Brigid Óg Ní Mháille
(Young Bridget O'Malley)

Song composed by
Turlough O'Carolan (Toirdhealbhach Ó Cearbhalláin) (1670–1738)
A blind Celtic harper, composer and singer

At the instance of James Hardiman (1782-1855), author of the History of Galway, the poet James Furlong (1794-1827) undertook to produce metrical versions in English of the compositions of Turlough O'Carolan and other native Irish poets. While engaged on this work Furlong died in Dublin on 25 July 1827.
Hardiman contributed 42 translations, most in Volume I of his publication Irish minstrelsy in 1831.


Irish minstrelsy, or, Bardic remains of Ireland; with English poetical translations,
by James Hardiman (1782-1855) ed, vol 1, 1831, pp.74-77
Poetic translations of Carolan by Thomas Furlong.


"Brighítt n-ic uí Mháile"

Cearbhallán ró chan
(Carolan)

A Bhrighítt n-ic uí Mháile, is tú d' fáig mo chróidhe cráidhte,
Ta arraingeadha báis tré cheart-lár chróidhe,
Táid na mílte fear a ngrádh le na h-éadain chiúin, náireach,
'S go d-tug sí bárr breághdhachta air thír-Eirill, má's fíor.

Maidin chiúin, cheódhmhar, d' ár éirgheas 's an bh-fóghmhar,
Ciá cásfaídhe ann 'sa ród orm, acht stór geal mo chuím,
'N uair dhearc me air a clódh geal, do sgárdas fuil t-sróna,
A 's fuair mé trí póga d' fóir air mo shaoígheal.

Ní'l read air bith is áilne, ná grian ós cionn gáirdin,
'S na rósa bréaghdha d' fásas amach as an g-craoíbh:
Mar súd bhídheas mo ghrádh-sa, le deise 's le bréaghacht,
A chúil thiuigh na bh-fáinneadha, bh-fuil mo ghean ort le blíadhain.

Buachaill deas óg me, ta triall chum mo phósta,
Ní buan a bh-fad beód me, muna bh-fagh mé mo mhiann:
A chuisle a 's a stórach! fagh réidh agur bídh rómhamsa,
Go déigheanach dia dómhnaich air bhóithribh Ráthliamh.

Is me si tá shíos, leis an b pósaso dhéanadh;
Ní chodlaim an oídhche acht ag osnaíghioll go trom;
Ná'r fhágbhaidh me an saéghal-so, go m-béidhead a'r tú, chéad shearc,
Air leaba chlúimh éanlaith a'r mo lámh faoí do cheann.


"Bridget O'Malley"
Poetic translation
By Thomas Furlong

Dear maid, thou hast left me in anguish to smart,
And pangs, worse than death, pierce my love-stricken heart;
Thou flower of Tirerell, still, still, must I pine.
Oh ! where my O'Malley blooms beauty like thine.

On a mild dewy morn in the autumn I rov'd,
I stray'd o'er the pathway where stray'd my belov'd.
Oh ! why should I dwell on the bliss that is past?
But the kiss I had there, I must prize to the last.

The sunbeams are beauteous when on flower beds they play.
And sweet seem young roses as they bloom on the spray;
The white-bosom'd lilies thrice lovely we call.
But my true love is brighter, far brighter than all

I'm young, and a bridegroom soon destin'd to be.
But short is my course, love ! if bless'd not with thee:
On Sunday, at dusk, by Rath-leave shall I stray,
May I meet thee, my sweetest, by chance on the way.

In gloom, and in sorrow, my days must go by,
At night on my pillow in anguish I sigh;
Hope springs not — peace comes not — sleep flees from me there —
Oh ! when comes my lov'd one, that pillow to share.


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