Irish
Is atuirseaċ geur liom créaċta críċ Fódla
Fá sgamall go daor ‘sa gaolta clí-ḃreóiġte;
Na cranna baḋ ṫréine ag déanaṁ dín dóiḃ sin
Do gearraḋ a ngéaga ‘ra b-préaṁa crín-feoiġte.
Cé fada ḋuit, Éire, ṁaorḋa, ṁín-nósṁar,
Ad’ ḃanaltrain t-séiṁ le féile is fíor-eólus,
Beir feasda ad’ ṁéirdrig fé gaċ críon-ċóisir,
‘S gaċ ladrann coṁaiṫeaċ b’éis do ċlí ḋeóltaḋ.
Is mar ḃarra air mo ṁéala, feuċ gur díol deóra,
Go ngaḃann gaċ récs don réim sin roinn Eoruip
A ḃairrḟionn tais féin go saoġalta síṫeóilte,
Aċt banba a b-péin gan céile is í posda!
Ċailleamar préim-ṡlioċt Néill is síol Eogain,
Is na fearaċoin tréana, laoċraḋ ríoġaċt Bóirṁe,
Don Ċaraṫ’ ḟuil ḟéil, mo léun, ní’l puinn béo aguinn!
Is fada sinn tréiṫ fá léir-sgrios buiḋin Leópald.
Is dearḃ gur b’é gaċ éigion íogcóra,
Ganguid is éiṫeaċ, claon is díoṫ-ċóṁall,
Gan ceangal le ċéile, aċt raobaḋ rínn-sgórnaċ,
Do ṫarraing go faoḃraċ fraoċ an Ríoġ ċoṁaċtaig.
Ó ċailleamar Éire is méad ár mío-ċoṁṫrom,
Is treasgairt na laoċ mear, treun, nár ṁí-ṫreóraċ,
Air Arad-Ṁac Dé ‘s air ṫreun na Tríonóide
Go mairfiḋ bá n-éir an mead so ḋíoḃ beó aguinn.
Ċailleadar Gaoḋail a d-tréiṫe caoin córaċ,
Carṫanaċt, féile, beusa, is bínn-ċeólta;
Alla-tuirc claon do ṫraoċ sinn faoi ṁór-smaċt;
Agallaim Aon-Ṁac Dé air Gaoiḋil d’fóirṫin.
English
Woeful and bitter to me are the wounds of the land of Fodla,
Who is sorely under a cloud whilst her kinsfolk are heartsick;
The trees that were strongest in affording them shelter
Have their branches lopped off and their roots withering in decay.
Long though thou hast been, O majestic, gentle-mannered Erin,
A fair nursing-mother with hospitality and true knowledge;
Henceforth shalt thou be an unwilling handmaid to every withered band,
While every foreign boor shall have sucked thy breasts.
And to crown my sorrow, behold it is a fit subject for tears,
That every king of the dynasties who divide Europe amongst them
Possesses his own fair, gentle spouse in prosperity and peace,
While Banba is in pain without a consort, wedded though she be.
We have lost the root-stock of Niall and the seed of Eoghan,
And the bold champions, the warriors of the kingdom of Borumha;
Of the hospitable race of Carthach, woe is me! we have not many alive,
And long have we been helpless under the devastation of Leopold’s band.
In sooth it is every violence of injustice on our part,
Deceit and falsehood and treachery and dishonesty,
Our want of union, and, instead, the tearing of each other’s throats,
That have drawn down on us keenly the rage of the Mighty King.
Since we have lost Erin, and because of the extent of our misfortunes,
And because of the overthrow of the nimble, strong warriors, who were not wanting in vigour,
We entreat the noble Son of God and the Might of the Trinity,
That those of them who are alive with us may thrive after them.
The Gaels have lost their gentle, comely qualities;
Charity, hospitality, manners, and sweet music;
Wicked, alien boars it was that forced us under great oppression;
I beseech the Only Son of God to grant relief to the Gaels.