To James' ic Cahermurphy, a class of noble men,
plant of the true tribe descended from nobility,
like you did not hear your relatives for repelling,
when you had not escaped the night before the sale your worth.

I have today in Armagh and I hate to be 'my captivity there,
They are my neighbors who torture and poison to their pleasure,
not they understand my chanamhaint two labhróinn them English,
Or to kill the walls I of glare the horizon.

Smooth brow and large, if you ordered the death of me,
Go to my wake is me in a coffin,
Or if you want to marry me most heart you have on hand,
Pill back, please kiss me and my heart full health.

But I pity without small digests on the mountain brow,
Or grow ferns opposite dhos solar rays,
Or as James' Murchaidh his best in all of Ireland,
and I'd spend Christmas in Creggan, if I could.

But heading 'home my wake Friday evening,
and on Sunday morning a road through the low tones,
enter Neilí and Nora and the young women of the country,
and I will listen to their voices under the sod and I stretched.

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