NFC 635: 274-5
Bhí fear fadó ann, ar fud na mbaile so, arbh ainm Seáinín Sheáin Óig. Ní bhréatha leis aon chaitheamh aimsire a bhíodh ar siúl aige ná lámhach na róinte. Bhíodh na daoine aosta á chomhairliú ligint dos na róinte agus éirí as mar ghnó, mar go mbaineann a lán piseog leis na róintibh.
“Díth díchéille,” a deireadh Seáinín, “deineann siad san scrios ar an iasc, agus ar shnáth-iascaireacht.”
Thug sé an cluas bhodhar do na comhairligh, agus do lean sé a lámh.
Lá des na laethanta go raibh sé ag siúl na trá, agus a ghunna aige mar ba ghnáth, cad a chífeadh sé uaidh amach ach an rón i mbarr toinne. Rón baineann a bhí ann, agus a peata beag óg á díol. Do bheartaigh Seáinín é féin chun a urchair a scaoileadh ar an rón. Do bhéic an rón air go harraingeach;
“Fóill, fóill,” arsa an rón, “a Sheáinín Sheáin Óig, go dtabharfaidh mé an cíoch dom’ oisín beag róin.”
“Fóillfead, agus go deo,” arsa Seáinín agus ón lá san go dtí lá a bháis níor mharbh Seáinín aon rón.
There was a man long ago, in this town, named Seáinín Sheáin Óig. There was no past-time he enjoyed more than killing seals. The old people advised him to leave the seals be and to give up the business, because there are many superstitions connected to seals.
“What foolishness,” Seáinín would say, “they destroy the fish and the line-fishing.” He turned a deaf ear on the advice and he persisted.
One day he was walking on the beach, and he had his gun with him as usual, and what did he see before him but the seal on the surface of the water. It was a female seal, and her little pup was suckling. Seáinín decided to shoot the seal. The seal shouted at him sharply;
“Wait, wait,” said the seal, to Seáinín Sheáin Óig, “until I suckle my little baby rón [seal].”
“I’ll halt now, and forever,” said Seáinín, and from that day until the day he died, Seainín didn’t kill a single seal.