Do leaṫnaig an ciaċ diacraċ fá m’ ṡean-ċroiḋe dúr
Iar d-taisdiol na ndiaḃal iasaċta a ḃ-fearann Ċuinn ċugainn;
Sgamall air ġrian iarṫair dár ċeantar ríoġaċt Ṁuṁan
Fá deara ḋam triall riaṁ ort, a Ḃailintín Brún.
Caisiol gan ċliar, fiailteaċ, ná marċraiḋe air d-túis,
Is beanna ḃruig Ḃriain ciarṫuillte ṁadraoiḃ úisg’,
Ealla gan trian triaṫa do ṁacaib ríġ Muṁan
Fá deara ḋam triall riaṁ ort, a Ḃailintín Brún.
D’aistrig fiaḋ an fialċruiṫ do ċleaċtaiġ rí air d-túis,
Ó neadaiġ an fiaċ iasaċta a n-daingean-ċoill Rúis;
Seaċnaid iasg grian-t-sruiṫ is caise caoin ciuin
Fá deara ḋam triall riaṁ ort a Ḃailintín Brún.
Dairinis tiar Iarla ní’l aice ’on ċloinn úir,
A Hamburg, mo ċiaċ! Iarla na seaḃac síoḋaċ súġaċ;
Seanarosg liaṫ ag dian-ġol fé ċeaċtar díoḃ súd
Fá deara ḋam triall riaṁ ort a Ḃailintín Brún.
Clúṁ na n-ealtan meara ṡnáṁas re gaoiṫ
Mar lúireaċ dealḃ cait air ḟásaċ fraoig,
Diúltaid ceaṫra a laċta ṫál dá laoig,
Ó ṡiuḃail síos Ḃail a g-ceart na g-Cárṫaċ g-caoin.
Do stiúraig Pan a ḋearca a n-áirde críoċ,
Ag tnúṫ cár ġaiḃ an Marr do ḃásaig sinn;
Músglaid aiṫig ġearraḋ lán an trír,
Ag brúġaḋ na marḃ trasna ó ṡáil go rínn.
A distressing sorrow has spread over my old hardened heart
Since the foreign demons have come amongst us in the land of Conn,
A cloud upon the sun of the west to whom the kingship of Munster was due;
It is this which has caused me ever to have recourse to thee, Valentine Brown.
First, Cashel is without society, guest-house, or horsemen,
And the turrets of Brian’s mansion black-flooded with otters,
Ealla without a third of the chiefs descended from the kings of Munster;
It is this which has made me ever to have recourse to thee, Valentine Brown.
The wild deer has lost the noble shape that was her wont before,
Since the foreign raven nestled in the thick wood of Ross;
The fishes shun the sun-lit stream and the calm, delightful rivulet;
It is this that has caused me ever to have recourse to thee, Valentine Brown.
Dairinis in the west—it has no lord of the noble race;
Woe is me! in Hamburg is the lord of the gentle, merry heroes;
Aged, grey-browed eyes, bitterly weeping for each of these,
Have caused me ever to have recourse to thee, Valentine Brown.
The feathers of the swift flocks that fly adown the wind
Like the wretched fur of a cat on a waste of heather;
Cattle refuse to yield their milk to their calves
Since Valentine usurped the rights of the noble MacCarthy.
Pan directed his eyes high over the lands,
Wondering whither the Mars had gone whose departure brought us to death;
Dwarfish churls ply the sword of the three fates,
Hacking the dead crosswise from head to foot.