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Ó, d’fhág mise an baile go moch moch Dé hAoine, Ag goil soir Scríb is Inbhear chomh fada is bhí ann, Ag gabháil ag obair ar phortaigh ó mhaidin go hoíche, Ach ní ghabhfainnse aríst ann dá mairfinn go brách.
Mar shéid sé ina stoirm, nó ina bháisteach is ina dhíle, Is ní raibh fascadh ná dídean le fáil in aon áit, Ach bhí mé i gceartlár an chriathraigh is an tuile i mo thimpeall, Ó, fliuchadh go croí mé agus as sin go dtí an chnámh.
Ach tháinig an boc mór seo thart a raibh leabhar ina phóca, Ó, dhearc sé i mo threo-sa anonn is anall, Thosaigh sé ag réabadh is ag leagan na móna, Á, dúirt sé liom siúladh nó déanamh níos fearr.
Ach d’fhreagair mé ar ais é, ‘Ná bí ag leagaint na móna, Ach caith díot do chóta agus teann liom anall, Is nár fheice mé Dia, ná a bhfuil romham go tráthnóna, Ná buailfidh mé ceann ort a ghortós do cheann.’
Muise, chaith mé ann mí gan mo dhroim bocht a dhíriú, Á, dar déanta na fírinne, bhí mé ’mo chrá, Ag déanamh gróigíní francach’ chomh fliuch leis an aoileach, Is gan oiread is caorán tirim anois istigh ina lár.
Is fuair mise an páipéar ar maidin Dé hAoine, Ó, dhearc mé go grinn air anonn is anall, Is nuair a d’íoc mise an landlady is bhí an t-airgead spíonta agam, B’fhearr liom an suaimhneas ’gus codladh go sámh.
Mar is suarach an dlí atá againn sa tír seo, ’S an té a bheadh sách críonna, ní fhanfadh sé ann, Ag gabháil soir ar na portaigh ó mhaidin go hoíche, Tá seacht is sé pínne ar bhuilín mór bán.
Oh, I left home early the early hours of Friday, At appetites Estuary east Scríb as long as it was, Accompanied bog working from morning to night, But there again if I survived ghabhfainnse forever.
As it blew a storm, or rain is a rolling stock, Pressing is not a shelter was found in one place, But I was in the heart of the most flood chriathraigh around me, Oh, I wet to heart and then to the bone.
But the BOC came about was this great book in his pocket, Oh, he looked in my direction-in the back and forth, He started rupture is laying the turf, Ah, I said siúladh or do better.
But I replied back, 'Do not tracing the turf, But throw off your coat and tight I come here, I fheice is not God, or is before me that evening, Do I will meet you one ghortós your head. '
Well, I spent a month there without my back poor focus, Being think in fact, I was' my torment, Making gróigíní rat 'wet with manure, Moorland is not dry now as much as inside a center.
I got a paper on Friday morning, Oh, I saw it carefully back and forth, And when I paid the landlady that had the money I spent, I prefer the peace and sleep peacefully.
Despicable as the law in this country, And the relatively prudent person would not he would remain there, Accompanied on the bog east from morning to night, It is seven pínne a large white loaf.
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