The original Gaelic lyrics to this other song have now been posted in Felipa's message no. 3801122, dated 19 July 2016, although there is a fifth, additional verse not given.

Herewith, from Brian O'Rourke's "Blas Meala: A Sip from the Honey-Pot," is O'Rourke's literal (not singable) translation of a five-verse version of this particular song, with that fifth verse in Gaelic attached.

THE LITTLE CUCKOO OF GLEN NEPHIN

[English translation: Brian O'Rourke; tune, traditional Irish]

There is long and luxuriant grass in a little glen far from home, and there are apples and wild plums
growing high on the treetops there
If my little treasure and I were married
and life were going right for us
There would be money in our pockets
And the ale-woman would have the price of the drink

There is a darkness over the stars, over the sun and over the moon
and over the sight of my own eyes
And I cannot see the pathways clearly on account of
The little cuckoo of Glen Nephin, whom I have never managed to coax
And oh, my little treasure, take me out of my pain
for it's your fair appearance is weakening me

If the whole of Ireland were mine, and Britain as well
or all of the branching -- [this is where the words varied]
It's to yourself I would give it
In return for having my first love with me
in the little valley of Ben Nephin or in Ballinafad

      Tá cailín óg deas ar bharr a' tsléibhe
      'S is deas a' féirín í le mealladh
      Is do chaith mé fhéin an oíche aréir léi le súil 's go bhféadfainn í thabhairt abhaile
      Gur chúitíos le Seán Seoighe le góil romhamsa ar mo bhealach
      'S gur bhain sé coróin dhíom ar mo lóistín agus sé pingne ar mo leaba

      There is a nice young girl on the mountaintop
      And she's a nice gift to try to win
      And I myself spent last night with her in the hope that I would be able to bring her home
      I paid back John Joyce for going before me on my way
      And he took a crown from me for my lodgings and sixpence for my bed

And I will leave this place for it is very lonely
And i will go seeking my thousand little treasures
In every place where I hear news of her
I cannot see the crossroads clearly
And the tears are blinding me
And it's my sharp grief that my lodging-house
is not in the place where you make your bed

pp. 26 - 27
Blas Meala: A Sip from the Honey-Pot
Dublin: Irish Academic Press, 1985

© Brian O'Rourke