Dónall Óg
(Young Donald)

Irish

A Dhónaill Óig, má théir thar farraige,
Tabhair mé fhéin leat is ná déan dearmad,
Beidh agat féirín lá aonaigh is margaidh,
Is beidh iníon Rí Gréige mar chéile feasta leat.

Gheall tú dhomsa ní ba dheacair dhuit,
Loingeas óir faoi chrann seóil airgid,
Dhá cheann déag de bhailte margaidh.
'S cúirt bhreá aolta cois taobh na farraige.

Gheall tú dhomsa ní nár bh'féidir,
Go dtabharfá laimhinní de chraiceann éisg dom,
Go dtabharfá brógaí de chraiceann éan dom,
Agus culaith don tsíoda ba dhaoire i nÉirinn.

'Gus gheall tú dhom agus rinne tú bréag liom,
Go mbeitheá romham ag cró na gcaorach,
Lig mé fead ort is míle béiceadh,
Ach ní bhfuair mé romham ann ach na h-uain ag méileach.

Bhain tú thoir agus bhain tú thiar dhíom,
Bhain tú an ghealach gheal is an ghrian dhíom.
Bhain tú an croí a bhí i lár mo chléibhe dhíom,
Agus is rímhór m'fhaitíos gur bhain tú Dia dhíom.

Tá mo ghrá-sa ar dhath na sméara,
Is ar dhath na n-airní lá breá gréine,
Ar dhath na bhfraochóg ba dhuibhe an tsléibhe,
'S is minic a bhí ceann dubh ar cholainn ghléigeal.

Ní raibh id' ghrá-sa ach mám den tsneachta gheal,
Nó gaineamh i dtrá i lár na farraige,
Nó feóchan gaoithe thar dhruim na ngarraithe,
Nó tuile thréan do bheadh t'réis lae fearthainne.
O Donal Og, if you cross the ocean,
Take me with you and do not forget.
From fair day and market you'll have a gift,
And the Greek king's daughter for your wife.

You made a promise, one of difficulty,
A fleet of gold with masts of silver,
A dozen towns, in each a market,
And a limewhite palace beside the seashore.

You made a promise, a thing unlikely,
That you would give me fine gloves of fish skin,
That you would give me fine shoes of bird skin,
And a coat of silk, the finest in Erin.

You promised it but to me you were lying,
You'd come to meet me in the sheep-fold,
I whistled and yelled for you, two hundred times,
With no reply except the young lambs bleatings.

You took what is before me and what is behind me,
You took the bright sun and you took the moon.
You took the heart from my bosom's cage,
And God Himself, if I am not mistaken.

Your heart is the colour of blackberries,
And the colour of the sloe on a sunny day,
The hue of the darkest bilberry on the mountain,
You are so bright and yet so dark.

Your love was but a handful of bright snow,
Or sand in the middle of the ocean,
Or a gust of wind over the garden,
Or a flow of water after a day of rain.