Текст оригинала на английском языке
A Jacobite Relic -- from the Irish LONG they pine in weary woe -- the nobles of our land -- Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned; Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exie's brand, But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan. Think not her a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen; Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen; Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a qeeen, Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan. Sweet and mild would look her face -- Oh! none so sweet and mild -- Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled; Woolen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child, If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan. Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and hapless bones! Bitter anguish wrings our souls -- with heavy sighs and groans We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan. Let us pray to Him who holds life's issues in His hands, Him who formed the mighty globe, with all his thousand lands; Girding them with sea and mountains, rivers deep, and strands, To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan. He, who over sands and waves led Israel along -- He who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng; He who stood by Moses when his foes were fierce and strong, May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.
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