‘Se do bheatha, O woman that wast sorrowful,
What grieved us was thy being in chains,
Thy beautiful country in the possession of rogues,
And thou sold to the Galls,
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Now at summer’s coming!
Thanks to the God of miracles that we see,
Altho’ we live not a week thereafter,
Gráinne Mhaol and a thousand heroes
Proclaiming the scattering of the Galls!
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Now at summer’s coming!
Gráinne Mhaol is coming from over the sea,
The Fenians of Fál as a guard about her,
Gaels they, and neither French nor Spaniard,
And a rout upon the Galls!
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, ‘se do bheatha a bhaile,
Now at summer’s coming!