Brian Do bhuail sí crúca im chúl 'is im chába, Do ghluais sí liom go lúfar láidir, Do scuab léi síos mé trí na gleannta, Cnoc Bháin bhuí 'is go binn an teampaill. Is deimhin go bhfaca mé ar lasadh le tóirsí Ag teaghlach taitneamhach maisiúil mórga Soilseach seasamhach lasúil lonrach Taibhseach dathúil daingean dea-dhóirseach. honaic méan tsí-bhean ,mhíonla bhéasach Chumais ina suí ar bhinse an tsaorchirt. Chonaic méan garda láidir luaimneach Iomadach árracht tarraingthe suas léi. Do chonaic mé láithreach lánteach líonta Ó mhullach go lár de mhná 'is de dhaoine. Do chonaic mé spéirbhean mhaorga mhallrosc Mhilis bhog bhéaltais mhéarlag mhealltach Thaithneamhach tháclach shásta fhionn Ina seasamh in airde ar chlár na mionn. Bhí ghruaig léi scaoilte síos ina slaoda Agus buaireamh suite fíor ina féachaint; Fuinneamh ina radharc agus faghairt ina súile; 'Is fiuchadh le draighean oilc aighnis fúthi; A caint á cosc le loisceadh a cléibhe Gan gíog ina tost 'is tocht á traochadh. Dob furasta a rá gur bás ba roghaléi Agus tuile gan tlás ag tál go trom léi. Ina seasamh ar lár an chláir ina saighead, Ag greadadh na lámh is ag fáscadh a ladhar; An uair do ghoil sí go foilitheach fíochmhar. D'fhuascail a h-osnaí a guthaí cainte. D'imigh an smúit agus d'iompaigh snó uirthi, Do thriomaigh a súile agus dúirt mar neosac Spéirbhean Míle fáilte agus gairdeas cléibh romhat, Aoibheall, a fháidhbhean ársa ón Léithchraig! A shoilse an lae is ré gan choimse! A shaibhreas shaolta i ngéibheann daoirse! An cheanasach bhuach ó shlóite aoibhnis! Dob easnamh mór i dTuan sa tír tú. Cúis mo cháis agus fáth mo chaointe, Cúis do chráigh mé agus d'fhág mé cloíte, bhain dem threoir mé agus do sheol gan chiall mé Agus do chaith mar cheo mé, dóite i bpianta: Na slóite míne gan chríoch gan chaomhnadh Ar fud an tsaoil seo d'fhíorscoth béithe, Maslaithe i mbuairt gan suaimhneas oíche Ina gcailleacha dubha gan chumhdach céile; Caite gan chlú gan chionta claonbheart. Is aithne dom féin san méid so dem shiúlta Bean agus céad nár méinn leo diúltadh Agus mise ina measc, mo chreach mar tharla! D'imigh im spaid gan fear gan pháiste. Mo dhochar! mo díth! mo bhrón mar bhím Gan sochar gan seoid gan só gan síoth Go doilbhir duaiseach duamhar dítheach Gan chodladh gan suan gan suaimhneas oíche Ar leaba leamhfhuar im shuathadh ag smaointe. A Cháigh na Carraige! breathnaigh go díreach á na Banba in anacrain sínte Ar nós má leanaid na fearaibh dá bhfuadar, Och! mo lagar! go gcaithfeam a bhfuadach! An t-am ina mhéinn leo céile a phósadh, An t-am nár mhéinn le h-éinne gabháil leo. An t-am nárbh fhiú bheith fúthu sínte An tseandacht thamhanda suite chloíte. Dá dtagadh amach le teas na h-óige, Duine a phósfadh ar theacht féasóige, Ceangail le mnaoi, ní míntais thógfadh, Thaitneamhach, suite de shíol ná d'fhoghlaim, Cló dheas chaoin nó míonla mhánla, Dá mb'eol di suí nó tíocht i láthair, Ach doineantach odhar nó donn doilíosach, A chruinnigh le doghraing cabhair nár chuí dí. 'Sé chráigh mo chroí 'is scaoil gan chéill mé, 'Is d'fhág mo smaointe 'is m'intinn traochta. Cráite tinn mar táim go tréithlag, Go cásmhar cloíte ag caoi 'is ag géarghol, An uair do chínn preabaire calma croíúil Fuadrach fearúil seasmhach saoithiúil Stuama starúil barúil bríomhar Gruadheas greannmhar geanúil gnaoiúl; Nó buachaill beachánta bastalach bíogach Cruacheart ceannasach ceaptha córach, - Buaite ceannaithe ceangailte pósta Ag fuaid, ag cailligh, ag amaid nó ag óinsigh; Nó ag samhairle salach de chaile gan tionscal, Stuacach stailceach aithiseach stúncach Suaite sotalach foclach fáidhiúil Cuairdeach codlatach goirgeach gráiniúil. Mo chreach! mo lot! atá molt míbhéasach, Caile na gcos 'is folt gan réiteach, Á ceangal anocht; Is é loisc go h-ae mé. Agus cá bhfuil mo locht ná toghfaí roimpi? Céard é an t-abhar ná tabharfaí grá dom 'Is mé chomh leabhair, chomh modh`úil, chomh breá so? Is deas mo bhéal, mo dhéad, mo gháire; Is geal mo ghné 'is tá m'éadan tláth tais; Is glas mo shúil agus tá m'úrla scáinneach Bachallach búclach cúplach fáinneach; Mo leaca, mo ghnúis gan smúit, gan mháchail, Tarraingteach cumtha lonrach scáfar; Mo phíob, mo bhráid, mo lámha, mo mhéara, Ag síorbhreith barr na h-áille ó chéile. Féach mo chom: nach leabhair mo chnámha? An bhfuil mé lom ná cam ná stágach? Ag sin toll 'is cosa agus colainn nach náir' dom Agus togha an ghiorta chun fireannaigh a shásamh. Ní samhairle caile ná spangarra mná mé, Ach stuaire cailce atá taitneamhach breá deas; Ní sraoil ná sluid ná luid gan fáscadh, Smíste duirc gan sult gan sásamh, Lóiste liosta ná toice gan éifacht, Ach ógbhean scofa chomh tofa 'sis féidir.

Brian She struck a crook in my back and in my cape, She moved with me agilely and strongly, She swept me down with her through the valleys, To Knockbawnwee and to the gable of the church. It is certain I saw by the light of torches The household, pleasant, elegant, majestic Bright, sturdy, flaming, resplendent Splendid, colourful, sturdy, well-doored. I saw the fairy-woman, gentle, courteous Of capability, sitting on the bench of judgment. I saw the guard, strong and nimble A lot of huge people drawn up beside her. I saw immediately a full house filled From top to middle with ladies and people. I saw a fair lady, stately, languid Sweet, tender, soft-lipped, delicate-fingered, beguiling Pleasing, tressed and attractively fair Standing up at the witness box. Was her hair with her loosened down in flowing masses And sorrow settled truly in her look; Vigour in her aspect and fire in her eyes; And boiling with a vile temper of argument about her, Her speech hindered by burning of her bosom Soundless in her silence and emotion at her wearying. It was easy to state that death was her choice And a constant flood pouring heavily from her. As she stood at the middle of the table straight upright, Beating her hands and squeezing her fingers; While she wept secretly, furiously, Her sighs released her utterances of speech. Her sorrow departed and her appearance changed. She dried her eyes and said as I will relate: Fair Lady A thousand welcomes and bosom-joy to thee, Oh Aoibheall, ancient prophetess from Creglee! Oh light of the day and moon without limit! Her worldly wealth in captivity of slavery! The victorious leader of the hosts of delight! It was a great lack in Thomond, in the country, you. The cause of my sorrow and the reason for my weeping, The cause that I grieved and left me worn down, Which removed me from my direction and sent me insane Scattered me like mist, burned in pains: The gentle hosts without marriage. without protection Throughout this world, of the pick of maidens, Insulted in sorrow without tranquillity of night As black hags without protection of husband; Worn out without honour, without blame or crookery. I myself know in this amount of my travels A woman and a hundred that do not desire refusal And I among them, woe is me how it happened! I went, a dull person, without a man or child. My distress! alas! my sorrow as I do be Without profit, jewellery, comfort, or peace Gloomy, dejected, hard-working, destitute Without sleep, without rest, without quietness of night On tepid-cold beds in my confusion at thoughts. Oh chatterer of Creg! observe exactly The women of Ireland in misery stretched out So that if the men continue in their activity, Oh! my weakness! we will be compelled to abduct them! The time they themselves desire to marry, Is the time it wasn't the desire of anyone to go with them. When it wasn't worth being stretched beneath them The old one, inert, stocky, worn out. If it should emerge in the heat of youth, A person who marries at the coming of a beard, Joins up with a woman - he wouldn't take a maiden, Pleasing, established of breeding and of learning, An appearance nice, refined, or a gentlewoman, gracious, Who would know about sitting or approaching - But a wintry pale thing or a remorseful brown (one), Who gathered by affliction help that isn't fit for her. That's what tormented my heart and left me without sanity, And left my thoughts and my spirits worn out, Tormented and sick as I am and exhausted, Pitiable, subdued, lamenting and sharply weeping, When I used to see a dashing fellow, brave, hearty Active, manly, loyal, wise Sensible, vigorous, opinionated, effective Nice-cheeked, humorous, lovable, polite; Or a youngster, lively as a bee, bombastic, chirpy Upright, masterful, destined, good-looking, Defeated, bought, tied up, married To a thief, to a hag, a witch or a foolish old woman; Or to a dirty churl of a careless wench, Sulky, stubborn, abusive, petulant, Disturbed, arrogant, verbose, know-all Wandering, sleepy, surly and loathsome. My ruin! my hurt! there's an ill-mannered wether, A wench of feet and tresses uncombed. At her marriage tonight: it burns me to the soul. And where is my fault that I'd not be chosen before her? And what is the reason that love wouldn't be given to me. And me so graceful, so modest, so beautiful as I am? It is nice my mouth, my teeth, my laugh; It is happy my appearance, and my brow is soft and gentle; It is lustrous my eye and my forelock is in skeins Curly, ringleted, double-plaited, beautiful; My cheek, my countenance unclouded, immaculate, Attractive, comely, bright and bashful; My neck, my bosom, my hands, my fingers, Ever surpassing one another in beauty. Look at my waist; how delicate my bones? Am I thin or bent or stiff? Here buttocks, feet and body that are no shame to me And the choicest of girths to satisfy males. I'm no disagreeable hag nor a barren cow of woman, But a fine chalk-white girl that's pleasing, fine and nice: Not a streel nor a slut nor a trollop without an embrace, A sullen lump, joyless, dissatisfied; A tiresome idler, nor a useless wench. But a choice young woman as select as possible.