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Is go Cathair na Léige, mo léan, ba mhinic mé siar, Ag triall ar mo chéadsearc a thréig mé agus a bhain díom mo chiall, Mura ndéantar mé a phósadh lem stór ar an Inid seo chughainn, Mhuise, titfidh mé i mbrón agus ní dócha go mairfidh mé bliain.
Ná tagadh an cumha ná an brón san timpeall do chroí, Mar dhéanfainn tú a phósadh ar an gcoróin ó Eaglais Chríost, B’fhearr liom tú, a óigfhir, gan feoirling agat ins an saol, Ná fear eile is púint a chuirfeadh cóistí ag rith fúm sa tslí.
Do chroitheas mo láimh leat an lá úd ar fhaiche an Chnoic Bhuí, Agus shíleas do bharr ná raibh le fáilt agam ins an saol, Do thugais an barr leat ó phláinéad an bhrollaigh ghil mhín, Is ón mbean a thraoch George, an sárfhear meanmnach groí.
Ní dh’aithním an lá ná an bláth seo thagann ar chraoibh, Ní dh’aithním mo chairde, na sárfhir a sheasaíodh liom riamh, Ach dh’aithneoinn mo ghrá geal, mo chráiteacht dá dtagadh sí im líon, Is go dtógfadh ón mbás na táinte lag marbh gan bhrí.
Óra, a Phádraig bháin, a shárfhir ó Scairt na Draighní, A bhfuilimse i ngrá leat ní náire liom t’ainm thabhairt síos, Raghainn leat thar sáile nó in aon pháirt de Shasana Nua, Agus séanfam ár gcairde agus go brách ní chasfam arís.
Is a City League, alas, often I'm back, bound for my sweetheart abandoned me and did me my sense, Unless I marry my store on the Inid this to us, did, indeed, fall me in sorrow and I probably endure year.
Do arrives the thought than the sadness in around your heart, as you would do on the throne to marry from Christchurch, I would prefer you to óigfhir, without you farthing in the world, not another pound man would coach running me so.
For chroitheas my hand you that day at green Knockboy, and I thought the top was not a fáilt I have in life, for you called the top you from planet the bright breast gentle, is the woman who thraoch George, the sárfhear meanmnach stud .
Dh'aithním not the day nor the flower Championships this fall, not dh'aithním my friends, the sárfhir to sheasaíodh I never But dh'aithneoinn my true love, my chráiteacht if she had actually become my number, is to take the death of dead poor wealth without meaning.
Oops, a white St. Patrick, who shárfhir from the Draighní shone, To Do I love you not ashamed to take down your name, go, you overseas or in any part of New England, and séanfam our friends and never again chasfam not.
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