"Brionglóideanna de Bhaldraithe"

Tá sé folamh, an bóthar anocht,
Níl aon cheol, níl aon spraoi,
Na cailíní óga ,
Ní go maith ag damhsa a bhfuil siad.
Níl na buachaillí móra ag imirt,
Peil agus iomáiníocht i rith an lae,
Agus ní raibh siad ag casadh poirt,
Níl éinne aon a chloiseann é. 

Ní labhraíonn na seandaoine anois,
Faoi na Fianna lena páistí óga,
Caitheann siad iad amach,
Nuair nach bhfuil ach poll sna bróga.
 Na cailíní áileann ag damhsa,
Lán le bréag, níl siad fir,
Tá an bóthar folamh anocht,
Sa Tuaisceart agus san Iarthar.

 Tá na buachaillí sa teach tábhairne,
Iad ag ól arís,
Ag breathnú ar pheil Sasanach,
‘s ag canadh ‘s ag scréach ag an teilifís.
 Ní úsáideann na seandoine a dteanga
Nuair atá siad ag caint le h-aon uine,
Usáideann siad  béarla,
Agus féachann isteach sa tine.

 Agus an ghrian ina codladh is t-oíche,
Tá rás an lae críochnaithe,
Feicimid brionglóidí de Bhaldraithe:
Is bréag iad…tá siad briste...maraithe

The Dreams of De Valera

It is empty, the road now
There is no music, or sport
The young girls, beautiful
At dance, they are not. 

The boys, big, are not playing
Football and hurling during the day
And they are not singing the songs
There’s no-one that hears it. 

The old people are not talking now
Of the Fianna to the young children
And today they throw out
When there’s a small hole in a shoe 

The beautiful girls that are dancing
They are false, are not true
The road is empty tonight
In the north and the west. 

The boys are in the tavern
They are drinking again
Looking at English football
Singing and shouting at the television.

The old people use not their language
When they are talking to anyone
They use the English
And look into the fire. 

When the sun is sleeping at night
And finished for the day is its race
We see the dreams of De Valera:
They are false… broken… and dead.