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Is na finne prátaí Is a smól buí orthu Is ár leata le hocras Is ní fada a bheimis beo Táimid caillte go deo Is faoin bhfód a bheidh muintir Mhaigh Eo
Curfá: Ochón, ochón, ochón Ochón aimsir an droch shaoil Ochón, ochón, ochón Ochón an Gorta Mhór
Tá bean thuas i mBreatain Gan cluas ár ndaoine Is níl súil ár ndeora ach Banríon na bhflaitheas Táimid breoite le tinneas Gan aon rud le n-ithe Is ár mias is lín imithe thar lear
Tá na daoine briste Buartha is scaipthe le gaoth Is ár leanaí sceantaí ar thaobh na mbóthar Níl talamh a roinnt Níl fad í le baint Ach an féar fada fásach ag fás orainn
The fine potatoes A yellow blight is on them And our with the hunger It is not long that we will be alive We are lost forever And underneath the sod will be the people of Mayo
Chorus (after each verse): Alas, alas, alas Woe, time of the poor life Alas, alas, alas Woe, the Great Famine
A woman is up in Britain Without an ear for our people And no one sees our tears but the Lady of Paradise We are sick with illness Without anything to eat And our food-vessels and flax are gone over the sea
The people are broken Pained and scattered to the wind And our children are discarded on the side of the road Our land is not divided It is not long since it has been harvested Nothing but the long wild grass is growing over us
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