I am slowly working my way through the poetry collected in the 17th and 18th century journals of Robert MacAdams (from the MacAdams of Ayr), a scholor of the Gaelic language who spent many years gathering up the poetry and songs of the Irish and the Welsh. The majority of his papers are to be found in the Library of Belfast and the the public record offices of PRONI (66 Balmoral Ave., Belfast, Northern Ireland, BT9-6NY). Robert's fist is not a terribly legible one and he used the old Irish alphabet (and creative old Irish spelling) to record the verses in his journals. As my background is in Scots Gaelic rather than Irish, the whole venture of translation has proved an uphill battle.

I don't mind though. What I have managed to translate is beautiful and moving. Below are some excerpts of poems and songs. Some of these songs are supposed to from the works of the Celtic harpist O'Carolan. If anyone recognizes where they came from and has either sheet music or a recording please contact me at melanie@employees.org. I will be eternaly grateful for the help.

Truth

Truth and forgiveness
Love God and love man
Holy isle of Erin
Blessed are we by God.

The Hand of God

The hand that writes is not permanent.
Nor is the memory that the hand wrote down.
The flowers that bloom now are transient too
As is the corn in the silo and the cow in the field.

Cran Ar A Coill (The Tree In The Forest)

There is a tree in the forest.
It is blooming fresh and new.
It inflames amusement;
Its sweet voice plain to me.

But my beloved is exposed with time.
The blooming branches
Give way to nakedness
Until they are stakes and black. (Stake as in what you pound through a vampire's heart)

The Mother (Nature) has no fireplace
We step on her progeny, her pride.
It is doomsday.
Grieve for the roots.

_____ ____- will exist __ ____ _______ .
___ need ______ _ ____________ .
It will exist ________ _______ .
____ _________ never bend.

Along with you, I would be glad to learn how this poem ends. Unfortunately, unless we find an answer elsewhere than the journals, I doubt we'll ever know.