Translation by Thomas MacDonagh:

Who is that out there still
With voice sharp and shrill,
Beating my door and calling?
I am Ned of the Hill
Wet, weary and chill,
The mountains and glens long walking.

O my dear love and true!
What could I do for you
But under my mantle draw you?
For the bullets like hail
Fall thick on your trail
And together we both may be slaughtered.

Long lonely I go
Under frost, under snow
Hunted through hill and through hollow
No comrade I know
No furrow I sow
My team stands unyoked in the fallow;

No friend will give ear
Or harbour me here,
Tis that makes the weight of my sorrow.
So my journey must be
To the east o'er the sea
Where no kindred will find me or follow.