Your turning me down to the Town Hall,
I look around to móráil butter,
as was breacaithe ads each wall and a fence there,
would display pictures at night.

For bhreathnaíos exactly on the offer,
on a chart of dhrongáin filled,
Entrance through the hall they were woven wires,
and everyone pushing for padding.

Butter was near the ditch your car,
is an old woman and her fuarghearán,
said that as a survival spread that night,
and with creathaibh to CIR was creaking.

Deceives added to the platform,
is a major ashes adaíos chaorán drink,
and strengthened when the red flame for her pipe,
and no urge to drop her back to me a song.

Then she turned back to me with móráil west,
is asked if she rinncfinn sort of waltz,
Dúrtsa had long been the practice of the matter,
as I have been tinted to chlaoigh liongán butter.

And who but Mists sciúirdfeadh up to us,
and he spoke in a loud voice fierce,
inquired her name and she is facing the law,
would have to pay for the Caoráin.

'My name is Bridget Scannlan not,
not afraid of me from the Free State law,
as the person next to this butter in the ghríosach adaigh,
And I will not suffer the fires.'

'Needless to thee the claim from the Caoráin,
Seanspairt peat manure is white,
not real in, to chailligh, but smiorcalach chiardhubh,
A I bought Seán Ó Creighton Mike.'

Then she pulled up her faidsparán,
Of pouch affected his side,
But your luíos threatening her and making her signs,
Or again it that she turned the twine.

This is the deal ended,
Your Moorland promised him a large bag,
a band Brigid gave two she would return forever,
That reparation for the injury.

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