An saighdiúir tréigthe

The soldier deserted
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Irish

English (machine translation)

When I got on Wednesday morning,
not I consecrated m'éadan, alas,
As I took the weapon to the most difficult,
and I have a mouth with leading edge stone.

I threw my clothes for me,
and my good sense I wind,
is when I heard my sweetheart profile,
ORU, I splash at the joint of the index finger.

People say I'm sick sporadically,
is not relieved by getting diagnosed my illness,
Since I put my interest in the maiden,
has lived on the White Mountain brow.

Her waist is brighter than the swan,
Or the blowing snow about high,
is the most honey rose a face,
a woman I did not see any better.

Long my feet without shoes,
and is longer my pockets without pens,
long I'm going with young women,
But I never did drink a tear to my desire.

Long my heart has been broken for
And my thumba being printed free,
My tombstone built spring day,
these fine young men going under.

If I was seven years underground,
Or feverish on a bed in my lie,
sweetheart, if I would come and ask,
not as I would you awake.

Oh, pity that my father was not dead,
when he put me into the King,
is that it is the grave of my hard dying future,
and sweetheart, not pity my dying.

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