John Montague's poem, Colmcille is a composite, based on Irish texts dating from between circa 1000 & 1200 AD.
The main base for Montague's poem is Robad Mellach, A Meic Mo Dé [An Exile's Dream].
There [was] a translation into English available at http://www.geocities.com/ [KED note: now gone*] & feck it, this is my post, so I've tweaked it a wee tiny bit. I doubt my copy is any better than the original though. :)
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Robad Mellach, A Meic Mo Dé Gan ainm [ca. 1000 AD] |
Early Irish Lyrics, Eighth to Twelfth Century edited by Gerard Murphy Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1950 |
| Colum Cille cecinit / attributed to Colum Cille |
An Exile's Dream - translation by Gerard Cunningham |
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* for a very old translation, see: . . |
The Life of St. Columba, Founder of Hy
by William Reeves Adamnan Dublin: The University Press, for the Irish Archaeological & Celtic Society, 1857 |
Robad mellach, a meic mo Dé,
(dingnaib réimenn)
ascnam tar tuinn topur n-dílenn
dochum n-Éirenn;
Go Mag n-Éolairg, sech Beinn Foibne,
tar Loch Febail,
airm i cluinfinn cuibdius cubaid
ac na elaib
Slúag na faílenn robtis faíltig
rér séol súntach
día rísed Port na Ferg fáiltech
in Derg Drúchtach.
Rom-lín múich i n-ingnais Éirenn
díam-sa coimsech,
'san tír ainéoil conam-tharla
taideóir toirsech.
Trúag in turus do-breth form-sa,
a Rí rúine:
ach! ní ma-ndechad bu-déine
do chath Chúile!
Ba ma-ngénar do mac Dímma
na chill chredlaig,
airm i g-cluinfinn tíar i n-Durmaig
mían dom menmain;
Fúaim na gaíthe frisin leman
ardon-peite,
golgaire in luin léith co n-aite
iar m-béim eite;
Éistecht co moch i r-Ros Grencha
frisin damraid,
coicetal na cúach don fidbaid
ar brúach samraid.
Ro grádaiges íatha Éirenn
(deilm cen ellach):
feis ac Comgall, cúairt co Caindech,
robad mellach.
To Eolarg Plain, by Foibne Hill
across Loch Febail
and listen there to the matching music
of the swans
Flocks of gulls would fill with pleasure
as we sailed swiftly
into the welcome of Post na Ferg
in our 'Red-With-Dew'
I am full of sorrow that I left Ireland
when I had my strength
and then grew tearful & full of sadness
in a foreign land
Hard the journey imposed on me
O King of Mysteries
I wish I never has started out
for Cul and the conflict
For he was happy, the son of Dimma
in his pious cell
where I have heard, west there in Durrow
what delights the mind
The sound of wind against the elm
making music
the lovely song of the gray blackbird
as she claps her wing
Listening early in Ros Grencha
to the herds of stags
or the cuckoo chorus of the forest
at the edge of summer
The fields of Ireland I have loved
(and that's no lie)
to stay with Comgall, to visit Caindech
it would be sweet.
