A Neilí ḃán, suiḋ láiṁ liom, a ċara geal mo ċroiḋe,
Is leig mo láṁ ar do ḃráġaid nó ní ṁairfiḋ mé beo mí;
Do ṡnáṁas an tSiúir leaṫan ‘gus an tSionainn ṁór id’ ḋiaiḋ
Go síninn láiṁ leat, a ġráḋ ġil, i mBaile Loċa Riaċ!

Dá mbaḋ liom-sa Portomna agus Baile Loċa Riaċ,
Luimneaċ no long agus Conntae Ḃaile Áṫa Cliaṫ,
Ar do ṁuinntir-se do roinnfinn a leaṫ is a ḋá dtrian
D’ḟonn dul i gcleaṁnas leat lá fada agus bliaḋain!

Ó, is truaġ ġéar nár cailleaḋ mé amuiġ ar an sliaḃ
An áit a mbeaḋ mo ċnáṁa le piocaḋ ag an ḃfiaċ,
I ndán gur ṫuit mé i ngráḋ leat, a Neilí ḃán na gciaḃ,—
‘S mo ṁallaċt ar do ṁáiṫrín naċ áil léi mise ḋuit mar ċliaṁain!

Is binn brónaċ iad aṁráin ġráḋa na nGaeḋeal. Do ċluinfeá aṁráin ġrinn i measg na ndaoine, aċt ní árd-ḟiliḋeaċt atá ins na haṁránaiḃ sin, agus níl mórán measa ag luċt na Gaeḋilge orṫa. Tuigeann luċt na Gaeḋilge naċ fada ó n-a ċéile an áilne agus an brón, agus má’s áluinn an níḋ é an gráḋ gur minic brón i n-a ḋiaiḋ. ‘Trí níḋ do ċím trés an ngráḋ: an peacaḋ, an bás, is an ṗian.’ I gCúige Muṁan do rinneaḋ ‘Naċ Aoiḃinn do na hÉiníníḃ’ agus ‘Táid na Réalta ‘n-a Seasaṁ,’ aċt tá an ċéad aṁrán aca ar fud na Gaeḋealtaċta anois agus a ċuma féin ag gaċ ceanntar air. I gCúige Ċonnaċt do rinneaḋ ‘Néilí Ḃán.’ Ċífear na trí aṁráin i g‘Ceol Siḋe,’ aċt tá m’innsin féin agam orṫa annso.

Nelly Bhan

Sit beside me, Nelly Bhán, O bright friend of my heart,
Let my hand rest on your bosom or I shall not live a month;
I have swum the broad Suir and the great Shannon after you
To be beside you, O bright love, in the town of Loughrea!

If Portumna were mine and the town of Loughrea,
Limerick of the ships and the county of Dublin,
Their half or two-thirds I’d share among your kin
With desire to be joined to you for a long day and a year!

‘Tis a bitter pity I did not die out on the mountain
In the place where my bones would be picked by the raven,
Since fate has made me love you, O my white ringleted Nelly,—
And my curse upon your mother who will not have me for a son!

The love of the Irish peasant, if his love songs give it true expression, is not a thing of gladness but a thing of sadness, with a terrible passion at its core. In each of these songs (and while each is distinctive in its beauty they are all characteristic in their atmosphere) there is the same tender melancholy, broken startlingly by a gust of passion. ‘How Happy the Little Birds,’ and ‘The Stars Stand Up,’ are from Munster, but I find the first of them among the folk everywhere. ‘Nelly Bhán’ is from Connacht. In translating ‘The Stars Stand Up,’ I have doubtless been influenced by Mr. MacDonagh’s verse-rendering, though I have not looked at the latter recently. All three songs are well known: versions of them (which, however, I have not followed very closely) will be found in Miss Borthwick’s ‘Ceol Sidhe.’