English (machine translation)
Aililiú, sir, to the load raised,
Could you move or mairfir forever?
Bacon for your kitchen too big dh'oirfeadh you,
if you put in the grave, sleep peacefully,
would amount to the laws are, t'ionmhain most t'ualach,
Chífirse the tomb ahead many of the bones,
But as I understand your s h entence him now,
as the boot is not heaven thabharfairse of Grace.
I think that you slept in wolf skin,
is the ainsprid stranger watching your submission,
Do not God of your stomach in thousands of communities,
Or do you see poor Gaels' deficit dying,
Dh'aithníos your dhochma day the seed hanging me
May your heart thinking of fear of death,
But the trees are the result, not to gcríonann hear,
is to cry to God protect Mac Lady of Grace.
He would give a year the disease is in bed in hardship,
Your dh'éireodh standing by graphing or hitting,
and to consider on the blessed mass Uanmhic,
Your hardship freeing of the soul day of need,
Aililiú, to one, for you saw the thousands,
is not seen you for dh'fhulaing the Passion of Jesus,
on the cross masts, the chonairt being dheoladh
As a former glorious blood center showers.
As survival St. Peter, not forgetting James,
Andrew was neat landed in shoes,
Méibhín and Philip, one son of Alpheus
Matthew was neat to Jude and relativity,
Those are the team to saw Zacheus
On the tree is falling laws Aonmhic
As I think, sir, than the Greek tuigir
Here! Throw off the uniform if St. Paul leanair.
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