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Sé Tomás Ó Dálaigh a d’fhág fán agus scaipeadh ar aos óg,Ó d’imir an bás air na grásta go dtuga Dia dhó, Tá an tír seo ar fad cráite ag síorthrácht air ó thréig an fear spóirt, Gurb é a bhéarfadh an báire as gach ceard le breáthacht a chuid ceoil.
Tá na healaí ar an cuanta naoi n-uaire chomh dubh leis an sméar, Ó d’imigh an fear uainne a raibh an suairceas ar bharra a mhéar, Ba deise a dhá shúil ghlas ná drúcht na maidne ar bharr féir, ’S ó síneadh san uaigh é tá an fuacht ag fáil treise ar an ngréin.
Siúd é an chraobh álainn ins gach ceard dhá ndeachaigh sé riamh, Scaipfeadh sé a lán is níor chruinnigh sé taca ná maoin, Scaipfeadh sé státa na nDálach den fheoil agus den fhíon, Ach i gCathair na nGrást’ i lár pharthais go raibh sé ina shuí.
Níl pabhsae in aon ghairdín ’s tá fáth caointe ag duilliúr na gcrann, Ag titim le fána is níl barr glas ar bharra na dtom, Ó chuaigh cónra chláir ar an Dálach tá brón ar lucht grinn, Tá smúit ar an lá geal is ní shnámhfaidh aon bhreac ar an toinn.
Scéal cráite ar an mbás, an phláigh ghránna, is é a rinne an feall, Nach dtug dhó lá cairde, a Dhia láidir, nó beagáinín am, Tá na mná óga is ní gan fáth é croí-cráite ó fágadh é i gcré, Tá a ngruaig síos le fána ina strácaí is í ag liathadh ar a gcinn.
Dhá mbeinnse i mo chléireach is umhal éasca a bhéarfainn ar pheann, Scríobhfainn na scéalta de véarsaí i lár leice os a cheann, Má nímse dea-thréithre na céadta a mholadh le fonn, Dúirt Raiftearaí an méid sin leis an Dálach mar thaithnigh sé liom.
Thomas Daly he left and distributed about youth, From death he played the grace that God furnishes him, is all this country plagued by abandoned síorthrácht it from the sportsman, That would bring the initially from all over the breáthacht his music.
The swans on the harbors nine times as black as the BlackBerry, From the man departed from us was the warmth of the bar finger, was right to lock eyes than the morning dew on top of grass, and from extension in grave is cold is getting stronger on the sun.
While the championship beautiful in every quarter two gone before, spread the lot is not raised it support or property, spread the State to the week-days of meat and wine, But in the City of Grace 'in the middle of paradise he was sitting .
There pabhsae in any garden and why lament at the foliage of trees, Falling slope is not green top bar of the bushes, Since his coffin programs on the Dalach a sad situation comedy, is a smudge on the bright day is not float any trout on the waves.
Story tortured to death, the plague ugly, is made ??by the treachery, did not give two days grace, God strongly, or somewhat time, are young women is not without reason core plagued by leaving it in clay, is their hair down a slope which is a graying strácaí on their heads.
Two I was a clerk is obedient easy to'd bring a pen, Scríobhfainn the stories of verses in the middle of the slab over his head, If nímse good thréithre hundreds recommend enthusiastically, said Raftery apply to the Dalach as I liked.
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