Mná na hÉireann

Tá bean in Éirinn a phronnfadh séad domh is mo sháith le n-ól
Is tá bean in Éirinn is ba bhinne léithe mo ráfla ceoil
Ná seinm théad; atá bean in Éirinn is níorbh fhearr léi beo
Mise ag léimnigh^[1] nó leagtha i gcré is mo thárr^[2] faoi fhód

Tá bean in Éirinn a bheadh ag éad liom mur' bhfaighfinn ach póg
Ó bhean ar aonach, nach ait an scéala, is mo dháimh féin leo;
Tá bean ab fhearr liom nó cath is céad dhíobh nach bhfagham go deo
Is tá cailín spéiriúil ag fear gan Bhéarla, dubhghránna cróin.

Tá bean i Laighnibh is nios mhiste léithe bheith láimh liom ar bord,
Is tá bean i bhFearnmhaigh a ghéabhadh bhéarsai is is sárbhinne glór,
Bhí bean ar thaobh cnoic i gCarraig Éamoinn^[3] a níodh gáire ag ól
Is tráth bhí ina maighdean ní mise d'éignigh^[4] dá chois ó chomhar^[5].

Tá bean a leaghfadh, nífeadh is d'fhuaifeadh cáimric is sról,
Is tá bean a dhéanfadh de dh'olainn gréas is thairnfeadh^[6] an bhró^[7]
Tá bean is b'fhearr leí ag cruinniú déirce nó cráite re cró^[8]
Is tá bean 'na ndéidh uile a luífeadh lé fear is a máthair faoi fhód

Tá bean a déarnadh an iomad tréanais is grá Dia mór,
Is tá bean nach mbéarfadh a mionna ar aon mhodh is nach n-ardódh glór;
Ach thaisbeáin saorbhean a ghlacfadh lé fear go cráifeach cóir
Nach mairfeadh a ghléas^[9] is nach mbainfeadh léithe i gcás ar domhan.

Tá bean a déarfadh dá siulfainn^[10] léi go bhfaighinn an t-ór^[11],
Is tá bean 'na léine^[12] is fearr a méin ná táinte bó
Le bean a bhuairfeadh Baile an Mhaoir is clár Thír Eoghain,
Is ní fheicim leigheas ar mo ghalar féin ach scaird a dh'ól

There’s a woman in Ireland who would bestow a charm on me or plenty to drink
And there’s a woman in Ireland and my gossiping song would be sweeter to her
Than harp music; there’s a woman in Ireland who would prefer nothing more
Than me to be mating, rather than my lower belly under the sod

There’s a woman in Ireland who would be jealous of me if I were only to get a kiss
From a woman at the fair, how odd is that, and me inclined to them both;
There’s a woman I’d prefer than a battalion and a hundred women that I’ll never have
And an ugly black-nosed man with no English has a pretty girl

There’s a woman in Leinster who wouldn’t mind being in hand with me on board (?)
And there’s a woman in Farney who would recite verses with the sweetest of voice
There was a woman on the side of a hill in Carrickedmond who used to laugh when she drank
Once was a virgin, it wasn’t me who forced (raped) her two legs apart.

There’s a woman who would soak, wash and sew cambric and satin
And there’s a woman who would make as much knitted wool as would hide the swelling belly
And there’s a woman who would rather go begging than be troubled with child (?),
And there’s a woman who after all that would lie with a man and her mother dead.

There’s a woman who would do too much abstinence and too much God loving
And there’s a woman who wouldn’t swear in any way or raise her voice;
But one fine woman who would receive a man piously and with propriety
Showed that his 'instrument' wouldn’t sustain it, so wouldn’t meddle with her under any circumstance.

There’s a woman who says that if I were to court her I’d get the gold;
And there’s a woman in her shift and her nature surpasses
The woman, with herds of cattle, who troubled Ballymoyer and the plains of Tyrone.
And there’s no cure for my disease but a slug of drink.

There's a woman in Erin who'd give me shelter and my fill of ale;
There's a woman in Ireland who'd prefer my strains to strings being played;
There's a woman in Eirinn and nothing would please her more
Than to see me burning or in a grave lying cold.

There's a woman in Eirinn who'd be mad with envy if I was kissed
By another on fair-day, they have strange ways, but I love them all;
There are women I'll always adore, battalions of women and more
And there's this sensuous beauty and she shackled to an ugly boar.

There's a woman who promised if I'd wander with her I'd find some gold
A woman in night dress with a loveliness worth more than the woman
Who vexed Ballymoyer and the plain of Tyrone;
And the only cure for my pain I'm sure is the ale-house down the road.

There's a woman in Ireland who'd give me a gem and my fill to drink,
There's a woman in Ireland to whom my singing is sweeter than the music of strings
There's a woman in Ireland who would much prefer me leaping
Than laid in the clay and my belly under the sod

There's a woman in Ireland who'd envy me if I got naught but a kiss
From a woman at a fair, isn't it strange, and the love I have for them
There's a woman I'd prefer to a battalion, and a hundred of them whom I will never get
And an ugly, swarthy man with no English has a beautiful girl

There's a woman who would say that if I walked with her I'd get the gold
And there's the woman of the shirt whose mien is better than herds of cows
With a woman who would deafen Baile an Mhaoir and the plain of Tyrone
And I see no cure for my disease but to drink a torrent