Ba chaoin a déid mhion, ba mhín a haolchraobh
's a dlaoi 'na slaodaibh mar ór go sáil;
ba ghile a héadan ná gnúis na réaltan
'bheir solas gléineach don tsaol roimh lá;
do bhí uile shoilse na gréine ag rince
'na leacain mhíonla trí lítis bháin
is sruth gan dísce ó shléachta a righinroisc
shochma ríoga dá Buachaill Bán.

Is tapaidh shléachtas don bhruinneall mhaorga
mhiochair bhéaltais mhúinte mhná
is d'fhiosraigh mé dhi i laoithe Gaeilge
a cine, a gaolta, a dleacht 's a cáil:
"An dúil de dhéithibh críonna an aeir tú
nó gin de réaibh an tsaoil seo, a ghrá,
nó créad é an tréanfhear do bhuair do chéadfa
ar a nglaonn tusa an Buachaill Bán?"

"An tusa céile Hector éachtaigh
do thit sa Trae thoir, cé rug an barr,
nó an bháinchnis mhéarlag do bhí go déarach
i ndiaidh Aenéas go bhfuair sí bás,
nó an mhaighdean ríoga, an file gaoismhear
do thug searc is díograis a croí do Phán,
nó an bhruinneall dhílis do léim go híochtar
na mara caoile ar a Buachaill Bán?"

"An tusa an réaltan do rug barr na scéimhe
ó mhnáibh na hÉireann ag gol san ár
os cionn an tréanfhir Naois do traochadh
in Ulaidh an éirligh le ceilg námhad,
nó an leannán chaointeach rinn géise 'e Chloinn Lir
ar Shruth na Maoile dob fhada ag snámh,
nó ceile an taoisigh fuair céim na Craoibhe
ar éag sa chointinn da Buachaill Bán?"

Adúirt an chéibheann "Ní neach den dréim sin
do ríomh do dhréacht mé, ach Fódla 'tá
fá ghriolla Gall le treall ar Ghaelaibh
cróga caomhnach in inis Fáil,
is cian a géarghol ag caoineadh a tréanfhir,
a cumann céile 's fada ar fán,
's is é oidhre ar Ghaelaibh mear Míle 's Éibhir
is Chuinn n gcéad cath mo Bhuachaill Bán."

"Scoir den gháir sin, a bhruinneall ársa,
's bhí go sásta, cé fada 'tá
do phrionsa rábach clúmhail láidir
trúpach gardach ar seachrán -
tá anois go cróga 'gus buíon na hEorpa
ar an gcósta go hiomlán
ag tíocht id phórtaibh le neart gan teora
's buaifid Fódla don Bhuachaill Bán."

Ar chlos an scéil sin, do scraip a claonta
's do ghaibh a caomhchruit órga bhláith;
do sheinn a géaga laoithe 's dréachta
ríoga aosta ba mhór le rá;
ní héin ná míolta ach cnoic is coillte,
aibhne 's líoga in iomarbháigh
do bhíodh ag rince sna gleannta timpeall
le greann dá laoithibh dá Buachaill Bán.

The White Boy
trans., Colin Cooper

Her teeth were beautiful, and soft was her white hand
and her golden hair flowing to her feet
her face glowing pretty like the morning stars
that give light to the world before the day
and the light of the sun was dancing
through the white colour of her skin
and a stream of tears falling from her slow eyes
crying for her white boy

I bent my head quickly in the presence
of this gentle royal girl
and I asked her in Gaelic verse
her country, her family and her origins
"Are you the daughter of an old God of the Air
or an daughter of a king of this world, my love.
Or who is the man who left you sorrowful
that you call the white boy?"

"Are you the wife of Hector
who died in Troy, though he won the war
Or the girl of the white skin and graceful fingers
that was mourning Aeneas that she died
Or a royal girl, the learned poet
who gave her love to Pan
or the sweet girl who jumped in the sea
after her white boy"

"Are you the star above all
of the women of Ireland, crying
by the side of the great Naoise
who died in Ulster in the midst of his enemies
or are you the sad woman who turned Lir's children to swans
on the the stream of Moyle for a long time swimming
or the wife of the leader who ruled the Red Branch Warriors
who died in the fight for her white boy."

Said the woman of the fine hair "I'm none of these
that you mentioned in your verse, but I am Ireland
that am under the tyranny of the Saxon on the Gael in Ireland
that am I am crying bitterly for my warrior
and it's long abroad has been my lover.
He's a descendent of the Gael Míle and Eibhir
and Conn of the Hundred Wars, my white boy."

"Stop that crying, oh girl of life long-ago
and be happy, though its long
your strong prince abroad
He is now with the armies of Europe
around the coast
coming with a mighty force
And they'll save Ireland for your white boy."

When she heard this story, her gloom disappeared
and she raised her beautiful harp
and her hands played royal song and verse
it wasn't the birds or the animals
but the mountain, the woods,
the rivers and the rocks,
that were dancing around the Glens,
for the song she played for her white boy.