An raiḃ tú ag an gCarraig?
--Dominic Ó Mongain
An raiḃ tú ag an gCarraig, nó ḃ-faca tú féin mo ġraḋ,
Nó a ḃ-faca tú gile, finne, agus sgéiṁ na mná
Nó a ḃ-faca tú an t-uḃal ba cúbarṫa is ba ṁillse bláṫ
Nó a ḃ-faca tú mo valantíne no a ḃfuil sí da claoiḋ mar taím?
Do ḃíosa ag an gCarraig, is do ċonairc me féin do ġraḋ,
Do ċonairc mé gile, finne, agus sgéiṁ na mná,
Do ċonairc mé an t-uḃal ba cúbarṫa is ba ṁillse bláṫ
Do ċonairc mé do valantín agus níl sí da claoiḋ mar táir!
Is fiú cúig ġuinea gaċ riḃe da gruaig mar ór,
Is fiú oiread eile a crideaċta úair raiḃ ló;
A cúilín trom tripiliċ a tuitim léi síos go feóir
'Sa ċuaiċín na finne, ar ṁiste do sleinte d'ól
'N úair ḃím-se am ċoḋla bían osnaḋ gan ḃríg am ċlíaḃ,
Is mé am lúíḋ eadar cnocaiḃ go d-tigiḋ an dúaċ aníar;
A rúin ḋil s'a ċogair ní'l fortaċt mo ċúis aċt Dia,
Is go n-dearnaḋ loċ fola do solus mo súl ad diaiḋ!
Is go d-tigiḋ an ċáirg air lár an ḟoġṁair ḃuiḋe,
Is lá ḟéil Pátruig lá nó ḋó na ḋiaiġ,
Go ḃ-fása an bláṫ bán tre lár mo ċoṁra ċaol,
Paírt da ġraḋ go braṫ ní ṫaḃarfad do ṁnaoi!
Siúd í síos an Ríoġ-ḃean áluin óg,
A ḃfuil a grúaig léi sgaoilte síos go béal a bróg,
S i an eala í mar an lítir do síolraiġ ón t-sár ḟuil ṁór,
Ċaraid ġeal mo ċroiḋe, céad míle fáilte roṁat!
Have you been at Carrick?*
--Edward Walsh, translator
Have you been at Carrick, and seen my true-love there?
And saw you her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair?
Saw you the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree?
Oh! saw you my loved one, and pines she in grief like me?
I have been at Carrick, and saw thy own true-love there;
And saw, too, her features, all beautiful, bright and fair;
And saw the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree—
I saw thy loved one--she pines not in grief, like thee!
Five guineas would price every tress of her golden hair—
Then think what a treasure her pillow at night to share,
These tresses thick-clustering and curling around her brow—
Oh, Ringlet of Fairness! I’ll drink to thy beauty now!
When seeking to slumber, my bosom is rent with sighs—
I toss on my pillow till morning’s blest beams arise;
No aid, bright Beloved! can reach me save God above,
For a blood-lake is formed of the light of my eyes with love!
Until yellow Autumn shall usher the Paschal day,
And Patrick’s gay festival come in its train alway—
Although through my coffin the blossoming boughs shall grow,
My love on another I’ll never in life bestow!
Lo! yonder the maiden illustrious, queen-like, high,
With long-flowing tresses adown to her sandal-tie—
Swan, fair as the lily, descended of high degree,
A myriad of welcomes, dear maid of my heart, to thee!
*Also translated as "Were you at the rock?"
