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Aililiú, a dhuine, do chruinnigh an t-ualach,Ar mhiste leat gluaiseacht nó an mairfir go brách? Bagún do do chistin a dh’oirfeadh rómhór duit, Má chuirfear san uaigh leat é, codail go sámh, Dá mhéid iad do dhlíthe, t’ionmhain is t’ualach, Chífirse an tuama romhat lán des na cnámha, Ach de réir mar a thuigim do shentence an uair úd, Mar ní thabharfairse an bhuatais go Flaithis na nGrást.
Is dóigh liom gur chodail tú i gcraiceann mhic tíre, Is an ainsprid choimhthíoch ag faire ar do bhráid, Ná déan Dia ded bholg i bpobal na mílte, Nó ná feiceann tú Gaeil bhocht’ le heasnamh ag fáil bháis, Dh’aithníos ar do dhochma lá crochta na síol dom Go raibh do chroí istigh ag smaoineamh ar eagla an bháis, Ach an crann go mbíonn an toradh air, ní chloisim go gcríonann, Is go bhfóire go caoin é Mac Mhuire na nGrást.
An té a thabharfadh bliain ar an leaba i ngalar is i gcruatan, Do dh’éireodh ina sheasamh ag grafadh nó ag bualadh, ’S a smaoineodh ar aifreann bheannaithe an Uanmhic, Do shaorfadh ón gcruatan an t-anam lá an ghá, Aililiú, a dhuine, do chonaic tú na mílte, Is ní fhaca tú Íosa do dh’fhulaing an Pháis, Ar chranna na croise, an chonairt á dheoladh Mar a mbíodh an fhuil ghlórmhar ina ceathanna ar lár.
Dá mairfeadh Naomh Peadar, gan dearmad Séamas, Aindriú ba néata a thuirling i mbróig, Méibhín is Pilib, aonmhac Alphéus Maitiú ba néata le Jude agus Siún, Siúd iad an fhoireann do chonaic Zacheus Ar an gcrann is é ag titim le dlíthe an Aonmhic Mar is dóigh liomsa, a dhuine, ná tuigir an Ghréigis Seo! Caith díot an éide mura leanair Naomh Pól.
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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