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.

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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)