Ireland

A Pheadair a aspail, an bhfaca thú mo ghrá bán? (Ochón, is ochón ó)
Chonaic mé ar ball é dhá chéasadh ag an ngarda (Ochón, is ochón ó)
Cé hé an fear breá sin ar Chrann na Páise?
An é nach n-aithníonn tú do Mhac, a Mháithrín?
An é sin an Maicín a d’iompair mé trí ráithe?
An é sin an Maicín a rugadh in sa stábla?
An é sin an Maicín a hoileadh in ucht Mháire?
A mhicín mhuirneach, tá do bhéal ‘s do shróinín gearrtha.
Is cuireadh calla rúin ar le spídiúlacht óna naimhid
Is cuireadh an coróin spíonta ar a mhullach álainn
Crochadh suas é ar ghuaillí arda
Is buaileadh anuas í bhuilleach na caoineadh sráide.
Cuireadh go Cnoc Chailbhearaí é ag méadú ar a Pháise
Bhí sé ag iompar na Croiche agus Simon lena shála
Buailigí mé féin ach ná bainidh le mo mháithrín
Marómuid thú féín agus buailfimid do mháithrín
Cuireadh tairní maola thrí throithe a chosa agus a lámha
Cuireadh an tslea trí na bhrollach álainn.
Éist a mháthair, is ná bí cráite
Tá mná mo caointe le bre fós a mháthairín.

Oh Peter, apostle, did you see my loved one?
I saw him some time ago, tormented by his enemies
Who is that fine man on the Cross of Passion?
Don’t you recognize your own son, mother?
Is that the son I carried for three trimesters?
Is that the son that was born in the stable?
Is that the son that I reared on my knees?
My dearest little son, your mouth and nose are bleeding.
They dressed him in purple and spat on him with scorn
They put a spiny crown on his beautiful forehead.
They lifted his mother up high on their shoulders
And threw her down on the flagstones of the street.
He was taken to Calvary Hill to hasten his Passion
He carried the cross and Simon helping him
Beat myself, but do not touch my mother
We’ll kill yourself and we’ll beat your mother
There were blunt nails put through his hands and feet
There was a sword put through his beautiful chest.
Listen, Mother, and don’t be grieving
The women who’ll weep for me have yet to be born