Mo Mhíle Stór

I was under your spell from the start:
I was young, I was soft,
and you well knew you could turn my head
with your talk about whitewashed courts
and big long sleeps on a duck-down bed
and gloves made out of the skins of fish.

When you sailed away
my goodbyes were the gulls in your wake.
I put up with rows and with blame
from every side; there was a time
when I could number my friends
on the fingers of one hand.

You sailed through life, you came back home,
your boat beached on my bed.
As I covered you all in honey,
I saw your hair had gone grey
and straight;
but in my memory the curls grew on,
twelve coils in the ripening
crop on your head.

Mo Mhíle Stór

Mo Mhíle Stór

I dtús mo shaoil do mheallais mé
i dtráth m’óige, trí mo bhoige.
Thuigis go maith
go bhféadfaí mo cheann a chasadh
le trácht ar chúirteanna aoldaite,
ar chodladh go socair i gcuilteanna
de chlúmh lachan,
ar lámhainní de chraiceann éisc.

Ansan d’imís ar bord loinge,
chuireas mo mhíle slán i do choinne.
Chuireas suas le bruíon is le bearradh
ó gach taobh ; bhí tráth ann
go bhféadfainn mo chairde a chomhaireamh
ar mhéireanta aon láimhe amháin,
ach ba chuma.

Thugais uait cúrsa an tsaoil
is d’fhillis abhaile.
Tháinig do long i dtír
ar mo leaba.
Chlúdaíos le mhil thú
is chonac go raibh do ghruaig
fachta liath is díreach.

Fós i mo chuimhní
tánn tú bachallach,
tá dhá chocán déag i do chúl buí
cas.