The poet's son Donncha drowned as a child, in Massachusetts where the poet had moved at age 12.
My sorrow, Donncha, my thousand-cherished,
under this sod stretched,
this mean sod lying on your little body
-- my utter fright!
If the sleep were on you in Cill na Dromad
or some grave in the West
it would ease my sorrow, though great the affliction,
and I'd not complain.
Spent and withered are the flowers scattered
on your narrow bed.
They were fair a while but their brightness faded,
they've no gloss or life.
And my brightest flower that in soil grew ever
or will ever grow
rots in the ground, and will come no more
to lift my heart.
Alas, beloved, is it not a great pity
how the water rocked you,
your pulses powerless and no one near you
to bring relief?
No news was brought to me of my child in peril
or his cruel hardship
--O, I'd go, and eager, to Hell's deep flag-stones
if I could save you.
The moon is dark and I cannot sleep.
All ease has left me.
The candid Gaelic seems harsh and gloomy
--an evil omen.
I hate the time that I pass with friends,
their wit torments me.
Since the day I saw you on the sands so lifeless
no sun has shone.
Alas my sorrow, what can I do now?
The world grinds me
--your slight white hand, like a tree-breeze, gone from
my frowning brows,
and your little honeymouth, like angels' music
sweet in my ears
saying to me softly: "Dear heart, poor father,
do not be troubled."
And O, my dear one! I little thought
in my time of hope
this child would never be a brave swift hero
in the midst of glory
with deeds of daring and lively thoughts
for the sake of Fódla
--but the One who framed us of clay on earth
not so has ordered.
(1906) --Pádraig Ó hÉigeartaigh (1871-1936). Translated by Thomas Kinsella and Seán Ó Tuama.
Fódla [pron. Fola] is a name for Ireland.
Ochón! A Dhonncha
Ochón! a Dhonncha, mo mhíle cogarach, fén bhfód so sínte;
fód an doichill 'na 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 bhogfadh, cé gur mhór mo dhochar, is ní bheinn id' dhiaidh air.
Is feoite caite 'tá na blátha scaipeadh ar do leaba chaoilse;
ba bhreá iad tamall ach thréig a dtaitneamh, níl snas ná brí iontu.
'S tá an bláth ba ghile liom dár fhás ar ithir riamh ná fhásfaidh choíche
ag dreo sa talamh, is go deo ní thacfaidh ag cur éirí croí orm.
Och, a chumannaigh! nár mhór an scrupall é an t-uisce dod' luascadh,
gan neart id' chuisleannaibg ná éinne i ngaire duit a thabharfadh fuarthan.
Scéal níor tugadh chugham ar bhaol mo linbh ná ar dhéine a chruatain--
ó! 's go raghainn go fonnmhar ar dhoimhin-lic Ifrinn chun tú a fhuascailt.
Tá an ré go dorcha, ní fhéadaim codladh, do shéan gach só mé.
Garbh doilbh liom an Ghaeilge oscailte-- is olc an comhartha é.
Fuath liom sealad i gcomhluadar carad, bíonn a ngreann dom' chiapadh.
Ón lá gi bhfacasa go tláith ar an ngaineamh thú níor gheal an ghrian dom.
Och, mo mhairg! cad a dhéanfad feasta 's an saol dom' shuathadh,
gan do láimhín chailce mar leoithne i gcrannaibh ar mo mhalainn ghruama,
do bhéilín meala mar cheol na n-aingeal go binn im' chluasaibh
á rá go cneasta liom: "Mo ghraidhín m'athair bocht, ná bíodh buairt ort!"
Ó, mo chaithis é! is beag do cheapas-sa i dtráth mo dhóchais
ná beadh an leanbh so 'na laoch mhear chalma i lár na fóirne,
a ghníomhartha gaisce 's a smaointe meanman ar son na Fódla--
ach an Té di dhealbhaigh de chré ar an dtalamh sinn, ní mar sin d'ordaigh.
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