From University Library of Cambridge MS 3082:  (translation by James Carney, introduction to Poems of [sic] the O'Reillys)

"A lament for his dead wife. This poem was found in the Book of the Dean of Lismore, a valuable text for the poems it contains (often the only copies extant of Irish and Scottish poems), as well as for its phonetic spelling, a great help to linguists for period Scottish pronunciation of Gaelic, but a great challenge to poetry scholars trying to read it!"

Do tógbhadh sgath aobhdha fhionna --
mach ar an bhfaongha bhfann:
laogh mo chridhise do chrom,
craobh throm an tighise thall.

M'aonar a-nocht damhsa, a Dhé,
olc an saoghal camsa ad-chí
dob álainn trom an taoibh naoi
do bhaoi sonn a-raoir, a Rí.

Truagh leam an leabasa thiar,
mo pheall seadasa dhá snámh;
tárramair corp seada saor
is folt claon, a leaba, id lár.

Do bhí duine go ndreich moil
lina luighe ar leith mo phill;
gan bharamhail acht bláth cuill
don sgáth duinn bhanamhail bhinn.

Maol Mheadha na malach ndonn
mo dhabhach mheadha a-raon rom;
mo chridhe an sgáath do sgar riom,
bláth mhionn arna car do chrom.

Táinig an chlí as ar gcuing,
agus dí ráinig mar roinn:
corp idir dá aisil innar dtocht
don fhinn mhaisigh mhoill.

Leath mo throigheadh, leath mo thaobh,
a dteach mar an droighean baacute;n,
níor dhísle neach dhí ná dhún,
leath mo shúl í, leath mo lamh.

Leath mo chuirp an choinneal naoi;
's guirt riom do rionneadh, a Rí
agá labhra is meirtneach mé --
dob é ceirleath m'anma é.

Mo chéadghrádh a dearc mhall mhór,
déadbhán agus cam a cliabh:
nochar bhean a colann caomhná
a taobh ré fear romhan riamh.

Fiche bliadhna inne ar-aon,
fá binne gach bliadhna ar nglór,
go rug éinleanabh déag dhún,
an ghéag ér mhéirleabhar mhór.

Gé tú, nocha n-oilim ann,
ó do thoirinn ar gcnú chorr;
ar sgaradh dár roghradh rom,
falamh lom an domhnán donn.

Ón ló do sáidheadh cleath corrim
theach nochar ráidheadh rum --
ní thug aoighe d'ortha anndá
barr naoidhe dhorcha dhunn.

A dhaoine, ná coisgidh damh;
faoiche ré cloistin ní col;
táinig luinnchreach lom 'nar dteagh --
an bhruithneach gheal donn ar ndol.

Is é rug uan í 'na ghrúg,
Rí na sluagh is Rí na ród;
beag an cion do chúl na ngéaga héag
ó a fior go húr óg.

Ionmhain lámh bhog do bhí sonn,
a Rí na gclog is na gceall:
ach! an lámh nachar logh mionn,
crádh liom gan a cor fám cheann.

My soul was split from me last night
trans., James Carney

A fair lovely flower plucked
away from the drooping, laid-down [stem] --
the beloved of my own heart bent,
burdened branch of my house yonder.

I am alone tonight, God.
Evil, the twisted world You see.
Beautiful, the bright flank's burden
that was here last night, King.

A pity for me, the bed in back.
I'm a-swim in my own long pallet.
We have seen a long noble body
with wavy hair, oh bed, in you.

There was a person of gentle aspect
that lay by the side of my pallet --
without parallel but the hazel flower
to the sweet-voiced dark womanly shadow.

Maol Mheadha of the brown brows --
my mead vessel beside me --
my heart, the shadow that has split from me --
crown flower bent after planting.

My flesh has gone out of my yoke
and come to a similar division --
a body cut in two
since the going of the fair beautiful dear one.

Half my feet, half my flank --
her face like the whitethorn --
nothing belonged more to her than to me --
she, one of my eyes -- one of my hands.

Half my body, the bright candle --
your cutting is harsh, King;
a word of it weakens me --
she, the true half of my soul.

My first love, her large gentle eye --
tooth-white and curved, her breasts --
never a wife, her pleasant person --
her body did not belong to any man before me.

Twenty years we were as one,
every year our voices sweeter in sound,
till she bore eleven children,
the tall fresh longfingered branch.

Though I exist, I never thrive there
since [the] curved nut's fall --
since great love split from me,
bare is the dark world.

Since the day when a curved withe
was woven into my house, it's never been said;
no guest has put a spell there
on her fresh dim dark head.

People, do not hold me back;
there's no law against crying;
bare merciless pillage has come to [the] house --
the bright-burning dark one has gone.

It's He who bore her away from us in displeasure,
the King of hosts and King of roads;
small the fault of the curly-haired one
for leaving her husband while fresh and young.

Dear the soft hand that is here,
King of bells and churches --
oh! the hand never swore an oath [falsely] --
[being] without it twisted under my head [is] torture to me.