Oċón, a Ḋonnċaḋ! mo ṁíle cogarṫaċ fá’n ḃfód so sínte,
Fód an doiċill ‘n-a luiġe ar do ċolainn ḃig, mo loma-sgeiṁleaḋ!
Dá mbeaḋ an codlaḋ so i gCill na Dromad ort, nó i n-uaiġ san Iarṫar,
Mo ḃrón do ḃogfaḋ, cé gur ṁór mo ḋoċar, is ní ḃeinn id’ ḋiaiḋ air.

Is feoiḋte caiṫte tá na bláṫa sgaipeaḋ ar do leabaiḋ ċaoil-se,
Ba ḃreaġ iad tamall aċt ṫréig a dtaiṫneam, níl snas ná bríġ ionnta;
‘S tá’n bláṫ ba ġile liom dár ḟás ar iṫir riaṁ ná d’ḟásfaiḋ ċoiḋċe
Ag dreoġ’ sa talaṁ is go deo ní ṫacfaiḋ sé ag cur éirġe croiḋe orm.

Oċ, a ċumannaiġ! nár ṁór an sgrupal é an t-uisge ‘ot luasgaḋ,
Gan neart id’ ċuisleannaiḃ ná éinne i ngoire ḋuit do ṫaḃaraḋ fuarṫain:
Sgéal níor tugaḋ ċuġam ar ḃaoġal mo leinḃ ná ar ḋéine a ċruaḋtain—
Ó, ‘s go raġainn go fonnṁar ar ḋoiṁin-lic Ifrinn ċum tú ‘ḟuasgailt!

Tá an rae go dorċa, ní ḟéadaim codlaḋ, do ṡéan gaċ sóġ mé:
Garḃ doilḃ liom an Ġaeḋilg osgailte (is olc an coṁarṫa é);
Fuaṫ liom sealad i gc’luadar carad, bíonn a ngreann ‘om ċiapaḋ;
Ó’n lá go ḃfaca-sa go tláṫ ar an ngainiṁ ṫu’ níor ġeal an ġrian dom.

Oċ, mo ṁairg! cad do ḋéanfad feasta is an saoġal ‘om ṡuaṫaḋ,
Gan do láiṁín cailce mar leoiṫne i gcrannaiḃ ar mo ṁalainn ġruamḋa,
Do ḃéilín meala mar ċeol na n-aingeal go binn im’ ċluasaiḃ,
‘Gá ráḋ go cneasta liom, ‘Mo ġraiḋn m’aṫair boċt, ná bíoḋ buaḋairt ort!’

Ó, mo ċaiṫis é! is beag do ċeapas-sa i dtráṫ mo ḋóċais
Ná beaḋ an leanḃ so ‘n-a laoċ ṁear ċalma i lár na fóirne,
A ġníoṁarṫa gaisge is a smaointe meanman ar son na Fódla,—
Aċt an Té do ḋealḃuiġ de ċré ar an talaṁ sinn, ní mar sin d’órduiġ!

A Father Keens his Drowned Child

Ochón, O Donough! my thousand whispers stretched under this sod,
The sod of sorrow on your little body, my utter anguish!
If this sleep were on you in Cill na Dromad, or some grave in the West,
‘Twould soften my suffering, though great my hurt, and I would not repine for you!

Withered and wasted are the flowers they scattered on your narrow bed,
They were lovely for a little time, but their radiance is gone, they have no comeliness or life;
And the flower I held brightest of all that grew in soil or shall ever grow
Is rotting in the ground, and will spring no more to lift up my heart.

Alas, beloved! was it not a great pity, the water rocking you,
With no strength in your pulses nor anyone near you that might save:
No news was brought to me of the peril of my child or the extremity of his need—
Ah, though I’d gladly go to Hell’s deep flag to rescue you!

The moon is dark, I cannot sleep, all joy has left me:
Rough and rude to me the open Gaelic (‘tis an ill sign);
I hate a while in the company of friends, their merriment tortures me;
From the day I saw you dead on the sand, the sun has not shone for me.

Alas, my grief! what shall I do henceforth, the world wearing me,
Without your chalk-white little hand like a breath through trees on my sombre brow,
Your little mouth of honey like angels’ music sweet in my ears
Saying to me gently, ‘dear heart, poor father, be not troubled!’

Ah, desolate! I little thought in the time of my hope
That this child would not be a swift valiant hero in the midst of the band,
Doing deeds of daring and planning wisely for the sake of Fódla,
But He who fashioned us of clay on earth not so has ordered!