[A Woman:] Why do you part me from my darling son? The fruit of my womb, it was I who bore him, he drank from my breast, my womb carried him, he sucked my bowels, he was my life, it is my death to take him from me. It has sapped my strength, it has stilled my speech, it has blinded my eyes.
[Another:] You take my son from me, it is not he does the wrong; kill me then, do not kill my son! My breasts without milk, my eyes wet, my hands shaking, my body without mettle, my husband without a son, myself without strength, my life is but death! O God, my only son, my journey without reward, my labour without birth, unrevenged until Doomsday. My breasts are stilled, my heart is bowed down.
[Another:] You seek one to kill, you kill many; you strike down the babies, you wound the fathers, you kill the mothers. You have filled hell, you have shut heaven, you have spilt the blood of the righteous without a cause.
[Another:] Come to me, Christ! Take my life quickly along with my son. O great Mary, Mother of God's Son, what shall I do without a son? On account of your son my sense and mind have been killed; I have been made a mad woman after my son. My heart is a clot of blood after the tragic slaughter from today till the judgment comes.
-- "This curious poem is from a series of homilies that tell the story of Christ's childhood in the form of a medieval romance." Translated by David Greene and Frank O'Connor.
[A woman:]
Ciodh má ndeilighe mo mhac grádhach riom?
Toradh mo bhronn,
mé ro thuisimh,
mo chích ro ibh
mo bhrú ros iomarchar,
m'inne ro shúigh,
mo chridhe ro shás,
mo bheatha rob é,
mo bhás a bhreith uaim;
mo neart ro thráigh,
m'innsce ro shocht,
mo shúile ro dhall.
[Another:]
Mo mhac bheire uaim,
ni hé do-ní an t-olc,
marbh didhiu mé féin ,
ná marbh mo mhac!
Mo chíocha gan loim,
mo shúile go fliuch,
mo lámha ar crith,
mo chorpán gan níth,
mo chéile gan mhac,
mé féine gan neart,
mo bheatha is fiú bás!
Uch, m'aonmhac, a Dhé!
M'fhaoidhe gan luach,
mo ghalar gan ghein,
gan díoghail go bráth;
mo chíocha 'na dtost,
mo chridhe ro chrom.
[Another:]
Aon shiorthaoi dá mharbadh,
sochaidhe mharbhthaoi,
naoidhin bhuailtí,
na haithreacha ghontaoi,
na máithreacha mharbhthaoi,
ifreann ro líon sibh
neamh ro dhún sibh,
fola fírén ro dhoirtseabhar gan chionaidh.
[Another:]
Tair chugam, a Chríost,
beir m'anmain go luath
maraon is mo mhac!
Uch, a Mhuire mhór,
Máthair Mheic Dé,
ciodh do-dhéan gan mhac?
Tríd Mhacsa ro marbhadh
mo chonn is mo chiall;
do-rinne bean bhaoth díom
i ndiaidh mo mheic;
mo chridhe is caob cró
a haithle an áir thruaigh
ó 'ndiu go dtí bráth.
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