English (machine translation)
Is tomorrow Day festival girl is not a nice place to be in Connemara,
Extended back in the back of the cab and my dheasláimhín being shaken,
swear that young pretty girl to a shawl-cloth on her arms,
not bhfiafródh both her ??mother to where fhága she Taimín.
Is Taimín, O my darling, is the relief of any in store for us?
Or is it comes in the life Fódlach that any accommodation only us?
My hurley my ball mold under a bed,
is me to meet BOC initially as high as the moon.
Dheirfiúirín as true, the amount you bring home,
my socks and my shoes and my colored brown Ballycotton,
Tell my mother for a long quarter of the bed,
That the narrow róipín hemp will replace my charbhata.
On Wednesday morning as I was going into 'Galway
was the bolt hard clasped my two Hand sea,
was the Búrcach side of me, the Ruarcach a boy the priest,
and the triumph pirate false bringing perjury to me thligean.
On Friday morning I am leaving out Galway,
would hard the day is not chruaichte than fate,
My Maam highly crying my dheaide engaged 'un weakness,
and Nest as bones spent in ng yard the Galway inner prison.
And grieve you, to William Daly, great sadness and difficult,
and curse my four children for one is your family,
As you did the act ugly on this street in Castlebar,
When banished you I abroad where I can not thíocht home.
Not many fine day gay I spent mountains of Connemara,
My people around me and who would say I 'out of the way'
But now I'm in jail is not chance hugely to thíocht home,
I survived and blessing of God with behind me are in Connemara.
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