Žodžiai dainai: Sting. Mo Ghile Mear.

By sean clarach mac domhnaill

Seal da rabhas im' mhaighdean sheimh,
's anois im' bhaintreach chaite threith,
Mo cheile ag treabhadh na dtonn go trean
De bharr na gcnoc is I n-imigcein.

'se mo laoch, mo ghile mear,
'se mo chaesar, ghile mear,
Suan na sean ni bhfuaireas fein
O chuaigh I gcein mo ghile mear.

Bimse buan ar buaidhirt gach lo,
Ag caoi go cruaidh 's ag tuar na ndeor
Mar scaoileadh uaim an buachaill beo
's na riomhtar tuairisc uaidh, mo bhron.

Ni labhrann cuach go suairc ar noin
Is nil guth gadhair I gcoillte cno,
Na maidin shamhraidh I gcleanntaibh ceoigh
O d'imthigh uaim an buachaill beo.

Marcach uasal uaibhreach og,
Gas gan gruaim is suairce snodh,
Glac is luaimneach, luath I ngleo
Ag teascadh an tslua 's ag tuargain treon.

Seinntear stair ar chlairsigh cheoil
's liontair tainte cart ar bord
Le hinntinn ard gan chaim, gan cheo
chun saoghal is slainte d' fhaghail dom leomhan.

Ghile mear 'sa seal faoi chumha,
's eire go leir faoi chlocaibh dubha;
Suan na sean ni bhfuaireas fein
O luaidh I gcein mo ghile mear.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


A literal translation by j. mark sugars 1997

Once I was a gentle maiden,
But now I am a spent, worn-out widow,
My consort strongly plowing the waves
Over the hills and far away.

He is my hero, my gallant darling,
He is my caesar, a gallant darling;
I've found neither rest nor fortune
Since my gallant darling went far away.

Every day I am constantly enduring grief,
Weeping nitterly and shedding tears,
Because my lively lad has left me
And no news is told of him - alas!

The cuckoo does not sing cheerfully at noon
And the sound of hounds is not heard in nut-tree woods
Nor summer morning in misty glen
Since my lively boy went away from me.

Noble, proud young horseman,
Youth without gloom, of pleasant countenance,
A swift-moving fist, nimble in a fight,
Slaying the enemy and smiting the strong.

Let a strain be played on musical harps,
And let many quarts be filled on the table,
With high spirit, without fault, without gloom,
That my lion may receive long life and health.

Gallant darling for a while under sorrow,
And ireland completely under black cloacks,
I have found neither rest nor fortune
Since my gallant darling went far away