Spéirbhean Dá mbeinnse silte mar thuille dem chomharsain, Leadhbach, liosta gan tuiscint gan eolas, Gan radharc, gan ghliocas, gan imirt mo chórach, Mo threighid! cár mhiste mé rith in éadóchas? Ní fhacthas fós mé i gcomhgar daoine Ag faire ná ag tórramh óg ná críonna, Ar mhachaire an bháire, an ráis ná an rince, I bhfarradh na dtáinte ar bhánta líonta; Ach gafa go sámh gan cháim ar domhan Faoi chulaithí sásta ó bharr go bonn, Bhéadh ceart im úrla le púdar fillte, Starch `is stiúir i gcúl mo chaidhpe, Huda geal gan cheal ribiní, Gúna breac 'sa cheart rufaí leis. Is annamh go bráth gan fásáil aerach Thaitneamhach bhreá ar mo cheardán craorag, 'Is iomaí luibheanna, craobha 'is éanlaith Ar mo naprún ríogach síogach cambric; Sála cumtha cúnga córach' Arda sleamhaine ar scriú faoi mo bhróga: Búclaí 'is fáinní 'is lámhainní síoda, Fonsaí 'is práslaí agus lásaí daora. Seachain! ná síl gur scinnideach scáfar, Amaid gan ghaois ná naíonach náireach, Eaglach uaigneach uallach fhiáin mé, Gealtach gan guais ná stuail gan téagar! I bhfolach ní rachainn ó radharc na gcéadta, Is ceannasach taibhseach m'aghaidh is m'éadan: Is dearfa bhím dom' shíorthaispeánadh Ar mhachaire mhín gach fíoriomna, Ag rince, ag báire, rás agus ragairne, Tinte cnámh, ráfla 'is rabairne, Ag aonach, margadh agus Aifreann Domnaigh, Ag éileamh breathnaithe, ag amharc 'is ag toghadh fir. Do chailleas mo chiall le fiach gan éifeacht, Dhalladar riamh mé is d-iadar m'ae ionam, Tar éis mo chumainn, mo thurrainn, mo ghrá dóibh, Tar éis ar fhulaing mé d'iomada cránais, Tar éis ar cailleadh le caitheamh na scálaí, Béithe balbh' agus cailleacha cártaí. Níl cleas dá mb'fhéidir léamh ná trácht air Ar dteacht ré ná tar éis bheith lán di. Um Inid, um Shamhain ná um shiúl na bliana Ná tuigim gur leamhas a bheith ag súil le ciall leis. Níorbh áil liom codladh go socair aon uair díobh Gan lán mo stoca do thortha faoi mo chluasa. Is deimhin nárbh obair liom troscadh le cráifeacht Agus greim ná bolgam ní shlogfainn trí trátha. In aghaidh an tsrutha do thumainn mo léine Ag súil trí mo chodladh le cogar mo chéile. Is minic do chuaigh mé ag scuabadh ón stáca, M'ingne 'smo ghruaig faoin luaithreas d'fháginn, Chuirinn an tsúist faoi chúl na gaibhle, Chuirinn an rámhainn go ciúin faoin adhairt dom, Chuirinn mo choigeal i gcillín na h-áithe, Agus chuirinn mo cheirtlín i dtiníl bheag Ránaill, Chuirinn an ros ar chorp na sráide, Agus do chuirinn sa tsop chugam tor cabáiste. Níl cleas acu san dá ndúras láithreach Nach dtagrainn chugam an diabhal sa bhráthair. Is é fáth mo scéil go léir 'sa bhrí duit; Táim gan chéile tar éis mo dhíchill! Fáth mo sheanchais fhada, mo phianchreach! Táim in achrann daingean i mblianta, Ag tarraing go tréan ar laethe liatha; Is eagal dom éag is gan aon dom' iarraidh. A phéarla ó Pharthas! screadaim 'is éim ort! Éiric m'anama ort, aichím is glaoim tú! Seachain! ná scaoil mé im straoil gan áird Ná im chailleach gan chríoch, gan bhrí, gan bhláth, Gan chara, gan chlann, gan choim, gan chairde, Ar theallach an draighin gan feidhm, gan fáilte. Dar fuil, impí, tinte 'is tóirse! Dalladh mé suite, maoite im óinseach Agus sealbh gach só 'is rogha gach diú Ag amaidí Fódhla os comhair mo shúl. Tá somach ag Sadhbh go saibhir sómhach; Muireann i meidhir 'sa h-aghaidh ar a nuachar; Mór 'is Mairsire i macnas múchta; Mórchuid magadh orthu ag fachnaid fúmsa. Is giodamach sámh iad Sláine 'is Síle; Sisile is Áine agus ál ina dtimpeall; Agus tuille den tsort de mhná na tíre, Is mise mar táim gan tál gan tsíolrach. Is fada gan feidhm mé 'sis foighne domsa é, An galar im leá is leigheas im chóngar Maille le luibheanna díble dreoite Agus orthanna draíochta a chlóifidh fós dom Buachaill deas nó gas galánta, A bhuafaidh ceart a shearc 'sa ghrá dom. Chonarc go leor den tsort á dhéanamh 'Is chuirfinn i gcóir na cóngair chéanna. Is daingean an cúnamh dúbailt daoine Greamanna d'úlla agus púdar luibheanna: An magairlín meidhreach, meill na mbuailte, An tathaigín taibhseach, toill na dtuarta, Mealladh na minseach, cloí na mbonnsach, An comáinín buí 'san draíocht chun drúise, Duilliúr dóite ar nós gur rún é, Is tuille den tsort nár chóir a mhúineadh. Dob ionadh mór i dTuain le chéile An ainnir seo thuas do bhuachain céile, 'Is gur inis sí domsa, dar ndóigh trí rún, Um Inid 'is pósta ó bhord na Samhn', Nár ibh 'is nár ól ach an fóntach fionn Agus cuile na móna dóite ar lionn. Is fada mé ag foighne agus faighimse fuascailt, Seachain ar mhoill mésaighead chun luais me. Mura bhfuil leigheas dom' threighid id chuairt-se, Cuirfidh mé faghairt i bhfeidhm más crua dom.

Fair Lady If I would be deserted, like most of my neighbours, Shabby, slow, without understanding, without knowledge, Without vision, without cunning, not see-king fair play, Alas! where the harm for me to run into despair? I was not yet seen near people, At a wake nor at a funeral of young nor old, On the playing field, the race course or the dance floor, In company with droves on crowded pastures. But dressed comfortably, faultless entirely In tidy clothes from top to sole: I would be proper in my forelock with powder folded; Starch and a set in the back of my bonnet, A bright hood with no lack of ribbons; A speckled gown with its proper frills. It is seldom if ever without lively facing Fine and pleasing on my scarlet cloak, And many plants, branches, and birds On my cambric apron, royal and fairylike; Heels shapely, narrow, comely High and sleek, screwed under my shoes: Buckles and rings and gloves of silk, Hoops and bracelets and expensive laces. Beware! don't think that (I'm) bashful, fearful, A foolish woman without wisdom, nor a demure infant, A fearful, lonesome, wild, proud person, A fearless eejit or a simpleton without substance! Into hiding I wouldn't go from the gaze of the hundreds: Is commanding, lovely, my face and my brow; It is certain I do be always displaying myself On the smooth field of every true hurling match. In dance, in sport, at a race and keeping late hours, Bonfires. gossiping and partying. At a fair market and Sunday Mass, Seeking attention, Iooking at and choosing a man. I lost my wits in a useless chase. They always confused me and stopped up my soul in me. In spite of my friendship, my pushing, my love for them, In spite of all that I endured through so much pestering, In spite of all that was lost from knocking back the jars, Dumb women and card-hags. No trick that it would be possible to read or mention. At the coming of the moon or after it being full, At Shrovetide, All Hallows or in the course of the year, That I realise it's silly to be expecting sense from him. I did not wish to sleep quietly at one of those times Without my stocking rigid with fruit up to my ears. It is certain it wasn't work for me fasting with devotion And bite nor mouthful I wouldn't swallow for 3 meals. Against the odds I used to rustle my shift Expecting through my sleep a whisper from my lover. It is often I went sweeping from a stack, My nails and my hair under the ashes I used to leave, I used to put the flail under the back of the fork, I used to put the spade quietly under my pillow, I used to put my distaff in the cell of the kiln, And my ball of yarn in Randal's small limekiln, I used to put the flaxseed in the middle of the street, And put in my straw-bed a head of cabbage. No trick of all those which I mentioned just now Did I not use to invoke the devil and his kinsmen. That's the reason of all my tale & its significance for you; I'm husbandless in spite of my best endeavours. The cause of this my long tale, my pain-ruin! I'm struggling hard against the years, Approaching strongly the days of greyness; Death is a fear to me and without anyone requesting me. Oh Pearl from Paradise! I scream and cry out to you! Reparation of my spirit on you, I beseech & call on you! Beware! don't dismiss me as an insignificant streel Or a hag unmarried, powerless, without bloom, Friendless, childless, without protection, without friends; At the hearth, a scold without use, without welcome. By blood, intercession, fires and torches! I was deceived, established, spoken of as a fool And possessing every comfort & the choice between evils At the hags of Ireland in front of my eyes. Sive, rich and easy-going, has a youngster: Marian in merriment and facing her husband; Muriel and Margery in sensuality smothered; A great amount of mockery on them, jeering at me. Sally and Sheila are both frisky and easy; Ann and Celia and a brood around them: And more of the sort of women of the country, And is me as I am without issue, without progeny It is long I'm without use and it's patience I am. The sickness in my melting and the remedy near me Along with vile rotten herbs And charms and magic spells that'll subdue yet for me A nice boy or a gallant young man Who will justly win for me his love and affection. I saw plenty of that kind being done, And I shall put in readiness in the same way. It is steadfast the help to coupling of people Morsels of apples and powder of herbs: The early purple orchid, punched-up blubber-lip, The great figwort, [an unknown love charm], [A herb used in withcraft], young girls' subjection, The yellow camomile and its magic for lust, Leaves burned as though it was a secret, And more of the kind that isn't proper to teach. It was a great wonder all over Thomond That girl up there who won a husband, And that she informed me, of course in secret, At Shrove and married since Hallowe'en, That she didn't drink but the best of the white stuff And bog flies burnt in ale. For long I've been patient and may I get relief, Beware that I delayI am an arrow for speed. Unless there is a cure for my pain in this visit of yours, I will put anger into force if I'm hard pressed.