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’S tá an fharraige ag léimneach is tá na héisc á lascadh faoin aill,’S tá na tonnta i ndiaidh a chéile is iad ag éalú isteach ar an trá, Tá an mhuc ghainimh théis béiciúch is ag fuagairt ó oíche go lá, Ó, fan uaim, a chréatúir, is liom féin thú mura dtiocfadh tú in am.
Is maidin an lae sin, ó, d’éist muid aifreann seal gearr, Ó, d’imigh an scéala agus chruinnigh na céadta ar an trá, Bhí muide muid féin ann is dheamhan a bhféadfadh muid tada eile a rá, Bhí na fir ann ag spréachadh is ag caitheamh corrcheann ag na mná.
’S nach mairg a déarfadh nach Gaelach an baile é an Trá Bháin, ’S go bhfuil na héisc chéanna as a gcéill ag iarraidh a theacht ann, ’S ní bheadh ort ach sméideadh ar an mbraeim is í thoir ag an gceann, ’S nach dochreidte an scéal é is go léimfeadh sí isteach in do láimh.
’S ní áibhéil ná bréag a rá nach raibh bolmáin ann, Mar bhí siad ’na ndroichead siar ar sheanbhóithrín Dhubháin, Ó, tóigeadh na céadta ann thart timpeall ar tigh Pheaidí Sheáin, ’S go bhfuil siad fós fhéin in san draein ag tigh Choilm Shiobháin.
’S ag goil síos ag tigh Kheane liom fhéin is mé ag iarraidh a bheith in am, Ó, casadh fear sléibhe orm is bhí a dhá shúil amuigh thar a cheann, Ba strainséara an créatúr is díol a bhéilí a bhí sé a iarraidh ann, Sé baile na féile é is go lá an tsléibhe ní thiocfaidh sé gann.
Saol fada faoi shéan ag gach créatúr a d’ith bolmán, ’S mo thrua géar an té atá ag éisteacht is nach dtáinig in am Ach tarraing amach gríosach anois féin agus róstaigí ceann, Beidh blas ar do bhéal is ná habair nár ith tú do sháith.
And the sea is jumping as the fish are being switched under the cliff, and the waves in a row are drifting onto the beach, is the pig sand thesis béiciúch is at fuagairt from night to day, Oh, wait I, a Creature, you are me if you come in time.
The morning of that day, from, listened to mass short time, Oh, the news went and gathered hundreds on the beach, was ourselves We're a devil there is nothing else we could say, was the men there by volatile corrcheann is wearing by women.
And woe would say that Irish home is the Beach White, and the fish are the same from outsiders trying to come there, and you would not but nod on the mbraeim is east by one, and that incredible story is she might jump into your hand.
And not exaggerate or lie to say there were horse mackerel there, as they were 'bridge previous sheanbhóithrín Dhubháin, From, tóigeadh the hundreds there around the house Pheaidí John, and they are still self in the drain at the house Colm Siobhan.
And was going down at Keanes my own as I wanted to be in time, Oh, turns man mountain me most was his eyes out over his head, was a stranger to the creature is selling meals he was missing there, He home of the festival is the mountain that day it shall not rare.
Long life of every creature denied ate horse mackerel, and my sharp lean the person had not heard in time But now drag out ashes and róstaigí one, will taste on your mouth and do not say you did not eat your fill .
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