Eisean, le scannal an ghnímh,
Filleann turban timpeall a chinn,
Ceileann ón bpobal mór, is eagal leis
A chluasa ollmhóra, an domhan mór d’fheiscin’
Ba eol do bharbóirsclábha, gruaig a mháistir a ghearradh
Sé, an rún mór féin, nuair a chuaigh an ghruaig i bhfaide
Agus, cé go mífhoighneach, ní scaoileadh é
Ar deireadh san áit phríobháideach
Poll do thocail, is dúirt leis an talamh é
De chogar beag, do sceith an scéal
Is chlúdaigh le hithir, faoi thost d’fhag ann é.
Théis tamaill, ó fhialí beaga tagann Fómhar deas,
Ó chlais an rúin, a d’ardaigh suas,
A ardaíonn le caitheamh na bliana aibí
Is tagann bainteoir, is a chúram gan torthaí
Mar ansin, is na lanna is an ghaoth shioscarnach
A chuirfidh le chéile leis an mór-rún a chur amach
He, to conceal the scandal of the deed,
A purple turban folds about his head,
Veils the reproach from public view, and fears
The laughing world would spy his monstrous ears.
One trusty barber-slave, that used to dress
His master's hair, when lengthen'd to excess,
The mighty secret knew, but knew alone,
And, though impatient, durst not make it known.
Restless, at last a private place be found,
Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground;
In a low whisper he reveal'd the case,
And cover'd in the earth, and silent left the place,
In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous crop
From the confided furrow sprouted up,
Which, high advancing with the ripening year,
Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care;
For then the rustling blades and whispering wind
To tell the important secret both combined
