From the Irish.

The arts of Greece, Rome, and of Eirin’s fair earth,
If at my sole command they this moment were all,
I’d give, though I’m fully aware of their worth,
Could they back from the dead my lost Mary recall.

I’m distrest every noon, now I sit down alone,
And at morn, now with me she arises no more:
With no woman alive after thee would I wive,
Could I flocks and herds gain, and of gold a bright store.

Awhile in green Eirin so pleasant I dwelt,
With her nobles I drank to whom music was dear;
Then left to myself, O how mournful I felt
At the close of my life, with no partner to cheer.

My sole joy and my comfort wast thou ’neath the sun,
Dark gloom, now I’m reft of thee, filleth my mind;
I shall know no more happiness now thou art gone,
O my Mary, of wit and of manners refin’d.