I have lost the three settled places
I loved best:
Durrow, Derry's ledge of angels,
my native parish.
Montague's second last verse (above) is based on an Irish original:
|
Tréide As Dile Lem Fo-Rácbus Gan ainm [12th century] |
Early Irish Lyrics, Eighth to Twelfth Century edited by Gerard Murphy Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1950 |
| Colum Cille cecinit / attributed to Colum Cille |
The Three Best-Loved Places - translation by Gerard Cunningham |
Tréide as dile lem fo-rácbus
ar bith buidnech:
Durmag, Doire, dinn ard ainglech,
is Tír Luigdech.
Dámad cet le Ríg na n-aingel
is na gréine,
bad maith lim m'adnacht i n-Gartán
sech cach tréide.
If permitted by the King of the angels
and the sun in heaven,
I'd rather be buried in Gartan
that any of the three.
Or at least, I think that's an accurate translation. Old Irish isn't something I know, & the above is a lot of educated guesswork & partly what I think I want it to mean. So forgive me if I've projected my own exile's emotions onto the patron saint of my parish. From my perspective, I'd be more likely to miss the place I was born than the place I set up an branch of the business, even if it was the first office of the franchise.
