Never again will I go to Cashel
Selling or selling my health,
Or on a holiday market Sitting by a wall
In my peace on the side of a street.
country coming on their horses
Asking the real excitement.
Oh I go for a walk, the course is long,
This is the walk of the Wandering Spalpín.
In my Spalpín Fánach was left me
Standing on my health.
Walking the dew early in the morning
And collecting quarter diseases.
A sickle will not be seen In my hand to reap
Success or see a little spade
But the colors of the French over my bed
And I have a pike to stick
More than five hundred farewells to my father's country
It is the land of the beloved Island.
And to the boys of the Cúlach since they were not me
In the difficult times of the guard
But now from the pit of butter where a poor statue
Among these wild countries
Sé my heart's longing because I got the profession
I'll always be a Spalpín Fánách
I remember too well my people being turned
West at the bridge of Cáile
For you, for sheep, under small white calves
And there were horses to count
But it was the will of Christ that we were sent
And he was blessed with regard to our health
And it was my heart broke In every country I would go
"Call here, you tramp"
Translation from Irish Gaelic to English:
I will never go again to Caishel
Selling or bartering myself in hire
Or selling my freedom, sitting by the wall
Lounging by the side of the road.
Rude, boorish men from all over the country, coming on their horses
Asking if I am for hire
Oh, come let us go, the journey is long
The journey of the wandering laborer
I will quit this itinerant laboring
Hiring myself out
Walking over night to early morning
Weary of endless journeying
I would not see a sickle in my hand for reaping
A flail for threshing nor a small spade handle
But rather, the colors of the French flying over my head
And a pike in my hand to thrust forth
Five hundred farewells to the town of my father
And to my beloved island
And to the boys of Luach, sure there was no harm in them
During the times we tangled with the Garda
But now, since I am in my poor destitute cell
In the midst of my own native land, outcast
My heart is full of woe, that I ever go the calling
To be a wandering laborer
It's well I remember when my parents were hewing
Over at Gaile bridge
With oxen, with sheep with bright young calves
And horses to take care of
But it was the will of Christ that it was taken from us
And we were put out for hire
And it would break my heart, every where I would go, to hear
"Call here, you tramp"