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And just a few more:
Dán d’Oíche Nollag
Dia do bheatha, a naoi naoimh,
sa mhainséar cé tá tú bocht,
meidhreach saibhir atá tú,
is glórmhar id dhún féin anocht.
A naoi bhig atá mór,
a leanbhín óg atá sean,
san mhainséar níor chuir tú a lán,
cé nach bhfuigheadh áit ar neamh.
Díbh gan aon mháthair ariamh,
gan athair ar ndóigh anocht,
i do Dhia ‘riamh atá tú
is do dhuine ar dtús anocht.
Ní sine hathair ná sibh,
óige an mháthair, a mhic Dé,
is sine is óige an mac,
is sine is is óige í ná é.
God be with you, O holy child,
in the manger how poor you are,
merrily rich are you,
and glorious your own fortress tonight.
O little child who is great,
young little child who is old,
you did not even fill up the manger,
what a place you had in heaven.
God without any mother,
surely without a father tonight,
you were God before now,
and are man for the first time tonight.
Father not older than you,
younger the mother, O Son of God,
the son is older and younger,
she is older and younger than he.
A oíche naomh
A oíche naomh. is geal sa spéir na réalta,
oíche bhreith Chríost, thug slán sinn ón mbás.
B’fhada an domhan fé pheaca is fé earráid,
gur tháinig Sé is gur ghin ionainn grá.
De dhóchas ard tá lúcháir ar an saol bocht,
is ann atá an mhaidin ghlórmhar bhreá.
Cromaíg go humhal tabhair aird ar cheol na n-aingeal!
A oíche Dé, a oíche bhreith ár dTiarna;
a oíche Dé, a oíche Dé.
Fé threoir na Cré ag soilsiú ina gcroíthe.
ár gcroí lán grá i ndeas dá chliabhán.
Fé threoir an réalt ag taitneamh ins na spéartha,
tháinig an triúr an bóthar anoir.
Féach Rí na Rí ‘na luí go humhal sa mhainséar
pé fad ár mbuairt ár gcara é sa chúirt.
’S eol dó ár ndíth, ár laigíocht tá soiléir dó.
Seo Rí na naomh! Ar do ghlúine ina láthair!
Seo Rí na naomh! Ar do ghlúine ina láthair!
Eisean a mhúin dúinn a chéile a ghráú;
dlí Dé an grá a shoiscéal síocháin.
Briseann slabhraí an daor, ’sé ár mbráthair,
’gus faoina réim cuirtear leatrom chun fáin.
Le háthas croí gabhaimidne ceolta buíochais.
De chroí iomlán gabhaimidne buíochas Dó.
’Sé Críost an Triath, tá a Ainm síor le móradh.
Is ard go deo a Ainm is a ghlóir!
Is ard go deo a Ainm is a ghlóir!
O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Savior's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
‘til He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was born;
O night, o night , O night divine!
Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,
with glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.
O'er the world a star is sweetly gleaming,
now come the wise men from out of the Orient land.
The King of kings lay thus in lowly manger;
in all our trials born to be our friend.
He knows our need, our weakness is no stranger.
Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!
Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!
Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother,
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we.
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord, then ever, ever praise we.
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
and, although it's really not for Christmas, one that's often sung this time of year and is very Christmas-y:
An dreoilín
Dreoilín a fuaireas-sa thíos ar an ínse,
fé bhrághaid carraige ‘s carbhat síod’ air,
do thugas-sa chughaibh-se é, a lanúin ‘n tí seo,
‘gus gura seacht fearr um an dtaca seo arís sibh.
Dreoilín a thugas-sa chút-sa a Dhiarmuid,
ní mar dhúil i lionn ná iarsma,
ach mar dhúil sa tsúgradh d’iarraidh
do bhíodh ‘n ár ndúthaigh lá cinn bhliana.
Dreoilín a thugas-sa chút-sa a Shiobhán,
ní mar dhúil i lionn ná ‘n arán,
ach mar dhúil sa tsúgradh ‘ chimeád
bhíodh ‘nár ndúthaigh Lá ‘le Stiofáin.
Dreoilín a fuaras-sa i gcarn cloch,
‘gus ar neoin cár bhfearr é ‘ fháil i dtor?
Do chaitheas-sa mo mhaide leis is bhriseas a chos;
Éirigh i d’shuí, a bhean a’ tí, is líon chúinn deoch.
Is muar an trua an dreoilín i mbarra ‘n chnoic,
an bháisteach sa tarr air, an síon is an sioc,
ag imeacht ar na bántaibh, a chosa do bhí geárrtha,
agus bríste gan bhásta air ‘s is fuar é a dhriuch.
D’imigh an dreoilín anonn thar muir,
ó lúib na carraige uainn do rith,
is mó duine a’ faire air ó Luan go Satharn,
gan ball ná baile aige ach scáth an tuir.
Dreoilín óir, an dreoilín,
‘s beidh ór i bpóca an dreoilín;
dreolín airgid fé bhínn fhallainge
agus mac a’ Bhanba an dreoilín.
Féachaíg ‘s do gheobha’ sibh dreoilín glic,
a thiocfaidh le fórsaibh aniar ‘s anoir.
Cuirtear an chiúrach arís ‘n ár gciúnn
agus ólfaimíd-na sláinte ‘n tsár-fhir ghlic.
‘S beidh ór fós ag an ndreoilín,
‘s beidh ór i stór ag an ndreoilín,
‘s beidh ór ar a chóta is ór ar a bhróga,
‘gus fíon dá ól ‘na sheomraí gil.
Is árd é an dreoilín i mbarra ‘n tuir.
is mear is is seoltha a bheidh a shliocht,
a’ dul go tigh an ósta ‘s an joga muar lán romhainn,
‘gus ólfaimíd-ne sláinte ‘n tsár-fhir iniubh.
A wren that I found down on the island,
in a hollow of a stone, wearing a silk cravat,
I brought it to you, couple of this house,
and may you be seven times better off at this time again.
I brought the wren to you, Dermot,
not in the hope of ale or a New Year’s gift,
but in the hope of the playful amusement
that used to be in our homeland on New Year’s Day.
I brought the wren to you, Siobhan,
not in the hope of ale or bread,
but in hope of preserving the fun
that used to be in our homeland on St. Stephen’s Day.
I caught a wren in a pile of stones,
and would it be better to catch it in a bush?
I threw my stick at it and broke its leg.
Get up from your sitting, woman of the house, and pour us a drink.
Pity the wren on top of the hill,
with rain on its belly, the storm and the frost
going into the fields, its legs cut,
and broken without bands on it and it wet from the dew.
The wren went away across the sea,
ran away from us from the snare in the stone,
and how many people watching for it from Monday to Saturday,
with neither a patch nor a home, but the shade of the bush.
Golden wren, the wren,
and there’ll be gold in the pocket of the wren;
wren money under the side of its coat,
and the wren’s a son of the Banba.
Look, you caught the clever wren,
that would fly forcefully back and forth.
Let the cow be put before of us again,
and we’ll drink the health of the clever excellent men.
And the wren will still have gold,
and the wren will have gold in its treasure hoard,
and there’ll be gold on its coat and gold on its shoes,
and wine to drink to it in the bright rooms.
The wren is high on top of the bush,
it’s quick and graceful that its children will be,
going to the pub with a quick, full jug before us,
and we’ll drink the health of the excellent men today.
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I'm not a native (or entirely fluent) speaker, so be sure to wait for confirmations/corrections, especially for tattoos.
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Great idea for a thread! Grma! 
