mnáiḃ, agus níor ḃ’fada ḋo ann go ḃfaca sé iad ag tarruingt air, agus an “siuċam-seaċam” céadna d’airiġ se ar dtús ag dul ar n-aġaiḋ aca fós. Do ċuir sé cluas air féin, ag feuċaint a’ ḃfaiġeaḋ sé amaċ cad do ḃí siad a ráḋ, aċt níor ṫuig sé aon ḟocal aṁáin. Do spalp an ġealaċ amaċ ’nuair do ḃí siad ag dul ṫairis, agus do ḃí raḋarc ṁaiṫ aige ar na mnáiḃ, mar b’ḟéidir leis bárr an ġunna do leagaint orṫa, beag-naċ, ó’n áit ’n-a raiḃ sé i ḃfolaċ, do ḃí sé ċoṁ goirid sin dóiḃ.
Ba sean-ċailleaċa iad, agus ní ḟaca sé riaṁ roiṁe sin duine no beiṫiḋeaċ leaṫ ċoṁ gránna leo. Do ḃí a ngruaig ċoṁ liaṫ le broc agus a gcroicionn ċoṁ buiḋe leis an ór agus ċoṁ cropuiġṫe le leaṫair ṡean-ḃróige. Annsan do ḃí a súile ag cur teine asta mar smeaċada dearg; agus ċun an sgeul do ḋeanaḋ níos measa, do ḃí ċeiṫre stair-ḟiacail cam fada ag fás as beul gaċ duine aca. Do ṫug Doṁnall rud eile faoi ndeara. Do ḃí ceann aca ag iomċur ualaiġ icínt faoi n-a clóca, agus ’nuair do ċonnaic sé é sin, duḃairt sé leis féin, “Dar mo láiṁ, ní’l ceann caol ar Ḋoṁnall anoċt. Do ḃí ’ḟios agam-sa go maiṫ cad do ḃí siad ag dul ċun deanaḋ. Is é Dia do ċuir mise amaċ anoċt gan doḃta ar doṁan.”
Suas an sráid leo, agus do ċuinnig Doṁnall a ṡúile orṫa, agus níor ḃ’fada gur ṡeas siad taoḃ amuiġ de ṫiġ beag deas cómpórdaċ do ḃí ar ṫaoiḃ na sráide. Do léim Doṁnall ’n-a ṡeasaṁ ’nuair do ċonnaic sé na cailleaċa ag deanaḋ ar an tiġ beag, agus is iongantaċ nár ṗreab a ċroiḋe amaċ ar an mbóṫar le faitċios agus le heagla, aċt ní mar ġeall air féin. Ba duine muintire leis féin do ḃí ’n-a ċoṁnuiḋe ’san tiġ beag, dar ḃ’ainm Miċeál Ua Conċuḃair, agus ní raiḃ sé pósta aċt cúpla bliaḋain. Is fa ḋéin leanaiḃ an ḟir so do ḃí na cailleaċa ag teaċt, agus is é sin do ċuir an eagla ar Ḋoṁnall boċt.
Ḋruid na cailleaċa isteaċ, agus do ṫóg ceann aca an ḟuinneog, agus isteaċ léiṫe gan ṁoill. ’Nuair do ḃí sí istiġ do ċrom an ceann eile síos, mar do ḃí an ḟuinneog íseal, agus do ṫug sí an t-ualaċ do ḃí faoi n-a clóca do’n ċailliġ istig.
(le ḃeiṫ ar leanaṁuin.)
TRANSLATION.
About sixty years ago, or that way, there was a widow living near Lahinch, in the County of Clare, and she had only one son, whose name was Daniel O’Leary. He was a fine, strong boy, and all the people around the place were very thankful to him—i.e., had a regard for him—and were were very fond of him, for he was a good neighbour; and, along with that, he was hearty, manly and civil.
His mother had not a fault in the world with him but one fault alone, and indeed, and indeed, that was not worth talking about. He had a great desire to be out in the night shooting rabbits with the light of the moon, in the great sand-hills which are on the brink of the sea, stretching over from Lahinch to O’Brien's Bridge; and his mother used to be, morning and evening, complaining and grumbling on account of this, for the fear of her heart was on her that the Good People or the Death Coach would come across Daniel some night in the sand-hills. But he had not the heed of a dog on her talk, and he used be only making fun of her, for “the demon nor Doctor Foster” would not make him afraid. She used say then: “Follow on, you rogue. You are making fun of me now; but maybe before this year is spent you will not be so pleasant. My sorrow! it is hard to put down the old words, ‘Young people have slender heads,’ and you have a slender head, Daniel.”
It was good, and it wasn’t bad, and one Hallowe’en Daniel was abroad, as was usual with him, in pursuit of the rabbits. It was a fine moonlight night, and there was not a puff of wind nor any other sound abroad, but only the murmur of the sea on the strand, or now and then the sharp whistle of the plover over his head. He walked up and down and round about the sand-hills; but the luck was not on his labour that night. He did not see a rabbit in the world, or any other thing; and he was coming home, tired and weary enough, making towards one o’clock, and what did he see out before him on the road but two women, and they chatting away together. Wonder came on him when he saw the women, without any man along with them making company with them, and he said to himself: “Isn’t it late they are abroad? I wonder is there anyone dead in the neighbourhood tonight! Maybe it is out of the wake they are coming. But I’ll know presently, and, if there is, I’ll go for a little while in the wake.”
They were more than a mile and a half from Lahinch at this time, and Daniel thought that he would be up to them before there wonld be another quarter of a mile walked with them. He stirred up then and he did his best to come up with them, but though he put great haste on himself he did not gain a footstep on the women. He ran then, for he did not like to be beaten entirely, but it was all the same—the women were just as far away as they were at first. Then he stood up on the road and he thought of himself. He looked sharply on the women again, and he took notice that it wasn't walking they were at all but going above the road like a shadow on a March day. “By my baptism!” says Daniel, “I am
