A Naoidhe Naoimh / O Holy Child



A Naoidhe Naoimh

Dán don Nollaig

Dia do bheatha, a naoidhe naoimh,
Isan mainséar cé taoi bocht,
Meadhrach saidhbhir atá tú
'S glórmhar id dhún féin anocht.

Míle fáilte a–nocht i gclí
Le mo chroidhe dom rŪgh fial;
In dá nádúir ó do-chuaidh,
Póg is fáilte uaim do Dhia.

A naoidhe bhig atá mór,
A leanbáin óig atá sean,
San mainséar ní chuire a lán
Cé nach bhfagha áit ar neamh.

Ar neamh dhíbh gan mháthair riamh,
Gan athair 'nar n-iath a-nos,
It fhírDhia riamh atá tú
Is id dhuine ar dtús a-nocht.

Dia do bheatha, a Íosa, a-rís,
Dia do bheatha i gclí ón óigh,
A ghnúis is áille nó an ghrian,
Na mílte fáilte do Dhia óg.

Uch, dá lamhainn dul is–teach —
Atá a–muigh led chead, a rí —
Le fáilte do-bhéarainn fós
Míle 'gus míle póg dhíbh.

Póg dod bhéal, a bhráthair gaoil,
Póg, a phápa naoimh, dod chois,
Póg dod láimh ós tú mo rí;
Is duit uile, a Dhia, mo thoil.

A Mhuire, a mháthair, a ógh,
Oscail doras an chró dhamh
Go n–adhrainn ardrí na ndúl —
Nach córa dhúinn ná do dhamh?

Do–ghéan seirbhís do Dhia i bhfos,
Faire go moch is go mall;
Gadhair na mbuachaill ón tsliabh
Buailfead ón triath atá fann.

An t–asal fós is an damh
Ní leigfead i ngar dom rígh;
Do–ghéan féin a n-áitsin dó —
Asal mé is bó Mhic Dé Bhí.

Do–bhéar uisce liom go moch,
Scuabfad urlár bocht Mhic Dé;
Do–ghéan tine san anam fhuar
'S tréigfead tré dhķthracht mo chorp claon.

Nighfead a bhochtbhréide dhó,
Is dá dtuga, a ógh, cead damh,
Mo cheirt féin do bhainfinn díom
Dá cur mar dhíon ar do mhac.

Ní iarrfad airgead ná ór
Acht uair san ló póg dom rígh;
Do–bhéar mo chroidhe féin uaim
'S glacaidh é mar luach an trír.

A Phádraig ón leanbhsa fuair
Bachall Íosa mar bhuaidh grás,
A ghein gan domblas id chlí,
'S a Bhrighid, bí linn de ghnáth.

A phátrúin oileán na naomh,
Faghaidh grása ó Dhia dhúinn;
Mar chruimh in uamhaidh Dé a-nocht
Glacthar bráithrín bocht ó Dhún.

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Aodh 'Mac Aingil' / Aodh Mac Cathmhaoil (1571—1626) a chum an dán cráifeach seo i dtús an 17ú haois.
I gContae an Dúin a rugadh an file.
Chuaigh sé isteach in Ord San Proinsias agus chuidigh sé le bunú na gcoláistí Éireannacha i Lobháin agus sa Róimh.
Ceapadh ina Ard‒easpag ar Ard Mhacha é sa bhliain 1626 ach fuair sé bás sa Róimh go gairid ina dhiaidh sin.

O Holy Child

A Poem for Christmas

My greetings to you, o holy child,
Though in your manger you are so poor,
In your happiness you are so rich
You are glorious in your stronghold this night.

My welcomes tonight to the incarnate
With all my heart to my generous king;
Since he now has two natures,
A kiss of welcome to my God.

O little child you are so great,
O young infant you are so old,
You couldnít get a lot into that manger
Yet all of heaven cannot contain you.

In heaven you never even had a mother
Nor a father down here below,
True God for ever are you
Yet tonight is your first ever as man.

Again I greet you, o my Jesus,
I greet you made flesh from the virgin,
O face more lovely than the sun,
A host of welcomes to our young God.

Oh, if I but dared to go right in —
From outside, o permit it, my king —
I would welcome you still
With thousands and thousands of kisses.

I'd kiss your mouth, my blood brother,
I'd kiss, my holy pope, your foot,
I'd kiss your hand for you are my king;
And all of you, my God, that is my wish.

O Mary, o mother, o virgin,
Open the door of the stall for me
That I may adore natureís high king —
Shouldnít it be us rather than just an ox?

I will be of service to my God here below
I will be on duty both early and late;
The shepherd dogs from the hill
I will send away for my lord is weak.

And the donkey too and the ox
I wonít let them even near my king;
I will take their place for him —
A donkey and cow for the Living God's Son.

I will bring the water in the morning,
And sweep his poor floor for Godís Son;
And Iíll go light a fire in my cold soul
With zeal Iíll forsake my perverse body.

Iíll wash his poor clothes for him,
And, o virgin, if you will let me,
Iíll take off my own old rag
And put it all over your son.

Iíll not ask for money nor for gold
Just once a day a kiss for my king;
Iíll take out my very own heart
Accept it in exchange for you three.

O Patrick from this child you got
A sign of grace, the staff of Jesus,
Conceived without stain in the womb,
And please stay with us for always, o Brigid.

O patrons of this sainted isle,
Obtain graces for us from God;
Like a worm in Godís cave this very night
Let a poor little friar from Down be tolerated.

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Aodh ‘Mac Aingil’ / Aodh Mac Cathmhaoil / Hugh Campbell (1571—1626) wrote this poem at the beginning of the 17th century.
The poet was born in County Down.
He entered the Franciscan Order and helped to set up the Irish colleges in Louvain and in Rome.
He was appointed Archbishop of Armagh in 1526 but died in Rome shortly afterwards.



Translation: Barry Tobin, 6 December 2004, who wishes to acknowledge the help received from the book, ‘Down's Angelic Genius (Aodh Mac Aingil’), by Patrick Kearns, published by ‘Éigse Oirialla’ in 1985.

Nascanna don Ghaeilge
Links to Irish / Gorgysylltiadau i’r Wyddeleg.

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