I have a story recited City Iveragh
What I left the beach today no lie,
my nice knife to have lost that breallánta awkward,
In edge of the beach and I'm working hard.

Or complicated steel of gharta in, clean destroyed sharp,
From luiseag is a thin bar in her mouth,
That Blacksmith shiolach Gaibhleann drew on the facility in question,
That they used 'the forge to men of administration.

When arises on my bed tomorrow morning,
Your ritheas the street under the departments of strict hard,
I went bare him running from Bar Street,
In edge of the beach as treascaraíodh Cian.

Chuardaíos the sand or quickly as sharply,
on fears it after leaving the sea butter,
were both seen flaige branch than the present,
Do I put my dhearnacha with me east to west.

Fhágfadsa not Shag, sea pigs than throated,
From the róinte Skellig 'to the City without debt,
As bhfaighfead Chanta to have lost my knife on the bhfeorainn,
In the evening departments I work hard.

It was the army róbhreá plain is the massacre,
I ndorn King Paris in time to administer the battlefield,
Your bhréagfadh her ??breasts her mother's child,
For it would be three days without anything going in his mouth.

He or she would most valiant Samson is the knife,
Before trimming is made ??of bird feathers bed,
I considered that it would be preferable for seven times eleven,
not the hook jaw mhairibh donkeys to ten percent.

Róbhreá was the army is to stick elm,
A Wood cut me Chárthain indifferently knife,
Or in Clontarf using beatings of pháithnigh same,
as if her time battlefield use to administer.

Or she cut leather and tuigithe basket,
is to destroy a bull from a hostage rib,
Yes, indeed it to you to cover the soldier Rock,
From long ndúlamán would have expired at year,

Forget the clerk is on the clock itself,
it only leaves turn butter between bhlade and leg,
Your King of Greece write me a story posted,
S its own approach poop Beinn life than poor.

Chuinnse dhiúltaíos or hoped for in my day,
To whom those under sciuirdfeadh badger Mountains,
was approached me at night when I'd be out late,
is that I left her alone féinigh weeping.

Stay long without bad abortive release of their bones,
Whatever cowards thieves snatched away from me my rape,
is the fate of his hands over it and will be,
That the tower-Son aimsí eye on the beach.

Or adherence and in bhfóirthinn millteacht and Jesus,
His heart is that those leontar scóltar hand,
That extends to those loud pipes to the chord,
As it does towards me for my knife to get.

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