Song of the Storyteller

Amhrán an tSeanchaí
              Song of the Storyteller

I mbun na tine tráthnóna ciúin,
Bhíodh glór na scéalta linn mar dhraíocht;
Ní raibh sa dorchadas ach solas súl,
Ag éisteacht leis an seanchaí críonna.

Bhíodh ríthe ann agus laochra láidre,
Mná sí agus draoithe faoin gcnoc;
D'oscail a bhéal geataí an aisling,
'S d'imigh an saol crua thar ár n-olc.

Beside the fire on quiet evenings,
The voice of story worked its spell;
No light but eyes and glowing embers,
Listening where the old man dwelt.

There were kings and heroes marching,
Fairy women beneath the hill;
He opened wide the gates of dreaming,
And daily cares grew strangely still.

Ó, a sheanchaí, fan linn fós,
I bhfuaim do ghutha tá ár ndóchas;
Sular tháinig boscaí geala,
Bhí an domhan i do dhá lámha.

Ó, a sheanchaí, glór na gaoithe,
Glór na n-aithreacha romhainn;
Thug tú aisling isteach sa teach,
Agus thug tú sinn amach asainn.

Oh storyteller, stay beside us,
In your voice our hopes were found;
Before the glowing boxes came,
You held the whole world in your hands.

Oh storyteller, voice of ages,
Voice of those who came before;
You brought the dream into the cottage,
And led us past the everyday door.

Bhíodh gáire ag preabadh i do shúile,
Mar ealaín bheo ar gach focal;
Do lámha ag tógáil caisleán ceo,
Do mhéara ag tarraingt bóithre fada.

Bhíodh na páistí ina dtost glan,
Na seandaoine ag cromadh isteach;
Bhí gach croí mar aon chroí amháin,
Ag imeacht leat thar teorainn an lae.

Laughter danced behind your bright eyes,
Waiting always to break free;
Your hands built castles out of moonlight,
Your fingers traced forgotten seas.

The children sat in perfect silence,
The elders leaned a little near;
Many hearts became one heartbeat,
Travelling where your voice would steer.

Anois cloistear guthanna eile,
Ó shreanga agus ó scáileáin ghlasa;
Ach ní bhíonn anam sa mheaisín,
Mar bhí i gcroí an tseanchaí.

Mar tá teas i nguth an duine,
Níl le fáil i gcré ná i gcruach;
Agus fad a inseofar scéalta,
Mairfidh do ríocht linn go buan.

Now other voices fill the evenings,
From wires and screens that brightly glow;
Yet no machine has ever carried
The living heart we used to know.

For warmth resides in human voices,
Not in steel nor polished glass;
And while a tale is told among us,
Your kingdom never truly passes.

Ó, a sheanchaí, codail séimh,
Tá do rian fós ar ár mbealach;
Mar a mhair an tine faoin luaith,
Maireann do scéalta inár gcroí.

Oh storyteller, rest in gentleness,
Your footprints still guide where we roam;
As fire survives beneath the ashes,
Your stories burn within our homes.

— 24-VI-2026

© 2026 C.M. Joserlin, "Raven"