Aréir is mé ag téarnamh ar neoin ar an dtaobh eil’ den teorainn ‘na mbím, do thaobhnaigh an spéirbhean am chomhair is d’fhág taomannach breoite lag sinn; do ghéilleas dá méin is dá cló dá béal tana beo-mhilis binn, ‘s do léim mé fá dhéin dul ‘na comhair’ ‘s ar Éirinn ní ‘neosainn cé hí! Dá ngéillfeadh an spéirbhean dom ghlór ‘s iad ráiteas mo bheoil do bheadh fíor, go deimhin duit do dhéanfainn do ghné do léirchur i gcóir is i gcrích; do léifinn go léir stair dom stór ‘s ba mhéin liom í pógadh óm chroí, do bhéarfainn an chraobh dhi ina dóid ‘s ar Éirinn ní ‘neosainn cé hí! A ghrá dhil, bí páirteach liom féin, is go háirithe da mb’fhéidir liom scrí’ bheinn ag gáire le bánchnis na gcraobh, dá bhfaighinn áirithe ó aoinne cé hí. níl a cairde róshasta liom féin chun áras a dhéanamh ná tíos, ach má tá sí, de réir ráite do bhéil, ní náir’ duit a léiriú cé hí! Tá spéirbhruinneal mhaorga mhodhail óg ar an taobh eile den teorainn ‘na mbím, tá féile ‘gus daonnacht ‘na meon is deise ró-mhór ‘sa mnaoi; tá folt léi ag titim go feor go cocánach ómrach buí, tá lasadh ‘na leacain mar rós ‘s ar Éirinn ní ‘neosainn cé hí!

‘All over the world’, the traveller said, ‘In my wanderings I have been; An’ there’s nothing remarkable living or dead, But these two lookin’ eyes have seen. From the haunts of the ape an’ marmoset, To the lands of the Fellaheen’. Says the other, ‘I’ll lay you an even bet You were never in Farranaleen’. ‘I’ve hunted the woods of Seringapatam, An’ sailed in the Polar Seas. I fished for a week in the Gulf of Siam An’ lunched on the Chersonese. I’ve lived in the valleys of fair Cashmere, Under Himalay’s snowy ridge’. Says the other impatiently, ‘Looka here, Were you ever at Laffan’s Bridge?’ ‘I’ve lived in the land where tobacco is grown, In the suburbs of Santiago; An’ I spent two years in Sierra Leone, An’ in Terra Del Fuego. I walked across Panama all in a day, Ah me, but the road was rocky!’ The other replied, ‘Will you kindly say, Were you ever at Horse-and –Jockey?’ ‘I’ve borne my part in a savage fray, When I got this wound from a Lascar; We were bound just then from Mandalay For the isle of Madagascar. Ah! The sun never tired of shining there, An’ the trees canaries sang in’. ‘What of that?’ says the other, ‘Sure I’ve a pair, And there’s lots more over in Drangan’. ‘I’ve hunted the tigers in Turkestan, In Australia the kangaroos; An’ I lived six months as medicine man To the tribe of the Katmandoos. An’ I’ve stood on the scene of Olympic games, Where the Grecians showed their paces’. The other replied, ‘Now tell me, James, Were you ever at Fethard Races?’ ‘Don’t talk of your hunting in Yucatan, Or your fishing off Saint Helena’ I’d rather see young lads hunting the wran In the hedges of Tubberaheena. No doubt the scenes of a Swiss canton Have a passable sort of charm, But give me a sunset on Sliavnamon From the road by Hackett’s Farm. ‘An’ I’d rather be strolling along the quay, An’ watching the river flow, Than growing tea with the cute Chinee, Or mining in Mexico. An’ I wouldn’t much care for Sierra Leone, If I hadn’t seen Killenaule, An’ the man that ne’er saw Mullinahone Shouldn’t say he had travelled at all’.

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I saw her first and knew That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue; I saw the danger, yet I passed along the enchanted way, And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day. On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge, The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay Oh I loved too much and by such by such is happiness thrown away. I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone And word and tint without stint for I gave her poems to say. With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May. On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow That I had loved not as I should a creature made of clay When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

A mhic mo chroí arsa ‘n Sairsint groí Ar mhaith leat bheith in arm is in éide an Ríogh Id Royal Dragoon thar farraige anonn ‘s gan aon ro-mhoill bheith id oifigeach mhór Agus Toor Ry Ah, Fal De Didil Dah, Toor Ry, Ur Ry, Ur Ry Ah Rinne Tadhg liostáil agus chuaigh thar sáil Bhí a mhathair tamaill fada gan a thuairisc d’fháil Ach I mí Mhean Fhómhair tháinig long faoí sheol Go cuan Chorcaí agus Tadhg ar bhord Agus Toor Ry Ah … Lig sí béic nuair do chonaic sí é Mar bhí Tadhg in a bhacach agus maide cois fé Muis a Thadhg a rún, an sin adhmad fút In anam an deabhaill an tú atá chugam Agus Toor Ry Ah … An raibh tú ólta nó an raibh tú dall Is do chosa d’fhaágaint ins an tír úd thall Nó an rinne tú súil ar an bhfarraige mhór Go raibh said caite ‘agt ó ghlún go sáil Agus Toor Ry Ah … Ni raibh mé ólta is ní raibh mé caoch Ach ag troid ar son mó thíre mar a dhéanfadh laoch Is faoi lámhach na ngunnai ag Sebastopol Do sciobadh mo chois uaim ó ghlún go sáil Agus Toor Ry Ah … Dá ligfinn mo lámh ar Ri na Rúis Do shinfinn ar an dtalamh é le dorn faoin chluais Is ba mhairg an lá is an bhliain don Saar Nuair do sciob sé na cosa uait, ‘Thadhg a ghrá Agus Toor Ry Ah …

Into our townlan’, on a night of snow, Rode a man from God-knows-where; None of us bade him stay or go, Nor deemed him friend, nor damned him foe, But we stabled his big roan mare: For in our townlan’ we’re a decent folk, And if he didn’t speak, why none of us spoke, And we sat till the fire burned low. We’re a civil sort in our wee place, So we made the circle wide Round Andy Lemon’s cheerful blaze, And wished the man his lenth o’ days, And a good end to his ride. He smiled in under his slouchy hat- Says he, ‘There’s a bit of a joke in that, For we ride different ways’. The whiles we smoked we watched him stare From his seat fornenst the glow. I nudged Joe Moore: ‘You wouldn’t dare To ask him, who he’s for meeting there, And how far he has got to go’. But Joe wouldn’t dare, nor Wully Scott, And he took no drink-neither cold nor hot- This man from God-knows-where. It was closin’ time, an’ late forbye, When us ones braved the air- I never saw worse (may I live or die) Than the sleet that night, an’ I says, say I: ‘You’ll find he’s for stoppin’ there’. But at screek o’ day, through the gable pane, I watched him spur in the peltin’ rain, And I juked from his rovin’ eye. Two winters more, then the Trouble Year, When the best that a man could feel Was the pike he kept in hidlin’s near, Till the blood o’ hate an’ the blood o’ fear Would be redder nor rust on the steel. Us ones quet from mindin’ the farms, Let them take what we gave wi’ the weight o’ our arms, From Saintfield to Kilkeel. In the Time o’ the Hurry, we had no lead- We all of us fought with the rest- An’ if e’er a one shook like a tremblin’ reed, None of us gave neither hint nor heed Nor ever even’d we’d guessed. We, men of the North, had a word to say, An’ we said it then in our own dour way, An’ we spoke as we thought was best. All Ulster over, the weemen cried For the stan’-in’ crops on the lan’- Many’s the sweetheart an’ many’s the bride Would liefer ha’ gone till where he died, And ha’ murned her lone by her man. But us ones weathered the thick of it, And we used to dander along, and sit In Andy’s, side by side. What with discoorse goin’ to and fro, The night would be wearin’ thin, Yet never so late when we rose to go But someone would say; ‘Do ye min’ thon snow, An’ the man what came wanderin’ in?’ And we be to fall to the talk again, If by any chance he was one o’ them- The man who went like the win’. Well ‘twas gettin’ on past the heat o’ the year When I rode to Newtown fair; I sold as I could (the dealers were near- Only three pound- eight for the Innish steer, An’ nothin’ at all for the mare!) I met M’Kee in the throng o’ the street, Says he: ‘The grass has grown under our feet Since they hanged young Warwick here’. And he told me that Boney had promised help To a man in Dublin town. Says he: ‘If ye’ve laid the pike on the shelf, Ye’d better go home hot-fut by yerself, An’ polish the old girl down’. So by Comber road I trotted the gray, And never cut corn until Killyleagh Stood plain on the risin’ groun’. For a when o’ days we sat waitin’ the word To rise and go at it like men. But no French ships sailed into Cloughey Bay, And we heard the black news on a harvest day That the cause was lost again; And Joey and me, and Wully Boy Scott, We agreed to ourselves we’d as lief as not Ha’ been found in the thick o’ the slain. By Downpatrick gaol I was bound to fare On a day I’ll remember, feth; For when I came to the prison square The people were waitin’ in hundreds there, An’ you wouldn’t hear stir nor breath! For the sodgers were stranding, grim an’ tall, Round a scaffold built there fornenst the wall, An’ a man stepped out for death! I was brave an’ near to the edge of the throng, Yet I knowed the face again, An’ I knowed the set, an’ I knowed the walk, An’ the sound of his strange up-country talk, For he spoke out right an’ plain. Then he bowed his head to the swinging rope, Whiles I said ‘Please God’ to his dying hope, And ‘Amen’ to his dying prayer, That the Wrong would cease, and the Right prevail, For the man that they hanged at Downpatrick gaol Was the Man from GOD-KNOWS- WHERE!

Into our townlan’, on a night of snow, Rode a man from God-knows-where; None of us bade him stay or go, Nor deemed him friend, nor damned him foe, But we stabled his big roan mare: For in our townlan’ we’re a decent folk, And if he didn’t speak, why none of us spoke, And we sat till the fire burned low. We’re a civil sort in our wee place, So we made the circle wide Round Andy Lemon’s cheerful blaze, And wished the man his lenth o’ days, And a good end to his ride. He smiled in under his slouchy hat- Says he, ‘There’s a bit of a joke in that, For we ride different ways’. The whiles we smoked we watched him stare From his seat fornenst the glow. I nudged Joe Moore: ‘You wouldn’t dare To ask him, who he’s for meeting there, And how far he has got to go’. But Joe wouldn’t dare, nor Wully Scott, And he took no drink-neither cold nor hot- This man from God-knows-where. It was closin’ time, an’ late forbye, When us ones braved the air- I never saw worse (may I live or die) Than the sleet that night, an’ I says, say I: ‘You’ll find he’s for stoppin’ there’. But at screek o’ day, through the gable pane, I watched him spur in the peltin’ rain, And I juked from his rovin’ eye. Two winters more, then the Trouble Year, When the best that a man could feel Was the pike he kept in hidlin’s near, Till the blood o’ hate an’ the blood o’ fear Would be redder nor rust on the steel. Us ones quet from mindin’ the farms, Let them take what we gave wi’ the weight o’ our arms, From Saintfield to Kilkeel. In the Time o’ the Hurry, we had no lead- We all of us fought with the rest- An’ if e’er a one shook like a tremblin’ reed, None of us gave neither hint nor heed Nor ever even’d we’d guessed. We, men of the North, had a word to say, An’ we said it then in our own dour way, An’ we spoke as we thought was best. All Ulster over, the weemen cried For the stan’-in’ crops on the lan’- Many’s the sweetheart an’ many’s the bride Would liefer ha’ gone till where he died, And ha’ murned her lone by her man. But us ones weathered the thick of it, And we used to dander along, and sit In Andy’s, side by side. What with discoorse goin’ to and fro, The night would be wearin’ thin, Yet never so late when we rose to go But someone would say; ‘Do ye min’ thon snow, An’ the man what came wanderin’ in?’ And we be to fall to the talk again, If by any chance he was one o’ them- The man who went like the win’. Well ‘twas gettin’ on past the heat o’ the year When I rode to Newtown fair; I sold as I could (the dealers were near- Only three pound- eight for the Innish steer, An’ nothin’ at all for the mare!) I met M’Kee in the throng o’ the street, Says he: ‘The grass has grown under our feet Since they hanged young Warwick here’. And he told me that Boney had promised help To a man in Dublin town. Says he: ‘If ye’ve laid the pike on the shelf, Ye’d better go home hot-fut by yerself, An’ polish the old girl down’. So by Comber road I trotted the gray, And never cut corn until Killyleagh Stood plain on the risin’ groun’. For a when o’ days we sat waitin’ the word To rise and go at it like men. But no French ships sailed into Cloughey Bay, And we heard the black news on a harvest day That the cause was lost again; And Joey and me, and Wully Boy Scott, We agreed to ourselves we’d as lief as not Ha’ been found in the thick o’ the slain. By Downpatrick gaol I was bound to fare On a day I’ll remember, feth; For when I came to the prison square The people were waitin’ in hundreds there, An’ you wouldn’t hear stir nor breath! For the sodgers were stranding, grim an’ tall, Round a scaffold built there fornenst the wall, An’ a man stepped out for death! I was brave an’ near to the edge of the throng, Yet I knowed the face again, An’ I knowed the set, an’ I knowed the walk, An’ the sound of his strange up-country talk, For he spoke out right an’ plain. Then he bowed his head to the swinging rope, Whiles I said ‘Please God’ to his dying hope, And ‘Amen’ to his dying prayer, That the Wrong would cease, and the Right prevail, For the man that they hanged at Downpatrick gaol Was the Man from GOD-KNOWS- WHERE!

Ae fond kiss and then to sever; Ae farewell that’s then forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. But who could say that fortune grieves him, When the star of hope she leaves him? Me? No cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. Ae fond kiss … I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Nothing could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her and love for ever. Ae fond kiss … Had we never loved so kindly, Had we never loved so blindly, Never met or never parted, We had ne’er been broken hearted. Ae fond kiss … Fare thee well, thou first and fairest! Fare thee well thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure! Ae fond kiss …

One day for recreation ‘na haonar ‘sí i siop’ istigh. She was singing like an angel Is mé ag éisteacht lena binne ghuth, I whispered soft and aisy ‘Sé dúirt sí lig do’d radaireacht. Curfá ‘S anonn s’anall a Mháirín Do mhalai is do bheilteanna ‘Sa bhean na stocai bána Ba bhrea liom bheith ag iomai leat. Her amber locks most nately Go dréimreach a titim leí, A’ down her back and waist Is gur phreab mo chroí le taithneamh dí. I axed was she the fair one An bean-dia úd bhi ag Iúpatair, Or the bright-some vestal deity ‘Chaith tréimse seal in ifrinn She answered me most daintily ‘Ní h-éinne mar a thuigis mé; I fear you are a réice, ‘S na taobhaigh a thuilleadh mé!’ ‘Indeed I am no réice, No straeire ‘bhréagfadh bruinneall seal- I’m a pupil of Jack Leahy, ‘Se an áit a gchónaim Muc (a)ros!’ I axed her who her father was, ‘S e ‘dúirt gurb é, ‘An Ministir’, I knew I stood in danger, ‘S gur bhaolach dom dá bhfeicti sinn. ‘If I had you in a nate grove Idir Cladach agus Muc (a) ros, Your sparkling eyes do tase me- Trí lár mo chroí tugaim taitneamh duit!’ Her syllables most charming- ‘S gur bhreá liom bheith ‘n cuideachta ‘S gur bhinne liom na ‘n chláirseach ‘S gach ardphort dá seinneadh sí. “You’ll get my stock and farm Má théann tú liom go Muc(a)ros’. And then she sang most charming: ‘A ghrá geal, I’m fond of you!’

Aréir is mé go tláth lag, go tabhartha tnáite in easpa nirt, ‘Sea dhearcas ag teacht im láthair an bhean dob áilne fionnachruth. Bhí gruaig a cinn go búclach buí ina slaoda síos go talamh léi, Is le glór a béil gur bhuail sí an draiocht ar cheoltaibh sí na Banban, Is a chlanna Gael na n-áran,sin e ráiteachas na tairngreacht’. Tiocfaidh aon-mhac phrionsa an chómhraic gurb ainm do siud Bónapairt, An t Impire is an Spáinneach a’ cur gárda leis go hAlbain. Ni bheidh siúd choiche sásta le háitreabh Rí na Sacsain a fháil, Gan buíochas cruinn le faobhar a gclaiomh go mbainfidh díol a n-athar díobh’ Is a chlanna gael na n-áran,sin é ráiteachas na tairngreacht’. Tiocfaidh cabhair is cúnamh chughainn is beimid go leir go haiteasach, Agus glaofaim’ ar ár gcunamh chun dúbailt ins na rainceanaibh. Séidfear adharc ‘gus biúgal, galltrúmp’ ar dtúis an cath amuigh, Beidh smail agus bleast an phúdair ag baint smúit as croí an tSasanaigh, Is a chlanna Gael na n-aran,sin e ráiteachas na tairngreacht’. Le línn dul ar an bpáirc daoibh, bainí go léir bhur hataí dhaoibh, Agus guí chun Muire Mháthair an lá do chuir ar Ghalla-phoic. Beidh sagairt, easpaig, bráithre is an Pápa ceann na heaglaise, Ag guí chun Dé gach lá le fonn an fan do choir ar Shasanaigh, Is a chlanna Gael do crádh sinn ag ráiteachas na tairngreacht’.

You’ve heard that Robert Service yarn of the shootin’ o’ Dan McGrew? He makes of it a high falutin’ tale, but it isn’t the least bit true. He talks o’ McGrew and his light o’ love, the ‘Lady that’s known as ‘Lou’’, Why, that lady was most respectable, and was married to Dan McGrew. ‘Twas a fearsome night, and we all sat tight in the Malamute Saloon. McGrew was playin’ at solo whist, While the pianist played a tune. And Mrs. McGrew,who was known as ‘Lou’, was darning her old man’s socks, While the miners were tryin’ to sell ‘dud’ mines on samples o’ quartz and rocks. When out o’ the night, and into the light of the Malamute Saloon Came a stranger guy with a watery eye, and a nose of a deep maroon. He looked as if he’d been out on a jag for several months and more- His Adam’s apple was workin’ a lot as if his throat was sore Through swallerin’ Klondyke whisky, which’ll burn a hole in a can;- I tell you, sir, that this stranger was a full-to –the –back-teeth man. He called for a drink, and he dashed it down, and it seemed to increase his daze,- And his eye went wanderin’ round the room till the pianist found his gaze. Now that pianist,sir, was a high toned cuss - he wasn’t no small town jay, He never was known to wash his neck, but Gawd, how that man could play. He was playin’ a Grieg Sonata, when that swivel-eyed stranger fool Just fetched him a wallop behind the lug, and took his place on the stool. We none of us interfered, we paused to see what the guy would do, And Mrs. Mc Grew,who was known as ‘Lou’, she paused, and stared at him, too. We waited to hear what that man would play, for our tastes ran rather high,- And anything less than the classical stuff could never with us get by, So we held our breaths in a silence tense, and suffered internal qualms; Would he play us Beethoven, Bach, or Lizst, or hand us a chunk o’ Brahms? ‘T was none o’ these!- on the grimy keys he dropped his dirt-stained mitts, And beat out the blare of a rag-time air which shattered our dream to bits. He played eight bars of the ghastly toon did that watery-eyed galoot,- And then in a flash, like a thunder crash, the guns began to shoot. We stopped his rag-time rhapsody, and we pumped him full o’ lead,- Reloaded our guns and shot again until that hick was dead; But of all the crew it was Dan McGrew who never once his mark,- For though he can drink like a kitchen sink, he shoots like a Boston clerk. Three of his shots found tender spots in three of the boys around. Another one shifted the Sheriff’s ear, and it hasn’t as yet, been found; But the worst o’ the lot was a rakin’shot that tickled up Mrs. McGrew, And you ought to have heard what that lady said, that lady that’s known as ‘Lou’. Still, the rest of us riddled that rag-time ‘boob’, as anyone ought to do; But he’d be livin’ yet if we’d had to depend On THE SHOOTIN’ O’ DAN MCGREW

The town that climbs the mountain and looks out on the sea In waking time or in sleeping time it’s there I’d long to be, To see again those stately fields the place my life began, With those boys from Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran. With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt the gay dreoilín We searched for birds in every furze from Letter to Dooneen. We jumped with joy beneath the sky life held no print or plan, For those boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran. And when the hills were bleeding and the rifles were ablaze, To the rebel homes of Kerry the Saxon stranger came But the men who braved the Auxies and fought the Black and Tans Were once boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran. And here’s a health to them tonight the men who laughed with me Along the Carhan river by the slopes of Beenatee, John Dawley and Batt Andy the Shehans Con and Dan, Were once boys in Barr na Sraide who hunted for the wran. And now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way, Deep in the heart of London town or over on Broadway, And I am left to sing their deeds and praise them while I can, Those boys from Barr na Sraide who hunted for the wran. And when the wheels of life run out and peace comes over me, Just lay me down in that old town between the hills and sea. I’ll take my sleep in those green fields, the place my life began, With those boys from Barr na Sraide who hunted for the wran.

On Baldoyle shore when the midnight bell rings out from the village steeple, And death has freed from its icy spell the graves of the graves grey people, You may see the wraith of an old wrong done at a dead bank holiday meeting, And one that must for his penance run until time is no longer fleeting. You may linger awhile on Sutton Strand on Good St. Stephen’s Night, And walk where the tall white grandstand gleams, in the moonbeam’s ghostly light, And over the mourning of the surf, and thunder of the tide, You may list to the rustle of a phantom crowd, and watch a dead man ride. Long years ago in the bad old days, e’er you and I were here, A racehorse there was called Typhus Bay, a chaser without a peer. Full seventeen chases stern and grim he had won on Baldoyle shore, And for the great Metropolitan race, all said he would walk o’er. On the night before the race was run the sea rose mountains high, And the surf at Sutton wet the stars, by dashing against the sky, And while the torn seas raged from without like a fitful minute gone, In a little cottage all by the sea, a dirty deed was done. For here a tall bookmaker met the jockey of Typhus Bay, And he said to him if you pull the race, a princely sum I’ll pay. For if he wins I’ll be up to mine ears and that just cannot be, So rub thee liniment on thine arms and pull this horse for me. Small need to say that in the race the second raters fell, While fence after fence jumped Typhus Bay to the crowd’s untiring yell, Until the fatal final round the water jump was passed, And only he and the grey mare Bess were left alone at last. They jumped the last fence side by side in a silence you could feel’ And every man in the vast crowd said of a truth will the bookies squeal, And then to their horror and their grief, the grey mare pulled away; And passed that post one length ahead of the favourite Typhus Bay. Now an ill deed finds its doer out and of a verity That jockey swooned as he passed the post, and on the sward fell he, And as I am a Christian man, God ‘twixt me and all harms, In pulling the great horse Typhus Bay, he had broken both his arms. Now the medical man who rolled his sleeves to set them there and then, Was a student named O’Rhattigan, and you know these medical men, He had his full half-yearly fee on the favourite Typhus Bay, And the ill-fated jockey, who called the tune, did then the piper pay. He died in terrible agony of a septic gangrened limb, And for he acted a lie upon the earth the earth now lies on him, And each and every St. Stephen’s night he rises from the tomb, And takes the sceptre of Typhus Bay to a ghostly weighing room. And there in front of a phantom crowd wherein the dim ghosts sit, Of every man who ever had on, an odds on chance his bit, Again he runs that ghostly race; again you’ll see him sway, Again you’ll see the grey mare Bess in the last lap draw away, And pass that post one length ahead of the favourite Typhus Bay.

Do sheolfainn féin na gamhna leat, ‘Eibhlín a rún! Do sheolfainn féin na gamhna leat,’Eibhlín a rún! Do sheolfainn féin na gamhna leat Amach fésna gleanntaibh leat D’fhonn a dhul I gcleamhnas leat, ‘Eibhlín,a rún! Do raghainnse ‘ dtí an t-aonach leat, ‘Eibhlin, a rún! Do raghainnse ‘dtí an t-aonach leat, ‘Eibhlín a rún! Do raghainnse ‘dtí an t-aonach leat ‘s do thiocfainn abhaile in éineacht leat D’fhonn a bheith im aonar leat, ‘Eibhlín, a rún! Do raghainnse thar sáile leat,’Eibhlín a rún! Do raghainnse thar sáile leat,’Eibhlín a rún! Do raghainnse thar sáile leat I gcontúirt mo bháite leat D’fhonn a bheith páirteach leat, ‘Eibhlín, a rún! An dtiocfaidh tú nó an bhfanfaidh tú, ‘Eibhlín, a rún? An dtiocfaidh tú nó an bhfanfaidh tú,’Eibhlín,a rún? ‘Tiocfaidh mé, is ní fhanfaidh mé! sáthaigh romham is leanfad thú! ‘Grá lem chroí i ganfhios thú! ‘Eibhlín, a rún! ‘Céad míle fáilte romhat,’Eibhlín, a rún! Céad míle fáilte romhat, ‘Eibhlín, a rún! Céad míle fáilte romhat! Fáilte ‘gus fiche romhat, naoí gcéad míle fáilte romhat,’Eibhlín, a rún!

O, all the money ee’r I had, I spent it in good company. And all the harm that e’er I’ve done Alas it was to none but me. And all I’ve done for want of wit To memory now I can’t recall So fill to me the parting glass Goodnight and joy be with you all. If I had money enough to spend And leisure time to sit awhile I have a sweetheart in this town Who sorely has my heart beguiled Her rosy cheeks, her ruby lips I own she has my heart in thrall, So fill to me the parting glass, Good night and joy be with you all. Oh, all the comrades e’er I had, Are sorry for my going away, And all the sweethearts e’er I had, Would wish me one more day to stay, But since it falls unto my lot, That I should rise and you should not, I will gently rise and softly call, Good night and joy be with you all.