Before you edit: All changes are checked by a moderator before being published to the site and could take a few days.
Nuair a d’éirigh mé ar maidin Dé Céadaoin, Níor choisric mé m’éadan, faraor, Nó gur bheir mé ar an arm a ba ghéire, Agus chuir mé a bhéal le cloch fhaobhair.
Chaith mise domh mo chuid éadaigh, ’Gus mo chiall mhaith gur lig mé le gaoth, Is nuair a chuala mise iomrá ar mo chéadsearc, Órú, steall mé an chorrmhéar ón alt díom.
Deir daoine go bhfuil mé tinn treallach, Is nach bhfuil faoiseamh ag m’aicíd le fáil, Ó chuir mé mo spéis ins an spéirbhean, Tá ina cónaí ar mhalaí an tSléibhe Bháin.
Tá coim aici is gile ná an eala, Nó an sneachta á shéideadh fán ard, Tá an rós is an mhil ina héadan, Is ní fhaca mé aon bhean ní b’fhearr.
Is fada mo chosa gan bróga, ’Gus is faide mo phócaí gan pínn, Is fada mé ag dul le mná óga, Ach níor ól mé riamh deoir le mo mhian.
Is fada mo chrá croí á dhéanamh ’Gus mo thumba á phriontáil ag saor, Mo chónair á tógáil lá earraigh, ’Gus na buachaillí deasa ag dul faoi.
Dá mbeinnse seacht mbliana faoi thalamh, Nó i bhfiabhras ar leabaidh i mo luí, A chéadsearc, dá dtiocfá agus mé a fhiafraí, Scéal cinnte go mbeinn leat i mo shuí.
Ó, nach trua nach marbh a bhí m’athair, Nuair a chuir sé mé go harm an Rí, Is gurb í an uaigh ó mo chrualeaba feasta, ’S a chéadsearc, nach trua leat mo luí.
When I got on Wednesday morning, not I consecrated m'éadan, alas, As I took the weapon to the most difficult, and I have a mouth with leading edge stone.
I threw my clothes for me, and my good sense I wind, is when I heard my sweetheart profile, ORU, I splash at the joint of the index finger.
People say I'm sick sporadically, is not relieved by getting diagnosed my illness, Since I put my interest in the maiden, has lived on the White Mountain brow.
Her waist is brighter than the swan, Or the blowing snow about high, is the most honey rose a face, a woman I did not see any better.
It’s a long time my feet are unshod It’s along time my pockets are without pennies, It’s along time I've been drinking with young women, But I never had a drink with my dear.
Long my heart has been broken for And my thumba being printed free, My tombstone built spring day, these fine young men going under.
If I was seven years underground, Or feverish on a bed in my lie, sweetheart, if I would come and ask, not as I would you awake.
Oh, pity that my father was not dead, when he put me into the King, is that it is the grave of my hard dying future, and sweetheart, not pity my dying.
SongsInIrish.com is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to amazon.com or amazon.co.uk.