|
Mairg darab galar an grádh Isibeul ní Mhic Cailín |
Love is a sad sickness - translation by Maureen S. O'Brien |
Mairg darab galar an grádh,
gibé fath fá n-abraim é
is deacair sgarthain re a pháirt;
truagh an cás a bhfuilim féin.
An grádh-soin tugas gan fhios;
ós é mo leas gan a luadh.
muna fhaghad furtacht tráth,
biaidh mo bhláth go tana truagh.
An fear-soin dá dtugas grádh,
's nách féadaim a rádh ós aird,
dá gcuire sé mise i bpéin,
go madh dó féin bhus céad mairg!
Love is a sad sickness
when speaking to him, whatever the cause.
It is a hardship to separate after time together.
Pity my own blood's case.
This love of mine came without my knowledge;
my good came over him without mention.
Delay departure for us an hour,
if my flower would, till a time of pity.
This man of mine -- love came, for him,
and I cannot say from what direction
if I bury it myself in pain,
till I burn myself with a hundred sorrows!
