O Donall Oge, if you will go across the sea,
Bring myself with you, and do not forget it;
There will be a "faring" for thee on fine days and market-days,
And the daughter of the King of Greece as your bedfellow at night.
If you go over seas, there is a token I have of you,
Your bright top-knot and your two grey eyes,
Twelve ringlets on your yellow curling head,
Like the cowslip or the rose-leaf in the garden.
You promised me, but you spoke a lie to me,
That you would be before me at the fold of the sheep;
I let a whistle out and three hundred shouts for you,
But I found nothing in it but a lamb a-bleating.
You promised me, a thing that was hard for you,
A ship of gold under a mast of silver,
Twelve great towns of the world's market-towns,
And a fine white court beside the sea.
You promised me, a thing that was not possible,
You would give me gloves of fishes' skin,
You would give me shoes of the feathers of birds,
And gowns of silk the richest in Erinn.
O Donall Oge, it were better for thee I to be with thee,
Than a high-born, arrogant, wasteful lady;
I would milk your cows and I would churn for you,
And if it went hard with you, I would strike a blow with you.
Och, ochone, it is not the hunger,
Nor want of food and drink, nor want of sleep,
That has left me wasting and weary;
The love of a young man it is that has sickened me.
Early in the morning I saw the young man
On the back of his horse going along the road;
He did not move over to me nor take any heed of me,
And on my coming home, it is I who wept my fill.
When I myself go to the Well of Loneliness
I sit down and I go through my trouble,
When I see the world and I see not my lad;
There was the shadow of amber upon his hair.
It was a Sunday that I gave my love to you,
The Sunday before Easter Sunday exactly;
I myself on my knees a-reading the Passion,
My two eyes giving love to you ever after.
Oye, little mother, give myself to him,
And give him what is yours of goods entirely,
Out with yourself a-begging alms
And do not be going East and West seeking me.
My little mother said to me not to speak with you
To-day or to-morrow or on Sunday,
It is in the bad hour she gave me that choice,
It is "shutting the door after the theft."
And you passed me by, dark and late,
And you passed me by, and the light of the day in it;
If you would come in yourself and see me
Never a word at all would I have with you.