Sagairtín, An (Seosamh Ó Clochartaigh)

Play recording: Sagairtín, An (Seosamh Ó Clochartaigh)

Tá an oíche dorcha is tá sí fuar
Is tá sí ag goilliúint ar mo chroí go crua
Ní thiocfad abhaile, ‘s ní dhéanfaidh mé cuairt
Nó go bhfeice mé mo stóirín atá ina luí cois cuain.
Is deas an sagairtín é stór mo chroí
Tá an pobal beannaithe a ngabhann sé thríd
Tá séala ó Mhuire air is branda ó Chríost
Is tá sé ag tarraingt ar na coláistí.

Muise éist, a Bhideoigín, is ná goil deoir
Ní dhuit a rugadh mé ná d’aon bhean beo
Baistfidh mé do leanbh le cúnamh Dé
Dá mbeadh breith ar m’aiféala a’m ba leat mé féin.

Tá fear agus fiche acu in aon gheaing amháin
Is é an fear is deise mo mhíle grá
Tá cúilín catach air is baibín bán
Is é an rós sa ngairdín é dá mb’fhéidir é a fháil.

Is fuair mé leagan thar bharr an chlaí
Mura bhfuil dochar ann nár théighe sé i m’aghaidh
Níor lúb mé an t-aiteann ‘s níor leag mé an féar
Ach ‘na dhiaidh sin cuireadh mé ó bhéal go béal.

Is chuaigh mé aréir go dtí an doras úd thall
Lig mé fead ar mo mhíle gra
Is éard ‘dúirt a maimín nach raibh sí ann
Ach go raibh sí i dtaisce i gcónra chláir.

Muise éist, a Bhideoigín, is ná goil deoir.
Ní dhuit a rugadh mé ná d’aon bhean beo.
Baistfidh mé do leanbh le cúnamh De
Dá mbeadh breith ar m’aiféala a’m ba leat mé féin.

Translation

The night is dark, it is wet and cold, and it grieves my heart dreadfully;
I won’t come home, or pay any visits, until I’ve seen my love who lies at the harbour’s edge
My love is a kind little priest, and the people among whom he moves are blessed; he bears the stole of Mary and the mark of Christ, and he is attending the college.

Listen, little Bridget, and don’t weep; I wasn’t born for you, or for any woman.
With God’s help, I’ll baptise your baby; and if I could undo the past, I would be yours
There are twenty-one men in a single group; the fairest of them is my love. The back of his head is curly, and a fair forelock; he is a rose in the garden — if only I could get him.

I was knocked down over the top of the fence;
if there’s no harm in it, let it not be held against me;
I didn’t trample the bracken nor flatten the grass
But still and all I’m food for gossips.

I went last night to that door yonder;
I whistled for my thousands loves.
But her mother told me that she wasn’t there,
that she was sealed up in her coffin.

Listen, little Bridget, and don’t weep;
I wasn’t born for you, or for any woman.
With God’s help, I’ll baptise your baby;
and if I could undo the past, I would be yours.