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This song was written by Micí Joe Ó Conghóile from Ceathrú na gCloch in North Mayo.
Tá mé i mo shuí i mo churach ag barr na Rinne, Is mé ag smaoineadh ar na laethanta fadó, Mé ag iascach le m’athair is le m’uncail, Ó, a Dhia, nárbh aoibhinn a bheith beo.
Bíodh na trammels is na doruithe ins an uisce, Na smaoil agus na mangaigh ag tíocht ar bord, Ach anois tá siad glanta ag na rónta Is níl fágtha ach an sleamhcán ar an tráigh.
Ó, nár bhreá bheith tarraingt síos ar oileán Mhionnán, An áit is áille is is draíochta ins an domhan, Le haille arda glasa is iad mórthimpeall, Is na héanacha ina gcéadta ar bharr na dtonn.
An Claicheadh is é san átha is é ar garda, An Gréasaí is an Cléireach lena bhun, An Poll Bradach is na Príosúin le haghaidh na mangaigh, Is na Stácaí álainn aoibhinn soir aduaidh.
Ach anois tá na deora le mo shúile, Is mé ag smaoineadh ar na daoine atá imithe uainn, Ár muintir is iad scaipthí ar fud na ríochtaí Cén t-ionadh ach mo sheanchroí a bheith trom.
Tá mé i mo shuí i mo churach ag barr na Rinne, Tá mé ag smaoineadh ar na laethanta fadó, Tá mé ag smaoineadh ar m’athair is ar m’uncail, Is na comharsain bhreá atá scaipthe mar a bheadh ceo.
I'm sitting in my coracle at top of A, is I idea of the old days, I fished with my father is with my uncle, Oh, God, it was not pleasant to be alive.
While the trammels that the lines in the water, the smaoil and pollack is coming on board, But now they are cleared by the seals is not just about the sleamhcán the beach.
Oh, fine not to pull down Nestling island, the most beautiful place in the world is magical, With high cliff around are green, are the birds in their hundreds on top of the waves.
Claicheadh ??is the ford is in guard, the Shoemaker is the Clerk with age, the best pirate Hole Prisons for the pollack, is the beautiful love Stags north east.
But now the tears to my eyes, I am at the idea of the people are gone from us, our people are all over the realms scaipthí What surprised but my sheanchroí be heavy.
I'm sitting in my coracle at top of A, I thought to the old days, I thought to my father most of my uncle, is the fine neighbors spread like a fog.
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