Iníon an Fhaoit' ón nGleann
(White's daughter of the Glen)
Irish
Siúil, a chuid, bí ag gluaiseacht gan scíth, gan stad, gan fuarú,
Tá an oíche ghairid shamraidh ann is beam araon ar siúl,
Mar a bhfaighimid radharc ar chuanta, ceol, aoibhneas, bailte móra,
Is, a Dhia, nach ró-bhreá an uain í d'iníon an Fhaoit' ón nGleann.
Táimse lán de náire, trí gach beart dá ndearna,
Mar is buachaill óg a chráigh mé is d'imigh uaim mo ghreann.
Ní beo mé mí ná ráithe mura bhfaighe mé póg is grá uait,
Agus fáilte chaoin ó do chairde, a iníon an Fhaoit' ón nGleann.
Bhí mé lá breá aerach i mo shuí ar bhinn an tsléibhe amuigh
Sea chuala an lon is an chéirseach ag seinm os mo cheann;
Is deas a scríobhfainn bhéarsaí is ní deise ná mar léifinn
Stair do do mholadh féinig, a iníon an Fhaoit' ón nGleann.
Tá an oíche ghairid shamraidh ann is beam araon ar siúl,
Mar a bhfaighimid radharc ar chuanta, ceol, aoibhneas, bailte móra,
Is, a Dhia, nach ró-bhreá an uain í d'iníon an Fhaoit' ón nGleann.
Táimse lán de náire, trí gach beart dá ndearna,
Mar is buachaill óg a chráigh mé is d'imigh uaim mo ghreann.
Ní beo mé mí ná ráithe mura bhfaighe mé póg is grá uait,
Agus fáilte chaoin ó do chairde, a iníon an Fhaoit' ón nGleann.
Bhí mé lá breá aerach i mo shuí ar bhinn an tsléibhe amuigh
Sea chuala an lon is an chéirseach ag seinm os mo cheann;
Is deas a scríobhfainn bhéarsaí is ní deise ná mar léifinn
Stair do do mholadh féinig, a iníon an Fhaoit' ón nGleann.
❧
Walk, my love, keep moving without rest, without stand, without cooling,
There is the short summer night and we both under way,
So that we'll get a view of harbors, music, delight, large towns,
O God, isn't it too grand a time, with White's daughter from the Glen.
I am full of shame, for every deed that I've done,
For it's a young boy that distressed me and left me.
I'll not be alive or speaking a month unless I have your kiss and your love,
And a hearty welcome from your friends, White's daughter from the Glen.
On a fine airy day, I was sitting out on the top of the mountain,
And I heard the thrush and the blackbird singing over my head;
It's nice that I will write verses and it's not nicer than what I will read,
A history praising you yourself, White's daughter from the Glen.
There is the short summer night and we both under way,
So that we'll get a view of harbors, music, delight, large towns,
O God, isn't it too grand a time, with White's daughter from the Glen.
I am full of shame, for every deed that I've done,
For it's a young boy that distressed me and left me.
I'll not be alive or speaking a month unless I have your kiss and your love,
And a hearty welcome from your friends, White's daughter from the Glen.
On a fine airy day, I was sitting out on the top of the mountain,
And I heard the thrush and the blackbird singing over my head;
It's nice that I will write verses and it's not nicer than what I will read,
A history praising you yourself, White's daughter from the Glen.