fhàg air iomall an tost sinn
Mus leigeamaid èigh,
Mus blaiseamaid air sòlas na beatha
O chìch a’ sileadh dheur bàidh.
Ri ciaradh no ri dorchadas na h-oidhche,
Thuislicheadh ar n-athraichean gu Baile na Cille
Is pasgan aca suainte fon achlais.
Obair shàrachaidh, gun bheannachadh
Ach an osnaichean cruaidhe, a dh’fhàg leac bheag
Gun ainm os ar cionn.
Thuislicheadh ar n-athraichean gu Baile na Cille
Is pasgan aca suainte fon achlais.
Obair shàrachaidh, gun bheannachadh
Ach an osnaichean cruaidhe, a dh’fhàg leac bheag
Gun ainm os ar cionn.
Ach fhathast naomhaichear crè na cuimhne
Leothasan a thig Dihaoine na Ceusta air chuairt
Far a bheil sinne paisgte an talamh gorm
Gleann na h-Ìne, an lùib thraoghte na h-aibhne,
Fo na cnuic a chumas faire air ar suan
Mar phàrantan dìleas làn cùraim dhan cuid chloinne.
Leothasan a thig Dihaoine na Ceusta air chuairt
Far a bheil sinne paisgte an talamh gorm
Gleann na h-Ìne, an lùib thraoghte na h-aibhne,
Fo na cnuic a chumas faire air ar suan
Mar phàrantan dìleas làn cùraim dhan cuid chloinne.
Because we didn't survive
Childbed became our deathbed,
Left us on the edge of silence
Before we could utter a cry,
Before we tasted the comfort of life
From a milky breast that shed fond tears.
At twilight or in dark of night,
Our fathers came, their wrapped bundle
Under their arm, stumbling, to this cillín.
Hard labour and no blessing
But their sad sighs, left a small stone,
Without a name, above our head.
Still, the clay of memory is hallowed
By rounds of the Pattern on Good Friday
And we are held in the green embrace
Of the Inny Valley, in its dried meander,
Under hills that watch over our sleep,
Loving parents caring for their dear ones.
Childbed became our deathbed,
Left us on the edge of silence
Before we could utter a cry,
Before we tasted the comfort of life
From a milky breast that shed fond tears.
At twilight or in dark of night,
Our fathers came, their wrapped bundle
Under their arm, stumbling, to this cillín.
Hard labour and no blessing
But their sad sighs, left a small stone,
Without a name, above our head.
Still, the clay of memory is hallowed
By rounds of the Pattern on Good Friday
And we are held in the green embrace
Of the Inny Valley, in its dried meander,
Under hills that watch over our sleep,
Loving parents caring for their dear ones.