The Irish translation is taken from Archbishop John MacHale’s 1842 work A Selection of Moore’s Melodies Translated into the Irish Language.
Irish
FONN – Cruachán na Féine.
I.
Thuit lann lonnrach Éireann le buillidhe luatha, geur-tiugh’
Air an té, bhraith clann Uisnigh a’s bhris gealladh an righ;
‘S ní lia braon goirt gola, a falcadh ó’n bh-feall dubh,
‘Ná sgárdfar air a cloidheamh ó shruth fola a chroidhe.
II.
Dar an dearg-slám, bhí os cionn lann-dubh Concobhair aig síneadh,
‘Nuair bhí trí laochra Ulaidh a leaba fola faoi shuan;
Dar na treun-tonna catha aig borradh ‘s aig líonadh
A sheól na gaisgidhigh go buadhac, ‘s go treisamhail chum cuain.
III.
Móidghmuid cúitiughadh; o shians’ bhídhmuid falamh;
Bídheadh an óigh gan céile, bídheadh an chrut gan ceol, fann;
Bídheadh an teallach gan suarcas, ‘s gan saothrughadh an talamh;
Go g-cárnthar trom-dhíoghaltas anuas air a cheann.
IV.
A Rígh! gídh gur milis ar m-baile do mheabhrúghadh;
Gídh gur taithneamhach na deora do siltear le dáimh;
Gídh gur aoibhin gach gean air lucht cárdair a’s cabhra,
Le díoghaltas air dian-orc ní ‘l aon nidh chó sáimh.
English
AIR – Crochan of the Irish Fenii or Militia
I.
Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin
On him who the brave sons of Usna betray’d-
For every fond eye he hath waken’d a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o’er her blade.
II.
By the red cloud that hung over Conor’s dark dwelling,
When Ulad’s three champions lay sleeping in gore –
By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory’s shore –
III.
We swear to revenge them! – no joy shall be tasted
The harp shall fall silent, the maiden unwed,
Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,
Till vengeance is wreak’d on the murderer’s head!
IV.
Yes, monarch! Though sweet are our home recollections,
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!