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Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June;

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly played in tune.



As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:



Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.



And fare thee weel, my only Luve,

And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it ware ten thousand mile

Ná seasamh ar mo uaigh agus weep

Níl mé ann. Ní féidir liom codladh.

Tá mé ar buille míle gaotha sin.

Is mise an glints Diamond ar an sneachta.

Tá mé an solas ar gráin ripened.

Tá mé an bháisteach fhómhar mhín.

Nuair a dúisigh tú ar maidin ar hush

Is mise an tapa uplifting Rush

Na n-éan ciúin i ciorcal eitilt.

Tá mé na réaltaí bog go Shine ar an oíche.

Ná seasamh ar mo uaigh agus caoin;

Níl mé ann. Ní raibh mé bás