English (machine translation)
Oh, years tomorrow, yes I left home,
Going Patrick High, taking my hat laces,
was there a race of white boys on eallaibh,
I am lonely depression Prison Clonmel.
My restraint and lend long m'iallait,
Mo west hurley on falsehood under my bed,
my ball two boys meet at the valley,
is my goal mbuailfinn puck up to the men of.
A Kerryman, food praying me, softly sweet to your voices,
Little I thought-in never or fillfinnse alive city,
That our three heads-ne on spikes as a show of them,
Under snow the night as all the weather other ngeobhaidh us.
In hUíbh Ráthach if you go, bring a story to my family,
that I am condemned to the spot this is is not a live but to Friday;
Gather device funeral and coffin love butter around,
That territory O'Donnell, is forever Big ' pray with.
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