A Ḋoṁnaill Óig, má ṫéiġir ṫar fairrge
Beir mé féin leat, is ná déin do ḋearmad,
Is beiḋ agat féirín lá aonaiġ is margaiḋ
Is inġean ríoġ Gréige mar ċéile leabṫa agat.

Má ṫéiġir-se anonn tá coṁarṫa agam ort:
Tá cúl fionn agus ḋá ṡuil ġlasa agat,
Ḋá ċocán déag id’ ċúl buiḋe bacallaċ
Mar ḃeaḋ béal na bó nó rós i ngarraiṫe.

Is déiḋeannaċ aréir do laḃair an gaḋar ort,
Do laḃair an naosgaċ sa ċurraiċín doiṁin ort,
Is tú id’ ċaogaiḋe aonair ar fud na gcoillte,—
Is go raḃair gan ċéile go bráṫ go ḃfaġair mé!

Do ġeallais doṁ-sa, agus d’innsis bréag dom,
Go mbeiṫeá roṁam-sa ag cró na gcaoraċ:
Do leigeas fead agus trí ċéad glaoḋaċ ċuġat,
‘S ní ḃfuaras ann aċt uan ag méiliḋ!

Do ġeallais doṁ-sa, níḋ baḋ ḋeacair ḋuit,
Luingeas óir fá ċrann seoil airgid;
Ḋá ḃaile ḋéag da ḃailtiḃ margaiḋ;
Is cúirt ḃreaġ aolḋa cois taoḃ na fairrge.

Do ġeallais doṁ-sa, níḋ nárḃ’ ḟéidir,
Go dtaḃarṫá láiṁinne de ċroiceann éisg dom;
Go dtaḃarṫá bróga de ċroiceann éan dom;
Is culaiḋ de’n tsíoda baḋ ḋaoire i n-Éirinn.

A Ḋoṁnaill Óig, b’ḟearr ḋuit mise agat
‘Ná bean uasal uaiḃreaċ iomarcaċ;
Do ċrúḋfainn bó agus do-ġéanainn cuigeann duit,
Is, dá mbaḋ ċruaiḋ é, do ḃuailfinn buille leat!

Oċ oċón, agus ní le hocras,
Uireasba bíḋ, díġe, ná codalta,
Fá ndearr doṁ-sa ḃeiṫ tanaiḋ triuċalḋa,
Aċt gráḋ fir óig is é ḃreoiḋ go follus me!

Is moċ ar maidin do ċonnac-sa an t-óigḟear
Ar ṁuin ċapaill ag gaḃáil an ḃóṫair;
Níor ḋruid sé liom is níor ċuir ná stróḋ orm,
‘S ar mo ċasaḋ a ḃaile ḋom ‘seaḋ do ġoileas mo ḋóṫain.

Nuair ṫéiġim-se féin go Tobar an Uaignis
Suiḋim síos ag déanaṁ buaḋarṫa,
Nuair ċím an saoġal is ná feicim mo ḃuaċaill
Go raiḃ sgáil an ómair i mbarr a ġruaḋna.

Siúd é an Doṁnaċ do ṫugas gráḋ ḋuit,
An Doṁnaċ díreaċ roiṁ Ḋoṁnaċ Cásga,
Is mise ar mo ġlúiniḃ ag léiġeaḋ na Páise
‘Seaḋ ḃí mo ḋá ṡúil ag síor-ṫaḃairt an ġráḋa ḋuit.

Duḃairt mo ṁáiṫrín liom gan laḃairt leat
Indiu ná i mbáraċ ná Dia Doṁnaiġ,—
Is olc an tráṫ do ṫug sí roġa ḋom,
‘Sé dúnaḋ an dorais é tar éis na foġla.

Ó a ḋe, a ṁáiṫrín, taḃair mé féin do,
Is taḃair a ḃfuil agat de’n tsaoġal go léir do;
Éiriġ féin ag iarraiḋ déirce
Agus ná gaḃ siar ná aniar ‘om éileaṁ.

Tá mo ċroiḋe-se ċoṁ duḃ le háirne,
Nó le gual duḃ do ḃeaḋ i gceardċain,
Nó le bonn bróige ḃeaḋ ar hallaíḃ bána,
Is gur ḋeinis lionn duḃ ḋíom os cionn mo ṡláinte.

Do ḃainis soir ḋíom, is do ḃainis siar ḋíom,
Do ḃainis roṁam is do ḃainis im ḋiaiḋ ḋíom,
Do ḃainis gealaċ is do ḃainis grian ḋíom,
‘S is ró-ṁór m’eagla gur ḃainis Dia ḋíom!

Is é Taḋg Ó Donnċaḋa do ċuir síos an t-aṁrán sin roṁam. Donnċaḋ Ó Dargáin, sean-táilliúir i gCarraig na ḃFear i gConntae Ċorcaiġe, d’aiṫris dó é. Do ċuireamar i gcló san gcéad ċuid de’n ‘Aiṫriseoir’ é san mbliaḋain 1900.

Young Donal

O young Donal, if you go over the sea
Do not forget to take myself with you,
And you will have a fairing on fair and market day
And the King of Greece’s daughter to be your bedmate.

If you go across I have a sign to know you by:
You have a fair cúl and two grey eyes,
Twelve curls in your yellow ringleted cúl
Like a cowslip or a rose in a garden.

‘Tis late last night the beagle spoke of you,
The snipe spoke of you in the deep of the bog,
But you were gone like a lone barnacle goose among the woods,—
May you be without mate forever until you get me!

You promised me (and you told me a lie)
That you would be before me at the sheep pen;
I sent a whistle and three hundred shouts to you,
And I heard nothing there but a lamb bleating!

You promised me (a thing that were hard for you)
A fleet of gold with masts all silver,
Twelve towns, each one a market-town,
And a fair lime-white court beside the sea.

You promised me (a thing impossible)
That you would give me gloves of a fish’s skin,
That you would give me the shoes of the skin of birds,
And a suit of the costliest silk in Ireland.

O young Donal, I were meeter mate for you
Than a proud overbearing lady;
I would milk a cow, I would do the churning for you,
And if it went hard I would strike a blow with you!

Och, ochon! And it is not hunger,
Want of food, of drink, or of sleep,
That has caused me to be worn and wan,
But ‘tis love of a young man has plainly wasted me.

‘Tis early in the morning I saw the youth
Mounted on horseback going the road;
He did not draw near me or speak a word to me,
And on returning home I wept my fill.

When I go to the Well of Loneliness
I sit down making lamentation,
When I see the world and see not my lad,
Who had the shadow of amber mantling in his cheeks.

Yon is the Sunday I gave you love,
The very Sunday before Easter Sunday,
When I was on my knees reading the Passion
My two eyes were constantly giving you love.

My mother told me not to speak to you,
To-day nor to-morrow nor on Sunday,—
It was a bad time she gave me my choice,
‘Twas shutting the door after the theft.

O, little mother, give myself to him,
And give all that you have in the world to him,
Go yourself asking alms
And come not west or east to seek me.

My heart is as black as a sloe,
Or as black as coal that would be in a forge,
Or as the sole of a shoe on white halls,
And sure you have wasted my life and health.

You have taken east and you have taken west from me,
You have taken the path before me and the path behind me,
You have taken moon and you have taken sun from me,
And great is my fear that you have taken God from me!

‘Domhnall Og’ was written down by Mr. Tadhg O’Donoghue from the recitation of Denis Dorgan of Carrignavar, County Cork, and was first printed by Mr. O’Donoghue and me in our Aithriseoir, Part I., 1900. Mr. Yeats has translated some of it in his ‘Ideas of Good and Evil.’