Well, Peter, apostle, did you see my loved?
Woe is woe to me,
I saw a member of his torture by the police,
woe is oh.

Who is the man so perfectly upon the cross?
Woe is woe to me,
Well, this is not you recognize your son, your mother?
Woe is oh.

Well, this is the dear son I carried for three seasons?
Woe is woe to me,
Or is that the dear son born in the stable?
Woe is oh.

Ropadh up on high shoulders,
woe is oh,
is leacrachaí struck her down on the street,
woe is oh.

Beat myself but do not touch my mother,
woe, woe to that,
we will kill themselves and we will meet your mother,
woe is oh.

Throitheacha three were blunt nails his feet and hands,
woe, woe to that,
is the spear was his lovely bosom,
woe is oh.

Well, listen, mother, do not be distressed,
woe, woe is from,
is my keen women yet unborn, dear mother,
woe is oh.

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