Is ar an mbaile seo ċonnaic siḃ an t-iongnaḋ
Ar Ḋonnċaḋ Bán is é dá ḋaoraḋ.
Ḃí caipín bán air i n-áit a hata,
Is róipín cnáibe i n-áit a ċaraḃata.

Tá mé ag teaċt ar feaḋ na hoiḋċe
Mar ḃeaḋ uainín i measg seilḃe caoraċ,
Mo ḃrollaċ fosgailte is mo ċeann liom sgaoilte,
Is cá ḃfuiġinn mo ḋearḃráiṫrín roṁam aċt sínte?

Ċaoin me an ċéad dreas ag gob an loċa,
An dara dreas ag bun do ċroiċe,
An tríoṁaḋ dreas os cionn do ċuirp-se
I measg na nGall is mo ċeann dá sgoilteaḋ.

Dá mbeiṫeá agam-sa san áit ar ċóir ḋuit,
Ṫíos i Sligeaċ nó i mBaile an Róḋba,
Brisfiḋe an ċroċ, gearrfaiḋe an rópa,
Is leigfiḋe Donnċaḋ Bán a ḃaile ar an eolas!

‘S a Ḋonnċaḋ Ḃáin, níorḃ’ í an ċroċ baḋ ḋual duit,
Aċt dul ċum an sgiobóil is t’easair do ḃualaḋ,
An céaċta d’iompóḋ deiseal is tuaiṫḃeal,
‘S an taoḃ ḋearg de’n ḃfód do ċur i n-uaċtar!

A Ḋonnċaḋ Ḃáin, a ḋearḃráiṫrín dílis,
Is maiṫ atá a ḟios agam siúd do ḃain díom ṫu,
Ag ól an ċupáin, ag deargaḋ an ṗíopa,
‘S ag siuḃal na drúċta i gcuim na hoiḋċe.

A Ṁic Uí Ṁulṫáin, a sgiúrsa an ṁí-áiḋ,
Ní laoġ bó bradaiġe do ḃí in mo ḋríoṫáir,
Aċt buaċaillín cruinn deas ar ċnoc ‘s ar ċnocán
Do ḃainfeaḋ fuaim go bog binn as camán!

‘S a Ḋonnċaḋ Ḃáin, naċ é sin an buaiḋreaḋ,
‘S a ḟeaḃas is d’iomċróċṫa spuir agus buatais!
Ċuirfinn éadaċ faiseanta de’n éadaċ baḋ ḃuaine
Is ċuirfinn amaċ ṫú mar ṁac duine uasail.

A Ṁic Uí Ṁulṫáin, ná raiḃ do ċlann ṁac i ḃfoċair a ċéile,
Ná do ċlann inġean ag iarraiḋ spré ort!—
Tá ḋá ċeann an ḃuird folaṁ, ‘s an t-urlár líonta,
Is Donnċaḋ Bán, mo ḋearḃráiṫrín, sínte.

Tá spré Ḋonnċaḋa Ḃáin ag teaċt a ḃaile,
Is ní ba, caoiriġ é, na capaill,
Aċt tobac is píopaí is coinnealla geala,
Is ní ḋá ṁaoiḋeaṁ é ar luċt a gcaiṫte!

Ḃí Marḃna Ḋonnċaḋa Ḃáin i mbéalaiḃ na sean-daoine i nÁrainn nuair do ḃíos ann agus mé im’ ṁacaoṁ. Is ó’n gCraoiḃín Aoiḃinn do fuaras an teistiṁin sin roṁam an t-am do ḃí ‘An tAiṫriseoir’ dá ċur le ċéile agam-sa agus ag Taḋg Ó Donnċaḋa. Do ċuireamar i gcló san gcéad ċuid de’n ‘Aiṫriseoir’ í san mbliaḋain 1901.

Bean tsléiḃe éigin do rinne an Marḃna ag caoineaḋ Connaċtaiġ óig do croċaḋ le Gallaiḃ. Ní fios ciarḃ’ é an Connaċtaċ óg úd, ná cár croċaḋ é, ná ciarḃ’ í bean a ċaointe ná tuigtear as na foclaiḃ ‘dearḃráiṫrín,’ ⁊c., gur deirḃṡiúr ḋó í, óir is gnáṫaċ ‘dearḃráṫair’ nó ‘deirḃṡiúr’ do ġairm de ḋuine mar ainm ceana.

Tá trí ceaṫraṁna de na ceaṫraṁnaiḃ sin roṁam curṫa i mBéarla ag an Yéatsaċ i ‘Kathleen Ni Houlihan.’

The Keen for Fair-Haired Donough

It is in this town ye have seen the wonder,
The dooming of Donough the fair.
He wore a white cap in place of his hat,
And a hempen rope in place of his neckcloth.

I have been coming all the night long
Like a little lamb in the midst of a great flock of sheep,
My breast all bare, and my hair all streaming,
And how should I find my little brother but dead before me?

I keened the first bout at the lip of the lake,
And the second bout at the foot of your gallows,
The third bout above your corpse
In the midst of the Gall and my head all throbbing.

If I had had you where you ought to have been,
Down in Sligo or in Ballinrobe,
They’d have broken the gallows, they’d have cut the rope,
And let fair-haired Donough home on his keeping!

O fair-haired Donough, ‘tis not the gallows was your due,
But to go to the barn and to thresh your corn,
To guide the plough to the right hand and to the left,
And to turn up the red side of the sod!

O fair-haired Donough, dear little brother,
Well do I know what has taken you from me,
Drinking the cup and reddening the pipe,
And walking the dew in the dead of night.

And you, Mullane, ill-omened scourge,
No calf of a false cow was my brother,
But a tight comely little lad on hill and hillock
Who would draw a sound soft and sweet from a hurley!

And O fair-haired Donough, is it not the pity,
And how well you would carry spurs and boots!
I might put fashionable clothes on you of the most lasting cloth
And send you abroad as a gentleman’s son.

May your sons, Mullane, never gather together,
Nor your daughters ever ask you for dowry!—
The two ends of the table are empty, and the floor crowded,
And fair-haired Donough, my little brother, laid out.

The dowry of fair-haired Donough is coming home,
And it is not kine, sheep, or horses,
But tobacco and pipes and white candles,
And no man grudges them to those that use them!

‘The Keen for Fair-haired Donough’ was common in Aran when I was there as a lad. In 1901, when Mr. Tadhg O’Donoghue and I were putting An tAithriseoir together, Dr. Hyde sent me this Mayo version, and we published it in Part I. of An tAithriseoir, with one or two substitutions from my Aran source.

The Keen was made by some mountainy woman for a young Connachtman hanged by the English. Who he was, where he was hanged, or who was his keener we do not know. We are not to assume that she was his sister: the words ‘dearbhrathair,’ ‘deirbhshiur’ (‘brother,’ ‘sister’) are often used by our people as terms of endearment.

Mr. W. B. Yeats has given a beautiful English version of three of these stanzas in his ‘Kathleen Ni Houlihan.’