Gaeilge
D’aiṫle na ḃfileaḋ n-uasal,
Truaġsan tiṁeal an tsaoġail
Clan na n-ollaṁ go n-eagna
Folaṁ gan freagra faoḃair.
Truaġ a leaḃair ag liaṫa
Tiaċa naċ treaḃair baoise
Ar ceal níor ċoir a ḃfoilċeas
Toirċeas ḃfear n-óil na gaoise
D’aiṫle na ḃfileaḋ bár ionnṁas éigsi is iul
Is mairg do ċonnairc an ċinneaṁain b’éiriġ dúinn
A leaḃair ag tuitim i leiṁe ‘s is léiṫe i gcúil
Sag macaiḃ na droinge gan siolla dá séadaiḃ rún.
English
Gone are all the noble poets,
Sad the darkness of the world;
The children of those learned ollamhs
Now are void of keen retorts.
Sad their books with grey dust covered,
Satchels ne’er in folly versed;
Mystic lore forgotten wrongly,
Born of wisdom-drinkers’ minds.
After the death of the poets, whose riches were poems and wits;
Woe unto him who hath seen the fate that hath come upon us;
Their books, now unheeded in corners, lie mouldering, covered with dust,
While of their mystical treasures no whit is possessed by their sons.