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Nach ar choinleach glas an fhómhair, a mhuirnín, sea dhearc mé thú, Nár mba deas é do sheasamh i mbróigín is nár mba ródheas é do leagan súl, Bhí do ghrua ní ba deirge ná na rósa is do chúilín, bhí sé fite dlúth, Nach é mo léan gan mé is tú pósta nó ar bhord na loinge ag dul anonn.
Agus cuirimse na bróin ar an óigbhean nár fhan mar a bhí, Is nach deas mar a chasainn ceol di chuile oíche Dhomhnaigh is mé ag tuar an lín, Mar bhí a com ba gile is míne ná an síoda is ná clúmh na n-éan, Is nach trom an osna a dhéanaim nuair a smaoiním ar mo mhuirnín féin.
Muise, a Mháire a dtug mé grá duit, mo chrá thiar nach bhfuil mé agus tú Ar oileáinín Chruach Phádraig san áit nach snámhann bád ná long, Mar chaithfinnse naoi lá leat, naoi dtrátha gan aon chodladh ciúin, Ar shúil is go bhfaighinn sásamh ar a ndearna tú de mhagadh fúm.
Is nár cheannaigh mé buidéal réice dom féin is do mo mhíle stór, Le beannachtaí a chur léi, cúl craobhach na bhfáinní óir, Ach deoir ní dheachaigh thar a béal de is nár mhéadaigh sin ar m’osna go mór, Ach, a thiarnáin ban Éireann, i do dhiaidhse, a stór, ní bheidh mé beo.
Is nach bhfuair mé litir scríofa ó mo mhian agus casaoid chrua, Is nár chuir mé chuici aríst í, is mo chroí istigh chomh dubh le gual, Nár léigh mé í go cúramach agus na deora ag sileadh le mo ghrua, Ach, a thiarnáin ban Éireann, i do dhiaidhse, a stór, ní bheidh mé beo.
Is nach cuma liomsa féin céard a bheas aon fhear ag lua ná ag rá, Ach tabharfaidh mé cuairt is céad ar an taobh díom a bhfuil mo ghrá, Mar sí cuaichín bharr na gcraobh í agus péarla an bhrollaigh bháin, Nach í rún is searc mo chléibh í, is ní shéanfad í go bhfaighidh mé bás.
Not stubble green autumn, darling, yes I saw you, Did not had nice position in mbróigín had not had very nice to lay eyes, was your cheeks have been redder than the Rosa your locks, it was interwoven, not without my sorrow and I married on board the ship or go back.
And I put the sadness of the young woman did not stay as it was, is not as nice as chasainn music her every Sunday night as I predicted the net, as was com was brighter finer than silk or feathers of birds, is not to do heavy sigh when I think of my own darling.
Well, Mary I fell for you, my torment behind I do not and you On an island Croagh Patrick where not float a boat or ship, as chaithfinnse nine days you, nine dtrátha no sleep quiet, On the eye as to obtain redress you made ??of ridicule me.
I bought a bottle is not a sale for myself and for my dearest, With greetings to her, wild back the gold rings, But did not tear over her mouth in a not so m'osna increased significantly, But, women Thiarnáin Ireland, in your dhiaidhse, dear, I will not live.
That I found a letter written by my desire and grievance hard, is not I put it in again it, my heart as black as coal, Did not I read it carefully and flowing tears to my cheek, But, Thiarnáin women Ireland, in your dhiaidhse, dear, I will not live.
That look me yourself what will be one man quoting a saying, But I will visit a hundred on the side of me is my love, as she Cuckoo top on the tree and pearl breast white, not her secret love will my s bosom, is not it shéanfad I die.
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