Créad a dhéanfaimid feasta gan adhmad, tá deireadh na gcoillte ar lár; níl trácht ar Chill Chais ná a teaghlach, is ní bainfear a cling go bráth; an áit úd ina gcónaíodh an deighbhean a fuair gradam is meidhir tar mhná, bhíodh iarlaí ag tarraing tar toinn ann, is an tAifreann binn á rá. Is é mo chreach fhada is mo léan goirt do gheataí breá néata ar lár, an avenue ghreanta faoi shaothar is gan foscadh ar aon taobh den walk, an chúirt bhreá a sileadh an braon di is an ghasra shéimh go tláith, is in leabhar na marbh do léitear an tEaspag is Lady Iveagh! Ní chluinim fuaim lacha ná gé ann ná fiolair ag déanadh aeir cois cuain, ná fiú na mbeacha chum saothair a thabharfadh mil agus céir don tslua, níl ceol binn milis na n-éan ann le hamharc an lae a dhul uainn, ná an chuaichín i mbarra na ngéag ann, - ó, 'sí a chuirfeadh an saol chum suain! Nuair a thigeann na poic faoi na sléibhte is an gunna lena dtaobh is an líon féachann siad anuas le léan ar an mbaile a fuair sway in gach tír; an fhaiche bhreá aoibhinn ina réabacha is gan foscadh ar aon taobh ón tsín, páirc an phaddock ina dairy mar a mbíodh an eilit ag déanadh a scíth'! Tá ceo ag titim ar chraobhaibh ann ná glanann le grian ná lá, tá smúit ag titim ón spéir ann, is a cuid uisce go léir ag trá; níl coll, níl cuileann, níl caora ann, ach clocha agus maolchlocháin; páirc na foraoise gan chraobh ann, is d'imigh an game chum fáin! Anois mar bharr ar gach mí-ghreann chuaigh prionsa na nGael tar sáil, anonn le hainnir na míne fuair gairm sa bhFrainc is sa Spáinn - anois tá a cuallacht á caoineadh, gheibheadh airgead buí agus bán, 'sí ná tógfadh seilbh na ndaoine, acht caraid na bhfíorbhochtán. Aitím ar Mhuire is ar Íosa go dtaga sí arís chughainn slán, go mbeidh rincí fada ag gabháil timpeall, ceol veidhlín is tinte cnámh, go dtógfar an baile seo ár sinsear Cill Chais bhreá arís go hard, is go brách nó go dtiocfaidh an díleann ní fheicfear í arís ar lár! tr. Thomas Kinsella Now what will we do for timber, with the last of the woods laid low? There's no talk of Cill Chais or its household and its bell will be struck no more. That dwelling where lived the good lady most honoured and joyous of women --- earls made their way over wave there and the sweet Mass once was said. Ducks' voices nor geese do I hear there, nor the eagle's cry over the bay, nor even the bees at their labour bringing honey and wax to us all. No birdsong there, sweet and delightful, as we watch the sun go down, nor cuckoo on top of the branches settling the world to rest. A mist on the boughs is descending neither daylight nor sun can clear. A stain from the sky is descending and the waters receding away. No hazel nor holly nor berry but boulders and bare stone heaps, not a branch in our neighbourly haggard, and the game all scattered and gone. Then a climax to all of our misery: the prince of the Gael is abroad oversea with that maiden of mildness who found honour in France and Spain. Her company now must lament her, who would give yellow money and white --- she who'd never take land from the people but was friend to the truly poor. I call upon Mary and Jesus to send her safe home again: dances we'll have in long circles and bone-fires and violin music; that Cill Chais, the townland of our fathers, will rise handsome on high once more and till doom --- or the Deluge returns --- we'll see it no more laid low. From "Londubh an Chairn" Being Songs of the Irish Gaels, London, 1927 1. Where now is the sheltering wildwood That we in our youth have known? Oh gone are the groves of our childhood And even the birds are flown. It was there that dwelt the good lady There the sweet bell was daily rung, Great Earls came over the wave there, And the deep-intoned Mass was sung. 2. No wild-goose is heard on the lake now, No wild-duck now haunts the stream, The eagles their eyrie forsake now, No bees hum in day's bright beam. No voices of birds now entrance us As they once sang at evening's fall, No cuckoo is heard in the branches To utter his slumb'rous call. 3. To Mary I pray, and the Saviour, May our exiles return again, With dancing and bonfires blazing And violins' sweetest strain. That the Castle that now is so humbled May rise with strong keep and wall, And till earth into ashes has crumbled In ruin no more may fall.