O man who follows English ways,
who cut your thick-clustering hair,
graceful hand of my choice,
you are not Donnchadh´s good son!

If you were, you would not give up your hair
for an artificial English mode -
the fairest ornament in the land of Fodla! -
and your head would not be tonsured.

You think the yellow head of hair unfashionable,
he detests both wearing locks
and going bald after the English style;
your characters are different indeed.

A man who never loved English ways
is Eoghan Ban, beloved of noble ladies.
To English ways he never gave his heart:
a savage life he chose.

Your mind is nothing to Eoghan Ban,
a man who would give breeches for a trifle,
who asked no cloak but a rag,
who had no wish for coat and leggings.

He would hate to carry at his ankle
a jewelled spur on a boot,
or stockings in the English style;
he will have no locks upon him.

A blunt rapier that would not kill a fly,
the weight of an awl sticking out behind
as one goes to a hill of assembly -
the son of Donnchadh sees no beauty in that!

Little he cares for a mantle gold-embroidered,
or a (high Dutch collar) or a gold ring
that would only be irksome,
or a satin scarf down to the heels.

He has no longing for a feather bed,
he had rather lie upon the rushes.
Pleasanter to Donnchadh´s good son is a hut
of rough poles than the (battlements) of a tower.

A troop of horse at the brink of a gap,
a fierce fight, a struggle with foot-soldiers,
these are some of the desires of Donnchadh´s son -
and seeking battle against the foreigners!

How unlike are you to Eoghan Ban -
they laugh at your foot on the stepping-stone.
Pity that you have not seen your fault,
O man who follows English ways.