Raftery's Praise of Mary Hynes - Translated by Lady Gregory

The Irish gaelic poet, although blind, wrote this poem as a tribute to Mary Hynes who was famed throughout Galway as the Rose of Ballylee. W.B.Yeats lived in a tower in Ballylee for a few years and was interested in the stories of Mary Hynes which had come down to his own time, both in Raftery's poetry and by word of mouth. Yeats's anthology 'The Tower' owes its title to that period of his life. He spoke in his letters from the time of Republican soldiers of the Irish Civil War coming to the house and joking with him. He spoke to them about the weather and envied their youth,comradeship and contempt for death. But he must have been worried too. The local railway bridge was blown up and he speaks of Ford cars passing through the village in 1921 with coffins across the back seats. By late 1921 Ballylee was inaccessible by rail and all the roads had been blocked by the IRA. Yeats's history of involvement with the Irish Republican Brotherhood would have been his safe passage at a time when 'Big Houses' were being burned down.
As for the poem, Lady Gregory's translation is sensitive and thoughtful it seems to me.

GOING to Mass by the will of God,
The day came wet and the wind rose;
I met Mary Hynes at the cross of Kiltartan,
and I fell in love with her there and then.
I spoke to her kind and mannerly,
As by report was her own way;
And she said "Raftery my mind is easy;
You may come to-day to Ballylee."
When I heard her offer I did not linger;
When her talk went to my heart my heart rose.
We had only to go across the three fields;
We had daylight with us to Ballylee.
The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure;
She had fair hair and she sitting beside me;
and she said, "Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes;
There is a strong cellar in Ballylee." 
O star of light and O sun in harvest;
O amber hair, O my share of the world!
Will you come with me on the Sunday,
till we agree together before all the people?
I would not begrudge you a song every Sunday evening;
Punch on the table or wine if you would drink it.
But O King of Glory, dry the roads before me
till I find the way to Ballylee.
There is sweet air on the side of the hill,
When you are looking down upon Ballylee;
When you are walking in the valley picking nuts and blackberries,
There is music of the birds in it and music of the Sidhe.
What is the worth of greatness without
the light of the flower of the branch by your side?
There is no good to deny it or to try and hide it;
She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.
There was no part in Ireland I did not travel,
From the rivers to the tops of the mountains;
To the edge of Lough Greine whose mouth is hidden,
and I saw no beauty but was behind hers. 
Her hair was shining and her brows were shining;
Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet;
She is the pride and I give her the branch;
She is the shining flower of Ballylee.