Mise Raifteirí an File (Irish Gaelic)

Mise Raifteirí an file,
Bruite brónach bocht,
Is searbh mo chás, mo sgéal féinig,
Gan airgead, gan óir, gan phingin.

Gan lúth i gcos, gan radharc i súil,
A' dul i méid gach uile dhóigh;
Gan aon duine le mo threorú,
Ach Dia liom is mo bhata.

Fadó bhíodh mé ag ól is ag pógadh,
Ag imirt cártaí is ag rince,
Ach anois táim lag, fann, agus tinn,
Agus ní féidir liom siúl ná léim.

Tá mo chroí trom, tá mo cheann faoi bhrón,
Tá mo shúile dall, ní fheicim aon rud;
Tá mo chluasa bodhar, ní chloisim ceol binn,
Agus níl aon neart i mo lámha.

Ach tá súil agam go bhfaighidh mé áit
I measc na naomh i gcathair na glóire,
Áit a mbeidh mé sásta agus sona,
Saor ó gach pian agus péin.

I am Raftery the poet,
A poor, sorrowful, and broken man,
Bitter is my plight, my own story,
Without silver, without gold, without a penny.

Without strength in my legs, without sight in my eyes,
Growing worse in every way;
Without anyone to guide me,
But God with me and my stick.

Once I used to be drinking and kissing,
Playing cards and dancing,
But now I am weak, feeble, and sick,
And I cannot walk or leap.

My heart is heavy, my head is bowed down,
My eyes are blind, I see nothing;
My ears are deaf, I hear no sweet music,
And there is no strength in my hands.

But I hope that I will find a place
Among the saints in the city of glory,
Where I will be happy and joyful,
Free from all pain and suffering.