Erse verse 16

Ó! ná lig uait a ainm

Ó! ná lig uait a ainm, ach go luí sé sa scáil,
gan urraim ná aird mar' bhfuil a chorpán;
is danaideach duairc sinn ag sileadh na ndéar,
amhail titim an drúchta ar a uaigh faoin bhféar.

Ach drúcht úd na hoíche a thiteann go ciúin,
bheir sé úire a ghealfaidh an féar ar an uaigh,
is na deora a siltear faoi choim is faoi rún,
is tuar iad go mbeidh sé ’nár gcuimhne go buan.

[After the Occidental Britanno-Germanic of Thomas Moore.]

Erse verse 15

Is fear an fear mar sin féin

An ann don bhocht atá gan choir
is ceann faoi air mar sin féin?
is beag ár meas ar dhaor ag crith
ach táimid bocht mar sin féin!
Mar sin féin, mar sin féin,
ár ndua fá choim, mar sin féin;
cad is céim ann ach snas ar bhonn,
den ór an fear mar sin féin.

Más bia gan bhlas is cleachtach dúinn
is éadach glas, mar sin féin;
bíodh sról ar ghamal, fíon ag brúid,
is fear an fear mar sin féin.
Mar sin féin, mar sin féin,
gan ghotha air, mar sin féin,
an fear gan cham cé bocht atá,
is rí linn é mar sin féin.

An t-ógfhear thall is tiarna é,
leaid lán de phoimp, mar sin féin;
cé binn le céadta guth a bhéil,
níl ann ach daoi mar sin féin.
Mar sin féin, mar sin féin,
ribín is réalt, mar sin féin,
an fear le céill is intinn shaor
is cúis ghrinn dó seo go léir.

Má thig le rí piaraí a bhaist,
gach iarla, diúc, 's a leithéid,
tá fear gan cham thar neart a reacht,
níl feidhm ag dlí mar sin féin.
Mar sin féin, mar sin féin,
gach teideal ard, 's a leithéid,
is fearr go mór mianach is meas
ná gradam stáit mar sin féin.

Guímís go léir go dtaga an lá
(is tiocfaidh sé, mar sin féin)
nuair bheidh an chiall i ngach aon áit
ag breith an bhua mar sin féin.
Mar sin féin, mar sin féin,
tá sé ag teacht, mar sin féin,
go mbeidh gach duine feadh an tsaoil
'na mbráithre fós mar sin féin.

[Aistrithe ó Ultais Albanach Robert Burns.]

Erse verse 14

Oileán locha Inis Fraoigh 

Éireod anois is imeod, chun triall ar Inis Fraoigh,
go ndéanfad cábán beag ann as criadh is cliatha slat;
beidh pónairí i línte, is mil agam ón gcíor,
is stopfad i bhfaiche ann, dord na mbeach i ngach aird.

Beidh suaimhneas agam ansiúd, óir sileann síth go réidh
ó cheo-bhrat na maidine go gceolann an creagar;
bíonn drithlí ann istoíche, niamh ghorm i lár an lae,
is líonann eití gleoiseach na spéartha um fheascar.

Éireod anois is imeod, óir d'oíche is de ló
cloisim glór séimh an locha ag bualadh ar an mbruach;
anseo ar thaobh na sráide, nó ar chosán gan snódh,
ar chloisint mo chroí istigh airím go doimhin an fhuaim.

[After the Hiberno-Saxon of W.B. Yeats.]

Erse verse 13

Amhrán Marseille

Éirígí 'chlanna na tíre,
tá lá na glóire buailte linn!
agus brat fuilteach na daoirse
á bhagairt ag tíoráin orainn,
     á bhagairt ag tíoráin orainn!
Éistigí 'mhuintir na tuaithe
béicíl na n-amhas gan daonnacht,
táid ag marú óige 's bantracht
is ag réabadh trí bhur ndúiche!

Chun arm a shaorfheara,
déanaigí bhur ranga,
ar aghaidh, ar aghaidh!
go ndoirtfear fuil
shalach ar ár gcriaidh!

Go neartaí ár ngrá don tír seo
lámh láidir lucht a slánaithe,
go dtroide spiorad na saoirse
ar son fhoireann a cosanta,
     ar son fhoireann a cosanta!
Go raibh an bua ag ár mbratach
i measc gártha arda na dtréan,
go raibh ár nglóir is ár gcaithréim
le feiscint ag naimhde basctha!

Chun arm a shaorfheara,
déanaigí bhur ranga,
ar aghaidh, ar aghaidh!
go ndoirtfear fuil
shalach ar ár gcriaidh!

[D'après le Gallo-Latin de Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle.]

Keats and Chapman 6

An illuminating tale

As Keats stepped from the bright sunlight of the city streets into the interior of the gentleman’s club he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

‘Ah, Mr Keats!’ said the receptionist from behind his desk, ‘Mr Chapman is expecting you in the library – top of the stairs on the third floor.’

‘Thank you very much Higgins’, replied the poet who, though an infrequent visitor to the club, needed no directions to find the library – invariably the quietest room in the building.

This morning was no exception. On entering, Keats noted that there were three people in a space which would have comfortably accommodated thirty. Chapman was seated in a leather armchair, evidently engrossed in the Times Literary Supplement. Keats sat down in an adjacent chair without disturbing his friend’s concentration, then coughed softly to attract his attention.

‘Ah, Keats! How long have you been there?’ asked a surprised Chapman.

‘Just a moment. I’m sorry to interrupt, but here’s that new sonnet of mine’ said Keats, taking a carefully folded sheet of paper from his jacket and laying it on the small table between them.

‘Capital!’ replied Chapman, ‘you know how much ...’ Chapman’s words trailed off as the light from the lamp beside his chair expired. ‘Good grief! Isn't that typical? I was reading turgid reviews by pretentious academics for an hour and perpetual light shone upon me, but no sooner was I presented with a piece of real literary merit than darkness descended.’

‘Ah, but you haven’t read it yet’ said Keats, with genuinely false modesty.

‘It’s a judgement founded on extensive experience, old boy’ answered Chapman, before calling in a louder voice: ‘I say, Professor Edwards, Major Smyth, could I have your assistance for a few moments?’

‘What appears to be the matter?’ asked a rotund and balding gentleman in his fifties whose face appeared from behind the Financial Times. In the farthest corner of the room an older white-haired member of the club left down the copy of Country Life he'd been leafing through and cupped a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that Chapman?’ he bellowed.

‘My reading lamp isn't working Major, I wonder could you both come over here for a moment?’

‘Lamp not working?’ repeated the Major quizzically as he crossed the floor. ‘I should expect it’s the bally bulb. They do that you know. Did I ever tell you about the time I was stationed in Trucial Oman ... ?’

‘I don’t see what you need us for’, interrupted the Professor,‘this isn’t one of those light bulb jokes is it?’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed the Major, ‘I’ll warrant it is – how many club members does it take to change a light bulb, what?’

‘Chapman, tell me you wouldn’t’ pleaded Keats.

‘Of course not Keats – you know me better than that! But it may take more than the four of us to resolve this difficulty. I’ll just summon a member of staff’ said Chapman as he pressed a bell on the library wall.

‘Some of them aren't bad though’ said the Professor. ‘For example, do any of you know how many philosophers it takes to change a light bulb?’

‘Philosophers!’, snorted the Major – never met one. How many?’

‘Hard to say actually – it all depends on what you mean by “change”’ answered the Professor.

‘Very droll I’m sure’, groaned Keats, ‘but all we need is a new bulb – come to think of it, I could just borrow one from a wall light ...’

‘Here’s one in your line then’ said the Major, turning to the Professor: ‘how many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?’

‘What do you mean “in my line” – I’m an economist – what are you implying?’ asked the Professor, clearly irate.

‘Eh, both very learned professions I'm sure’ interjected Keats. ‘How many econ ... I mean, how many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?’

‘Just one, but the bulb must really, really, want to change’ answered the Major, a grin of satisfaction spreading across his face.

‘Excuse me gentlemen, did somebody call?’ asked a liveried attendant from the library doorway.

‘A scotch and soda as you’re there, James’ ordered the Major before anyone else could respond.

‘Actually James, I rang’, said Chapman, throwing an irritated glance in the Major’s direction. ‘Would you kindly invite some of the members to step into the library?’

‘The members may not wish to be disturbed, sir. May I enquire why you desire their company?’

‘Of course, James. It’s perfectly simple. This reading lamp here has stopped working.’

A baffled expression flickered for an instant across the attendant’s face before his habitually inscrutable expression returned. ‘I’ll fit a new bulb directly sir, but I don’t think the matter requires the attention of the members.’

‘A new bulb? Total waste of good money! Our subscriptions are high enough as it is. Just bring up a dozen members’ ordered Chapman in a peremptory tone.

‘Chapman, for heaven’s sake’, exclaimed Keats, ‘what on earth do you want with such a crowd of people?’

‘Surely Keats’, replied the classicist wearily, ‘you must have heard before now that many hands make light work?’