Ni sa Moce

Éirí an bóthar leat riamh roimhe seo,
thar do ghualainn an ghrian,
an ghaoth a leanann tú,
agus féadfaidh an bháisteach titim go réidh ar do ghoirt.

May the road ever rise before you,
over your shoulder the sun ,
the wind to follow you,
and may the rain fall gently on your fields.


About Uisce úr

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
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