Seoithín Seothó, is tú mo Mhaoin

Bà, Bà, Mo Leanabh

Rockabye Baby, Rockabye Dear

Chuaigh mo theanga, mo pheann ag tochailt
Sa chré, fé phréamhacha is fé chlocha
Chun rún na sinsear a ceileadh is a cuireadh
I nduibheagán na hoíche is na péine
A thabhairt chun solas na cuimhne.
 
Fé chaonach is fé fhuacht na gcloch
Criostal an chriostail iad leanaí na cille;
Glan mar chnámha, bánaithe ag na dúile;
Clocha scáil fé loinnir réalt na maidine;
Nó nóiníní saonta le buíú na gréine.
 
 
Rinn mo pheann ’s mo theanga cladhach  
Sa chriadh, fo fhreumhan is fo chlachan,
Gus rùn nan sinnsear, a chaidh a chleith ’s a chur
An duibheagan na h-oidhche is na pèine,
A thoirt a-nìos gu solas na cuimhne.
 
Fo chòinneach is fo fhuachd nan leac,
Tha clann na cille a’ deàrrsadh mar chriostail,
Cho geal ri cnàmhan air am blianadh aig na sìontan,
No clachan-èiteig fo lainnir reul na maidne,
No neòinean soineanta fo bhuidheachadh na grèine.
 
My tongue and pen went deep
Into the clay, under roots and stones,
To hold the ancestral secret, hidden
And buried in depths of night and grief,
Up to the light of memory.
 
Under mossy and cold grey slabs
Children of the cillín are shining clean,
Bright as bones, bleached by the elements.
They glitter like quartz under the Morning Star,
Or innocent daisies in mellow evening sun.