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Thíos I bPort an Chabhlaigh,
ógbhean seang a`siúl i mbéal na toinne,
Is í a caoile a chuireann
cluain ar chuile stócach,
Shiúlfá tamaill sula gcásfaí a leithéid ortsa,
Nó go bhfeicfeá radharc chomh bréa mar shuaimhneas
aigne.
Thíos I bport an Chabhlaigh,
Buachaill óg a`súgradh ins a` ngaineamh,
A ríocht faoina lámha beaga
aige,
Mo mhairg a chaisleán breá istoiche,
Nuair a sciobhfaidh sluaite na mara
a bhallaí leo.
Iascairí
an chladaigh,
Ag obair mar is toil leo leis na ciantaibh,
Ag gabháil ar thóir na mbradán um thrathnóna,
Is í
an fharraige a réim dúchais,
A`s an ghrian ann mar a bheadh súil chirce.
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In sleepy Portacowley,
A slender maiden paddles on the shore,
Each young man`s eye transfixed by form and grace,
You`d
travel far to meet her match and equal,
Or such a sight to greet a roving eye.
Down in Portacowley,
A young
boy builds ,delighted ,in the sand,
A little kingdom all beneath his hands,
A pity on his little world this evening,
When the sea hosts shall ravage those fine walls.
The fishers on the shoreline,
Working as they`ve done for
generations,
Chasing after salmon in the evening,
This sea is their inheritance from nature,
And the sun behind
them sets in amber glow.
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