Spring in the West of Ireland

(a translation)

A man wiping clay
Off the side of his spade,
With that mild silence
Of a sultry day:
    Soft the sound
    Of Spring in the West.
 
A man slings a creel
Up on his back,
And the red seaweed
Glistening
With a burst of sunlight
On that stretch of white shingle:
    Dazzling the display
    Of Spring in the West.
 
Women at low tide,
Their feet in sand pools
And tucked up petticoats
Reflected in the brine below them:
    Fanciful the effect
    Of Spring in the West.
 
To the faint beat
Of oars in and out,
A currach full of fish
Approaches the foreshore
On a slow sea of gold
At close of day:
    With Spring in the West.
--------------------------------
AN TEARRACH THIAR

Fear ag glanadh cré
De ghimseán spáide
Sa gciúnas séimh
I mbrothall lae :
    Binn an fhuaim
    San Earrach thiar.

Fear ag caitheamh
Cliabh dá dhroim,
Is an fheamainn dhearg
Ag lonrú
I dtaitneamh gréine
Ar dhuirling bhán:
    Niamhrach an radharc
    San Earrach thiar.
 
Mná i locháin
In íochtar diaidh-thrá 
A gcótaí craptha
Scáilí thíos fúthú:
    Támh radharc sítheach
    San Earrach thiar.
 
Toll-bhuillí fanna
Ag maidí rámha,
Currach lán éisc
Ag teacht chun cladaigh
Ar ór-mhuir mhall
I ndeireadh lae;
    San Earrach thiar.

    Máirtín Ó Direáin (1910-1988)

Hurry, my honeybee

(a translation)

Hurry, my honeybee, please:

There's a wane in summery ease,

The swallow's on southerly wing,

And on stem the failing rose.

Forays into Ireland’s fiefs
To grab your fill of gold,
No longer will you strike,
My plunderer of the stout plain.

Your craft upon currents of air,
A tub laden to the brim,
No longer dare you sail,
My mariner of chartless routes.

Your drone at dimming of day
When bough-singers sooner rest,
No longer will be heard,
My player of peaceful tunes.

Hurry, my honeybee dear,
The winds of winter are near:
Your hive is warm and dry,

Go in and shut the door.

--------------------------------

Deifir, a mhilbheach, déan;

Tá an meath ar laetha só,

Tá an áinle ar eite ó dheas,

‘S ar ghas tá an rós ag feo.

Slógadh trí chríocha Fáil

Gur lán den ór do ghlaic,

A fhoghlaí na má méith’,

Feasta ní dhéanfar leat.

Soitheach ar shrúille aeir

Thar maoil de chumhr’last lán,

A mharaí is rúnda ród,

Feasta ní sheolfair slán.

Crónán i gcóntráth lae

‘S binnlucht na gcraobh ‘na suan,

A cheolaí is sáimhe port,

Feasta ní chloisfear uait.

Deifir, a mhilbheach, déan ;

Tá gaetha an gheimhridh chughat ;

Tá an choirceog teolaí tirim,

Imigh is doras dún.

                  Séamas Ó hAodha (1886-1967)