A Dhónaill Óig, má théir thar farraige,
Beir mé féin leat, as ná déan mo dhearmad;
As beidh agat féirín lá aonaigh is margaidh,
Is iníon rí Gréige mar chéile leapa agat.
Má théir-se anonn, tá comhartha agam ort:
Tá cúl fionn agus dhá shúil ghlasa agat,
Dhá chocán déag i do chúl buí bachallach,
Mar bheadh béal na bó nó rós i ngarraithe.
Is déanach aréir do labhair an gadhar ort,
Do labhair an naoscach sa churraichín doimhin ort,
Is tú id chaonaí aonair ar fud na gcoillte,
Is go rabhair gan chéile go héag go bhfaghair me!
Do gheallais domh-sa, agus d’innsis bréag dom,
Go mbeitheá romham-sa ag cró na gcaorach;
Do leigeas fead agus trí chéad ghlaoch chút,
Is ní bhfuaras ann ach uan ag méiligh.
Do gheallais domh-sa ní ba dheacair duit:
Loingeas óir fá chrann seoil airgid,
Dhá bhaile dhéag de bhailtibh margaidh,
Is cúirt bhreágh aolga cois taobh na farraige.
Do gheallais domh-sa ní nár bhféidir,
Go dtabharfá lámhainne de chroiceann éisc dom,
Go dtabharfá bróga de chroiceann éan dom,
Is culaith den tsíoda ba dhaoire in Éirinn.
A Dhónaill Óig, b’fhearr duit mise agat
Ná bean uasal uaibhreach iomarcach;
Do chrúfainn bó is do dhéanfainn cuigeann duit,
Is dá mba chruaidh é bhuailfinn buille leat. |
Dónal Óg, if you cross the sea,
take me with you and don’t forget,
I’ll be your toy, brought home from market,
a Greek king’s daughter beside you in bed.
I’d know you anywhere, if you cross the ocean,
your hair is blond, your eyes grey,
there are twelve curls in your branching yellow hair
like cowslip or a rose in a garden.
The dog gave you away late last night,
the snipe betrayed you far out in the wet bog
as you moved like a woodkern through the woods –
may you never have a woman till you find me again.
You promised me something you knew was a lie,
that you’d wait for me by the sheepfold;
I whistled, and called you three hundred times
and got no answer, only the bleat of a lamb.
You promised me something that was hard to give,
golden ships with silver masts,
twelve towns with a fair in each one
and a limewhite palace beside the sea.
You promised me something that was impossible,
gloves that were made from the skins of fish,
birdskin shoes and a suit
of the dearest silk in Ireland.
Dónal Óg, better you had me
than some proud wealthy gentlewoman;
I’d milk a cow and churn the cream for you
and I’d fight beside you when the blows were struck.
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