A Róisín na bíodh brón ort fár éirigh duit –
tá na bráithre ag dul ar sáile is iad ag triall ar muir,
tiofafaidh do phardún ón bPápa is ón Róimh anoir
is ní spáráilfear fíon Spáinneach ar mo Róisín Dubh

Is fada an réim a lig mé léi ó inné go dtí inniu,
trasna sléibhte go ndeachas léi is faoi sheolta a muir;
an Éirne scoith mé de léim í cé gur mór é a sruth;
is mar cheol téad ar gach taobh di a bhí mo Róisín Dubh.

Mhearaigh tú me, a bhradóg, is nár ba fearrde duit,
‘s go bhfuil m’anam istigh i ngean ort is ní inné ná inniu.
D’fhág tú lag ambhann mé i ngné is i gcruth;
ná feall orm is mé i ngean ort, a Róisín Dubh.

Shiúlfainn féin an drúcht leat is fásaigh ghoirt
mar shúil go bhfaighinn rún uait nó páirt ded thoil;
a chraoibhín chumhra, gheallais domhsa go raibh grá agat dom,
is garb í plúrscoth na Mumhan í mo Róisín Dubh.

Dá mbeadh seisreach agam threabhfainn in aghaidh na gcnoc
is dhéanfainn soiscéal i lár an aifrinn de mo Róisín Dubh;
bhéarfainn póg do chailín óg a bhéarfadh a hóighe dom
is dhéanfainn cleas ar chúl an leasa le mo Róisín Dubh.

Beidh an Éirne ‘na tuilte tréana is réabfar cnoic,
beidh an fharraige ‘na tonnta dearga is an spéir ‘na fuil,
beidh gach glean sléibhe ar fud Éireann is móinte ar crith,
lá éigin sul a n-éagfaidh mo Róisín Dubh.

Little Black Rose
translation by Thomas Kinsella

Róisín, have no sorrow for all that has happened to you;
the Friars are out on the brine, they are travelling the sea,
your pardon from the Pope will come. From Rome in the East,
and we won’t spare the Spanish wine for my Róisín Dubh.

far have we journeyed together, since days gone by.
I’ve crossed over the mountains with her, and sailed the sea.
I have cleared the Erne, though in spate, at a single leap
-- and like music of strings all about me, my Róisín Dubh.

You have driven me mad, fickle girl – may it do you no good!
My soul is in thrall, not just yesterday nor today.
You have left me weary and weak in body and mind
-- o deceive not the one who loves you, my Róisín Dubh.

I would walk the dew beside you, or the bitter desert,
in hopes I might have your affection, or part of your love.
Fragrant small branch, you have given your word you love me
-- the choicest flower of Munster, my Róisín Dubh.

If I had six horses I would plough against the hill –
I’d make Róisín Dubh my Gospel in the middle of Mass –
I’d kiss the young girl who would grant me her maidenhead
and do deeds behind the lios with my Róisín Dubh!

The Erne will be strong in flood, the hills be torn,
the ocean be all red waves, the sky all blood,
every mountain valley and bog in Ireland will shake
one day, before she shall perish, my Róisín Dubh.

                [see also Dark Rosaleen - translation by James Clarence Mangan]

                [see also Dark Rosaleen by Sr Anne Therese Dillen]