Lyrics

A chuisle mo chroi

Ar maidin indé roimh ghréin go moch,
Do dhearcas an bhé ba néimhe cruth:
Bhi sneachta ‘gus caor
A’ caismirt ’n-a sgéimh,
‘Sa seangachorp séimh mar ghéis ar sruth
’S a chuisle mo chroi, créad ín ghruaim sin ort?

Ba bhinne guth caomh a béil le sult
Ná Orpheus do léig go faon na tuirc:
Bhi a reamhar-rosg réidh
Mar chriostal na mbraon
Ar sheamair ghlais fhéir roimh ghréin go moch-
’S a chuisle mo chroi, créad ín ghruaim sin ort?

Before the sun rose yesterday morning,
I met a fair maid down the lawn:
The berry and snow
Brought a glow to her cheeks,
And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan.
Then, pulse my heart, what gloom is thine?

Her beautiful voice had won more hearts
Than Orpheus’ ancient lyre had done.
Her ripe blue eyes
Were crystals of dew
On the grass of the lawn before the sun.
And, pulse of my heart, what gloom is thine?