Here is a version as sung by Brian Ó Domhnaill on the CD "Seachrán" (Cló Iar-Chonnachta). Brian got most of the verses from Neilí Ní Dhomhnaill of Rann na Feirste, County Donegal, who had a huge repertoire. Caitlín Ní Dhomhnaill added the final verse.

DONNCHADH BÁN

Is ar an bhaile seo a chonaic mé an t-iontas,
Donnchadh Bán bocht is é dá dhaoradh;
Bhí bairéad bán air in áit a hata.
Agus rópa cnáibe in áit a charbhata.

Is a Dhonnchaidh Bháin bhaoicht, a dheartháir dilis,
Nach maith mat ata a fhios agam cad é bhain díom thú
Ag ól an chupáin is ag deargadh an phíopa
'Gus ag siúl an drúchta le coim na hoíche.

Chaoin mé an chéad dreas ag gob na locha;
An darna dreas ag bun do chroiche;
' Triú dreas os cionn do chorpáin,
I measc na nGall is mo cheann ag scoilteadh.

Is tá mé ag teacht le coim na hoíche,
Mo chosa stroicthe is mo chroí briste,
Mo bhrollach foscailte is mo cheann dubh gan cíoradh
Agus cé tchím romham ach mo dheartháir sínte.

'S a Dhonnchaidh Bháin bhoicht, éirigh i do sheasamh;
Ta buachaillí Chúige Uladh ag triall chun d'fhaire.
Beir ar do chamán agus gabh fan fháiche leo
Go gcuire muid liathróid leo míle ó bhaile.

Is tá spré Dhonnchaidh Bháin bhoicht ag teacht 'n a' bhaile,
Is ní hé ba, caoirigh é ná capaill,
Ach tobac is píopaí is coinnle geala
'Gus ní hé dámhaíomh sin ar lucht a gcailte.

'S tiocfaidh an mhaidin is cruinneoidh na daoine
Ina gcosa tarnocht as na ceithre hairde
Ag gol is a' caoineadh is ag rá an phaidrín
Is ag cur a mbeannacht leat 'na cille.

DONNCHADH BÁN (translation)

It was in this town I saw something shocking;
Poor Donnchad Bán being sent to die.
He wore a white cap in place of his hat
And a hemp rope in place of his tie.

Poor Donnchadh Bán, O loyal brother,
It's well I know what took you from me;
Drinking from the cup and lighting your pipe
And walking the dew in the middle of the night.

First I cried at the top of the lake;
Secondly at the foot of your gallows;
The third time, it was over your body
Amongst foreigners, and my head was splitting.

Here I come in the middle of the night,
My feet torn and my poor heart broken,
My breast open and my black hair uncombed
And who do I see but my brother outstretched.

Poor Donnchadh Bán, arise and stand now,
The boys of Ulster are coming to your wake.
Grab your hurley and go to the green with them,
And we'll send the ball a mile from home.

Donnchadh Bán's dowry is coming home
And it's neither cattle, sheep, nor horses
But tobacco and pipes and candles white
And we don't begrudge them to those who'll use them.

The morning will come and the people will gather;
They'll come barefoot from the four corners,
Crying and keening and saying the rosary
And bidding you farewell as you go to your grave.