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Agus níl mé ar an mbaile seo ach le seachtain is trí lá, Dá mbeadh mo thinneas ar na héanachaí ní éireoidís go hard, Dochtúirí na hÉireann ’s ní leigheasfaidís mo chás Go dtaga péarla an rósa dhearg is go leaga sí orm láimh.
A Mhuire dhílis, céard a dhéanfas mé nó cén chaoi a mbeidh mé beo? Mar an eochair atá ina brollach ní bhfaighidh mé amach go deo, Éire ar fad ’s go scaipfeadh sí le oineach a dhá láimh ’S gurb é blouse na rósaí dearga atá ag goil thart ar Neilí Bhán.
A Mhuire dhílis céard a dhéanfas mé nó cén chaoi a mbeidh mé beo? A Dhia dhílis céard a dhéanfas mé i ndiaidh mo stóirín ó? Mara ndéanfadh muid ach breathnú ar a chéile ag goil an ród, Déarfadh cailíní óga an bhaile, ‘Tá sé fhéin agus í mór.’
’S dá gcasfaí orm ministéar nó údar sagart óg, Cnap de bhuachaill tuisceanach nó réic dhe bhuachaill óg, Ní áirím féin mo leanbán ná rud ar bith mar é, Gur tú a d’fhág marbh mé is beidh do mhallacht agam go héag.
’S an gcuimhníonn tú ar an oíche fadó a raibh muid sa gcoicín féir? Gan duine ar bith ag goil eadrainn ach mé fhéin agus tú fhéin, Na briathra a bhí ag goil eadrainn ’s iad comhrá geal do bhéil, Bíodh do chomhairle fhéin agatsa is beidh mise faoi ghrásta Dé.
Dhá mbeadh heel-tops ar na bróga agus cóir a bheith ar na boinn, Rachainn gach oíche Domhnaigh san áit a mbeadh mo mhian, Mar shúil ’s nach dtóigfí an óige orm ná rud ar bith mar é, Bheadh mo stór ar cheann an stóil agam ’s níorbh fhada linn an oíche.
And I'm not the only town with a three-day week, would the héanachaí illness cease not high, the Irish Medical and leigheasfaidís my case Let your red pearl Rosa as she laid my hand.
To Mary, what will I do or how I will live? As the key is a preamble I find out forever, all Ireland and spreading it to honor his two hands and that the blouse of roses red by White Neilí cry about.
Dear Mary what will I do or how I will live? God true what will I do after my darling from? Marine that we just look at each other was going the road, would say young girls of the town, 'It s self and large. '
And if I met a young priest ministéar or author, lump of a boy or a sale thereof thoughtful young boy, not my baby I note or anything like it, That you left me dead that I will curse to expire.
And you remember the nights ago we were in cocaine grass? Not anyone was going between us, but myself and you own, the words were appetites between us and chat bright your mouth, Have your advice myself by you that will I about God's grace.
Two have heel-top 's the shoes and just be on the bases, I would go every Sunday night where would my desire, as eye and not dtóigfí youth me than anything like it, would my dear one stools and soon I during the night.
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