From The Poets and Poetry of Munster, by John O’Daly, published 1880.
Gaeilge
Maidion ṁoċ roiṁ ġréin,
Re sleasaiḃ Laoi na g-craoḃ
Ag taisdiol ḃíos – go tartṁar tím,
Ag maċtnaṁ gníoṁarṫa an t-saoġail!
Mar ṁeaṫsat príoṁ-ṡlioċt Gaoḋal,
Na n-arm líoṁṫa géar,
‘Sa b-ḟearainn dilse a sealḃ daoiṫe,
Lastar tonn mo léan!
Do stadaġ linn go tréiṫ,
Ag maċtnaṁ cruinn an sgéil,
Faoi ṫoraḋ crainn-ġlais ḟairsing, aoird,
‘S cantain binn na n-éan.
Gur ḋearcas ríoġain ṡéiṁ,
Ag teaċt go caoin rem’ṫaoḃ,
Dob’ ḟeárr suiġeaċan pearsa ‘s gnaoi,
d’ár dealḃuiġeaḋ ‘san spéir.
Ba ċasda cíorṫa a céiḃ,
Ag teaċt go mín-troiġ léi,
Tug sgamal draoiġéaċta tar an ḃ-flíos,
Rug fear na loing do’n Ġréig!
A mala ċíor-ḋuḃ ċaol,
Ar raṁar rín-rosg ċlaon,
A balsam gríos-ġuib blasda bínn,
‘S ba ċailce caoin a déad.
A mama cruinne géar,
Tug daṫ an aoil ar ḋaol,
Le d-tarcaisníġṫear sneaċta síon,
‘Sdá nabairín an ġéis!
Ba ṫana troiġṫe caoṁ,
Le’r meallaḋ míle laoċ,
Dá n-aṁarcaiġeaḋ an talaṁ truim,
Na satalaiġeaḋ an ḃéiṫ!
Faċaim díograis sgéil,
Do’n aingir ṁín-tais t-séiṁ,
A h-ainim ċruinn do ṫagairt linn,
A treaḃ ‘sa tír mar aon!
Nó alaḋ ṁín na g-craoḃ,
Do ċas arís a g-céin,
Tar fairgíḋe go fearan IR,
Le searc do Naois tar aon.
D’ḟreagair sí go séiṁ,
Ní neaċ do’n ḃuiḋin sin mé,
‘S me bean ṁic Coill na leaḃar sgríob,
Ba ġasda, gaosṁar, géar,
Seal dam aois dá éis,
Ag clanna Míleaḋ tréan,
Is mar sin ḃíos go seasgair síoḋaċ,
Gur ṫaisdil Gaill faoi’m ḋeoin!
English
Down by the branchy Lee,
Ere dawn I chanced to be,
While roving slow, o’er earthly woe,
A musing mournfully:—
How ruin did efface
The flower of Gaelic race,
The noble Gael—who now bewail
Their home a desert place.
Thus lonely and downcast
I mourned o’er the past,
While warblers made in the emerald shade,
Their music sweet and fast.
When gently at my side
Appeared a queenly bride,
Of fairer grace in form and face
Than aught of early pride.
Her curling tresses greet
Her small and gentle feet;
The golden fleece—the prize of Greece,
Might shame those locks to meet.
Her eye-brows dark and slight
O’er-arch her eyes of light,
And balm-fire tips her tuneful lips,
Her teeth are marble white.
Her bosom’s pearly light
Than summer clouds more bright,
More pure its glow than falling snow,
Or swan of plumage white.
Proud hosts would follow fast
As brown leaves in the blast,
Had they but seen the heavenly sheen,
Where she had softly past.
I sought of her to name
The bright land whence she came,
Her name and race, her biding place,
The story of her fame.
Was she that swan so fair,
Of clust’ring branchy hair,
Who came in grief with Ulster chief,
To meet her dark doom there,
With grace she answered me,
‘Not Deirdre dost thou see,
But e’en the wife of Mac Coill of strife,
And deeds of chivalry.
‘I’ve bided since his fall,
In mighty Milead’s hall,
‘Mid joy and peace that ne’er did cease,
Till came the heartless Gall!’