poem: oíche nollaig na mban

In Ireland, the Feast of the Epiphany is also know as "Little Christmas", or "Women's Christmas" - in the Irish language "Nollaig Na mBan".

I remember studying this poem in school.

Oíche Nollaig Na mBan

Bhí fuinneamh sa stoirm a éalaigh aréir.
Aréir oíche Nollaig na mBan,
As gealt-teach iargúlta 'tá laistiar den ré
Is do scréach tríd an spéir chughainn 'na gealt
Gur ghíosc geataí comharsan mar ghogallach gé,
Gur bhúir abhainn slaghdánach mar tharbh,
Gur mhúchadh mo choinneal mar bhuille ar mo bhéal
A las 'na splanc obann an fhearg

Ba mhaith liom go dtiocfadh an stoirm sin féin
An oíche go mbeadsa go lag
Ag filleadh abhaile ó rince an tsaoil
Is solas an pheaca ag dul as,
Go líonfaí gach neomat le liúirigh ón spéir,
Go ndéanfaí den domhan scuaine scread,
Is ná cloisfinn an ciúnas ag gluaiseacht fám dhéin,
Ná inneall an ghluaisteáin ag stad.

Seán Ó Riordáin

Update:

I didn't have time to post my own translation this morning, but fortunately, my friend and neighbor, renowned Irish language scholar Antóin Ó Cléirigh sent me the following, which is much superior to any translation that I might have written:

The Eve of Little Christmas

There was vigour in the storm that escaped last night
Last night, the eve of Little Christmas
From a remote madhouse behind the moon
And screamed through the sky to us like a maniac
So that the neighbour's gate creaked like the gaggling of geese,
So that the snuffled river bellowed like bull,
'Til my candle was extinguished like a smack in the mouth
That ignited my anger in a sudden spark

I would like that that self-same storm would come
The night when i will be weak
Returning home from the dance of life
With the light of sin declining,
That every minute would be filled with cries from the sky,
That the world become a procession of screams,
And that I wouldn't hear the silence sneak up on me.
Or the engine of the car stopping.