ClŪN Malla How hard is my fortune How vain my repining The strong rope of fate For my young neck is twining My strength has departed My cheeks sunk and sallow As I languish in chains In the gaol of Clūn Malla No boy in the village Was ever yet milder I could play with a child And my sport be no wilder I could dance without tiring From morning til evening And my goal ball I'd strike To the lightning of heaven At my bedfoot decaying My hurley is lying Through the lads of the village My goal ball is flying My horse 'mongst the neighbours Neglected may fallow While this heart young and gay Lies cold in Clūn Malla Next Sunday the pattern At home will be keeping The lads of the village The fields will be sweeping And the dance of fair maidens The evening will hallow While this heart Young and gay Lies cold in Clūn Malla (Translated from the Irish by J. J. Callanan.) Cluain Meala = (literally) field of honey = Clonmel. Recorded by Liam Clancy. JD
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