Úna Bhán
(Fair Una)

Irish

Na cheithre Úna, na cheithre Aine, na cheithre Máire 's na cheithre Nóra,
Na cheithre mná ba cheithre bpeáca gceapda na Fódla,
Na cheithre táirní a chuaidh 's na cheithre clára, na cheithre cláracha cónra,
Ach na cheithre gráin ar na cheithre mná nach dtug na cheithre grá go na cheithre póga.

'Gus Úna Bhán Nic Diarmaid Óig,
Fiorsgoth Búrcach, Brúnach, 's Brianach Mór,
Bhí do bhéal mar an tsiúcra, mar leamhnacht, mar fhíon, 's mar bheoir,
'Gus do dhois deas lúfar 'sí shiúlfadh gan fiar i mbróig.

A shúil is glaise Ó ná ligean anuas an bhraon,
A ghuth is binne ná guth na cuaiche ar chraobh,
A thaobh is gile Ó ná coipeadh na gcuan seo thíos,
'Gus a stór is a chumainn, nach mic do bhuireadh thríom.

A Úna bhán, ba rós i ngáirdín thú,
‘Ba choinnleoir óir ar bhord na Banríona thú,
Ba cheilliúr agus ba cheolmhar a’ dul an bhealaigh seo romham thú,
Ach ‘s é mo chreach mhaidne bhrónach nár pósadh liom thú.

A dhearthair, ó dá bhfeictheá sa teampall í
Ribín uaithne anuas aar a ceann mar ghnaoi,
gach dlaoi dá gruaig in a dual mar an ómra bhuí
Ach sé mo thrí thruaige nár luadadh liom i gcleamhnas í.

Is trua gan mise i mo phréachan dubh,
Go dtabharfainn an ruaig úd suas ar leath fhalla an chnoic,
'Mo ghath gréine i mbarr fréime ag casadh faoi shruth,
'Gus mo ghrá féin ar gach taobh dhíom á castáil dom.
The four Unas, the four Annes, the four Marys, the four Noras,
The four women finest by fourfold in the four quarters of Fódla.
The four driven into the four coffin boards, the four oak coffins o;
But my fourfold hate on the four women who gave not their love with their kisses four.

Fair Úna, daughter of Diarmaid Óg,
Choicest flower of the Burkes, Brownes and the lordly O'Briens,
Your mouth was like honey, like milk, like wine,
And your slender foot faultlessly graced a shoe.

O eye clearer than the falling raindrop,
O voice sweeter than the cuckoo on the branch,
O side whiter than the foam of the raging sea,
O my treasure and my love, how often have your sorrows pierced me through.

O Úna, rose in a garden,
Golden candlestick on a queen's table,
You were birdsong exultant accompanying me on the path,
My stricken grief not to have wed with you.

O little brother, if you had seen her in church,
Her hair adorned with green ribbon,
In tresses of amber and gold,
But O my heavy sorrow: she was not betrothed to me.

Pity that I were not as the raven
that could fly to Úna in her mansion on the hill,
Or that I were a sunbeam shining on the topmost branch and on the eddying stream,
I could be with my love everywhere.