How hard is my fortune
How vain my repining
The strong rope of death
For my young neck is twining
My strength is departed
My cheeks sunk and sallow
While I languish in chains
In the gaol of Clûn Malla

No boy in the village
Was ever yet milder
I could play with a child
And my sport be no wilder
I danced without tiring
From morning til evening
And my goal ball I'd strike
To the lightning of heaven

At my bedfoot decaying
My hurley is lying
Through the lads of the village
My goal ball is flying
My horse ’mongst the neighbours
Neglected may fallow
While I pine in my chains
In the gaol of Clûn Malla
Next Sunday the pattern
At home will be keeping
All the young [?]
The field will be sweeping
The dance of fair maidens
The evening will hallow
While this heart
Once so gay
Will be cold in Clûn Malla