by Eduardo Pondal (1835-1917)

What do the murmurers say
On the verdant coast
Under the transparent beam
Of the calm moonlight?
What do the lofty treetops
Of dark bent pine twigs say
In their harmonious
Monotonous buzzing?

Girded by thy greenness,
And by benign stars,
Bound of the green hill forts
And worthy land,
Do not let into oblivion
The harsh rancour of insult;
Awaken from thy slumbers,
O hearth of Breoghan.

The good and generous
Our voice do understand,
And eagerly they hearken
To our rough sounds;
But only the ignorant,
And barbaric and hard,
Those foolish and dark
Do not understand us.

The times are now upon us
Sung by the ancient bards,
When all your wanderings
Shall promptly meet their end;
For everywhere, gigantic,
Our voice loudly proclaimeth
The redemption of the good
Nation of Breoghan.