The pulse of an Irishman
Language: English
Available translation(s): FRE SPA
The pulse of an Irishman ever beats quicker,
whan war is the story, or love is the theme;
and place him where bullets fly thicker and thicker,
you'll find him all cowardice scorning.
And tho' a ball should maim poor Darby,
light at the heart he rallies on:
"Fortune is cruel, but Norah, my jewel,
is kind, and with smiling, all sorrow beguiling,
shall bid from our cabin all care to be gone,
and how they will jig it, and tug at the spigot,
an Patrick's day in the mornin'."
O blest by the land in the wide western waters,
sweet Erin, lov'd Erin, the pride of my song;
still brave be the sons, and still fair be the daughters
thy meads and thy mountains adorning!
And tho' the eastern sun seems tardy,
tho' the pure light of knowledge slow,
night and delusion, and darkling confusion
like mists from the river shall vanish for ever,
and true Irish hearts with warm loyalty glow;
and proud exaltation burst forth from the nation
on Patrick's day in the mornin'.
Authorship:
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (Isabelle Cecchini) , "Le sang d'un Irlandais", copyright © 2003, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- GER German (Deutsch) [singable] (Georg Pertz) , "Das Blut eines Iren"
- SPA Spanish (Español) (Susana Martin Dudoignon) , "El pulso de un irlandés", copyright © 2021, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: Caroline Diehl
This text was added to the website: 2005-01-16
Line count: 22
Word count: 177
Le sang d'un Irlandais
Language: French (Français)  after the English
Le sang d'un Irlandais bat plus fort dans ses veines
Quand on parle de guerre, quand on chante l'amour,
S'il se trouve où le feu ennemi se déchaîne.
La peur, la lâcheté, il méprise toujours.
Et si jamais une balle doit le mutiler,
Le pauvre Darby chante encor, le coeur léger:
"La Fortune est cruelle, mais Norah, mon trésor,
En souriant, tous tracas, tous soucis met dehors.
Elle ordonne aux tourments de quitter la maison,
Ils danseront la gigue, videront les flacons
Pour fêter saint Patrick dès le lever du jour."
Que soit bénie la terre dans le vaste océan,
Douce Irlande, chère Irlande, la fierté de mon chant,
Que tes fils, que tes filles, la vertu, la beauté
Ornent à tout jamais et tes monts et tes prés
Et bien que le soleil tarde un peu à l'Orient,
Que de la connaissance le flambeau soit trop lent,
La nuit, les tromperies, la sombre confusion
Comme brouillard du fleuve pour toujours s'en iront.
L'orgueil, la loyauté embraseront les âmes
De tous les Irlandais dont la fierté s'enflamme
Pour fêter saint Patrick dès le lever du jour.
Authorship:
- Translation from English to French (Français) copyright © 2003 by Isabelle Cecchini, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2005-01-18
Line count: 22
Word count: 187