Flatha Ó Gnímh

A Niocláis, nocht an gcláirsigh!
léig imtheacht don fhuaráin-sin;
seinn ilcheóla naoidhe anos,
faoidhe ó n-imtheógha m'fhiabhras.

Aisdrigh na slighthe seanma,
tráigh ar ttuile mímheanma,
coisgthe dheid d'eólchaire inn,
leig don cheólchroidhe cuílinn.

Toigébhaid téda do chroinn
seól aigeanta d'aos mearbhaill;
lúth na healbha ót ocht méraibh,
socht ar meanma moisgélaidh.

Mná ré n-iodhnaibh, aos galair,
codlaid léd chéol síodhamhail;
an tráth nochta an gcruit gcoraigh,
luit chircra ní cronaghair.

Ní thabhair aon dá aire
an nasg do-ní an sgallaire,
ré bruach bhar srotha seanma,
náid gotha cuach gCéiteamhna.

Cia an díthreabh nó an dionn folaigh,
cia an síodh trá a ttarrabhair
barr do chara ar an gceól gcrot,
nárbh eól dá rabha romhat.

An í do mhúin díoghrais duit,
lámh Chraiftine an cheóil ordhruic,
siansa do mheóir ar mhodhaibh,
nó is d'iarsma cheóil Chaschoraigh?

Nó an gcualabhair cuid dár sheinn
an tí rug ó dhoilbh Doirinn,
lér lean sibh an séis bportaigh
ó sin tar éis Ábhartaigh?

Nó an é fós fuarais d'oide
rí an chiúil, céile Bhláthnaide,
dá gcoimhchreideadh an fáidh Fionn,
tar bháigh oirfideadh Éirreann?

Nó an tnúth oirfideach oile
dá raibhe a tTír Tarngaire
do chuir as na síodhaibh sibh,
a ndíoghail do chuir chaoinchigh?

Más don fhior as fhearr cridhe
gealltar an ghlóir ainglidhe,
fear do dhaigcridhe do dhligh,
neamh, a Chraibtine Chaisil.

Balsam cobhartha cédfadh,
liaigh don teidhm nach taisbéntar,
cosg fiabhrasa ré bél mbáis,
do mhér niamhdhasa, a Niocláis.

Osborn Bergin
Irish Bardic Poetry
Dolmen Press, 1970
No. 25

Translation:

On a Blind Harper—I

Nicholas, uncover the harp!
Set free that cooling fountain.
Play now many a novel strain,
sounds that will dispel my fever.

Travel the ways of music;
make my flood of depression to ebb;
keep me from melancholy;
let the pulse throb from music's heart.

The strings of thy instrument [A pun, also, "the ropes of thy mast"]
will hoist the sail of courage for those that are bewildered,
the vigour of the flock from thy eight fingers
will awaken the stupor of our spirit.

Women in travail and sick folk
sleep at thy fairy music;
when thou revealest the tuneful harp
no man complains of crimson wounds.

No man gives heed
to the tormentor's bond
on the brink of thy stream of melody,
nor to the voices of the cuckoos of May.

In what wilderness or hidden fastness,
in what elfmound didst thou contrive,
to set a crown upon harp music
unknown to all before thee?

Was it the hand of Craiftine, that famous minstrel [the harper in the tale of Labhraidh Loingseach]
that taught thee its secret,
the melody of thy finger in measures,
or is it come from the music of Caschorach? [Son of the minstrel of Tuatha Dé Danann.]

Or hast thou heard some of the playing
of him who by guile won Doireann,
whereby thou hast ever since followed
the tuneful strain since the time of Ábhartach? [One of the chiefs of Tuatha Dé Danann, famous for skill in music.]

Or was the teacher thou didst find
that king of music, Bláthnaid's mate, [Cnú Deireóil, the dwarf harper of the Fianna]
in whom Fionn the prophet put faith,
beyond love of all Erin's players?

Or was it the envy of all other players
in the Land of Promise
that banished thee from the elfmounds
in revenge for thy musical note?

If the angelical glory
is promised to him whose heart is best,
the man with thy good heart
has merited heaven, of Craiftine of Cashel!

Balm to heal the senses,
physician of the hidden sore,
cure of fever at death's point—
such is thy finger, O Nicholas.