An Abhainn MhórBlackwater
English (machine translation)
My mother that tréanlag and is individualized to the Port of women,
she decides osnaíl is lamenting 'every Sunday night that it is a day,
is a companion stretched Kilbride is a slab on his head,
is a son a one entertainment throughout the country and jug in his hand.
It is not love to twelve I that are individualized for any surname only,
But a young woman on the amount, nor can I name to say,
That have change Lough Erne as dtréige the swan a fluffy white,
will not tell expire Evening! I gave what I reasonably kinder love.
Not love for a young girl I most say enough I will not survive a month,
when I go to the house of the host, not sports is nicer than her,
has cheeks as rosy as she is pouring the honey on each side
is whoever bhlaisfeadh two little kiss my opinion it would be all his life.
But habits while that I will be living in Ireland I will not fund or store,
habits while will I live in Ireland not thréigfidh I company of young,
habits while will I live in Ireland does not burst me the jug on the table
With your shláintese, O my darling, I have pity it's two cows.
By my oath and my mhóide, most feel great book I'm going through,
in the company of young women that I never ever undertaken again,
As an I spent my youth my shoes from the beginning to the end of my life
and not they left me I show a description of how the night gcodlóinn.
But my need my youth disposal of residual sense natured not easy as I'd spend my life,
when I went abroad with Maureen at midnight,
and I hit the Burkes, who refused from the holy heavens,
are not they left I sorrow that I have engaged in Tralee.
Not my coat large torn from a generation that is flowing me down,
But he who would repair should it, first alas it is far from my slate,
the tailor net fair Ardmore as Tomáisín White,
a it would not piece it is green Velvet resilience through his middle.
My special goodbye, a Blackwater poor, it is my lean without me tonight with your hand,
as there are many lane narrow lonely which is between me and you,
not there before the sporting every Sunday night at a record of achievement sitting,
a bustle of the jug on the table there was my darling extensive if some generous.
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