Dá dtéidhinn-se siar is aniar ni thiucfainn,
Air an g-cnoc do b’áirde is air a sheasfainn,
’S í an chraobh chúmhartha is túisge bhainfinn
’Gus ’s é mo ghrádh féin ar luaithe leanfainn.
Tá mo chroidhe chomh dubh le áirne,
Ná le gual dubh dhoighfidhe i g-ceartaidh,
Le bonn bróige air hállaidhibh bána,
’S tá lionndubh mór os cionn mo gháire.
Tá mo chroidhe-se brúighte briste,
Mar leac-oidhre air uachtar uisge,
Mar bheidh’ cnuasach cnó léist a mbriste,
Ná maighdean óg léis a pósta.
Tá mo ghhrádh-s’ air dhath na sméara,
’S air dhath na súgh-craobh, lá breágh gréine,
Air dhath na bhfraochóg budh duibhe an tsléibhe,
’Gus is minic bhí ceann dubh air chollainn glégil.
Is mithid damh-s’ an baile seó fhágbháil,
Is geur an chloch ’gus is fuar an láib ann,
Is ann a fuaireas guth gan éadáil,
Agus focal trom ó lucht an bhiodáin.
Fuagraim an grádh, is mairg do thug é
Do mhac na mná úd, ariamh nár thuig é,
Mo chroidhe ann mo lár gur fhágbhuidh sé dubh é,
’S ni fheicim air an tsráid ná i n-áit air bith é.
| | If I could go west, I’d not return—
On the highest hill I’d stand,
The first fragrant branch I’d pick,
My love I’d quickly follow.
My heart is as black as sloe,
As black coal burned in a forge,
As bootsoles dirtying white floors,
A deep melancholy above my smile.
My heart indeed is bruised and broken,
Like an ice-sheet on water,
Like gathered nuts are after cracking,
As a young maid after marrying.
My love the color of blackberries,
The color of raspberries a fine sunny day,
The color of black mountain heath-berries—
There’s often a black head on a pure body.
I should leave this town,
Where the stone is hard and the mud cold,
Where song no longer avails,
But heavy words from the chattering mob.
I warn of love, and woe to who gave it
To yon woman’s son, who never understood,
My heart in my stomach, where he left it black,
And I don’t see him on the street or anywhere at all.
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