Dah
losing my mind, I got this in the mail is this the one or did I ask it wrong?



Mac An Cheannaí

Aisling ghéar do dhearcas féin
ar leaba 's mé go lagbhríoch
an ainnir shéimh darbh ainm Éire
ag teacht im ghaor ar marcaíocht
a súile glas, a cúl tiubh casta
a com ba gheal 's a mailí
dá mhaíomh go raibh ag tíocht 'na gar
a diogras, Mac an Cheannaí

A beol ba bhinn, a glór ba chaoin
is ró-shearc linn an chailín
céile Bhriain dár ghéill an Fhiann
mo léirchreach dhian a haicíd
fá shúistibh Gall dá brú go teann
mo chúileann tseang 's mo bhean ghaoil
beidh sí 'na spreas, an rí-bhean deas
go bhfillfidh Mac an Cheannaí

Na céadta tá i bpéin dá grá
le géarshearc shámh dá cneas mhín
clanna ríthe, maca Míle
dragain fhíochta 's gaiscígh
gnúis ná gnaoi ní mhusclann sí
cé dubhach fá scíos an chailín
níl faoiseamh seal le tíocht 'na gar
go bhfillfidh Mac an Cheannaí

A ráite féin, is cráite an scéal
mo lánchreach chlé do lag sinn
go bhfuil sí gan cheol ag caoi na ndeor
's a buíon gan treoir gan maithghníomh
gan fiach gan feoil, i bpian go mór
'na hiarsma fó gach madaí
cnaíte lag ag caoi na ndearc
go bhfillfidh Mac an Cheannaí


The Redeemer's Son

A bitter vision I beheld
in bed as I lay weary
a maiden mild whose name was Éire
coming toward me riding
with eyes of green, hair curled and thick
fair her waist and brows
declaring he was on his way
her loved one, Mac an Cheannaí

Her mouth so sweet, her voice so mild
I love the maiden dearly
wife to Brian, acclaimed of heroes
her troubles are my ruin
Crushed cruelly under alien flails
my fair-haired slim kinswoman
she's a dried branch, that pleasant queen
till he come, her Mac an Cheannaí

Hundreds hurt for love of her
her smooth skin in soft passion
kingly children, sons of Míle
champions, wrathful dragons
Her face, her countenance, is dead
in weariness declining
and nowhere is there relief
till he come, her Mac an Cheannaí

A fearful tale, by her account
her weakness my heart's ruin
She, musicless and weeping tears
her faint troops leaderless
no meat or game; she suffers much
a scrap for every dog
wasted, weak, with mourning eyes
till he come, her Mac an Cheannaí