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Ó, is ar an mbaile seo is ea chonaic sibh an t-iontas, Ar Dhonncha Bán bocht is é dhá dhaoradh, Bhí caipín bán air in áit a hata ’Gus róipín cnáibe in áit a charabhata.
Ó, agus tá mé ag tíocht ar feadh na hoíche, Mar a bheadh uainín i measc seilbh mhór caorach, Mo bhrollach scaoilte is mo cheann liom sínte, Is cé bhfaighinn romham ann ach mo dheartháir inti sínte.
Ó, agus chaoin mé an chéad dreas ag Gob an Locha, An darna dreas ag bun do chroiche, An tríú dreas os cionn do choirpse I measc na nGall is mo cheann dá scoilteadh.
Dá mbeifeá agamsa san áit ar chóir duit, Thíos i Sligeach nó i mBaile an Róba, Bhrisfí an chroch agus ghearrfaí an rópa Is ligfí Donncha Bán abhaile ar an eolas.
Ó, is a Dhonncha Bháin, níorbh í an chroch ba dhual dhuit, Ach a ghoil chun sciobóil is an easair a bhualadh, An céachta a d’iompódh deiseal agus tuathal, ’S an taobh dhearg den fhód a chur in uachtar.
Ó, is a Dhonncha Bháin, is a dheartháirín dhílis, Is maith atá a fhios agamsa céard a bhain dhíom tú, Ag ól an chupáin is ag deargadh an phíopa, Is ag siúl na drúchta i gcoim na hoíche.
A Mhic Uí Mhaolchróin, a sciúrsa an mhí-áidh, Ní lao bó bradaí a bhí i mo dheartháir, Ach buachaill cruinn deas ar chnoc is ar chnocán, A bhainfeadh fuaimín go bog as camán.
Ó, is a Dhonncha Bháin, nach in é an buaireamh, A fheabhas is a d’iomprófá spoir agus buatais, Chuirfinn éadach faiseanta ort den éadach ba bhuaine, Agus chuirfinn amach thú mar mhac duine uasail.
A Mhic Uí Mhaolchróin, ná raibh do chlann mhac i bhfochair a chéile,
Ná do chlann iníon ag iarraidh spré ort, Tá dhá cheann an bhoird folamh ’gus tá an t-urlár líonta, Agus Donncha Bán, mo dheartháirín, sínte.
Tá spré Dhonncha Bháin ag tíocht abhaile, Is ní ba, caoirigh é ná caiple, Ach tobac is píopaí is coinnle geala, Agus ní dá mhaíochtáil é ar lucht a gcaite.
Oh, the village is you saw the surprise, On White Dhonncha two poor is condemned, was a white cap in place a hat and hemp rather róipín charabhata.
Oh, and I'm coming up for the night, Like a great possession uainín among sheep, My breasts loose my head I stretched, is how I get my brother before me but extended it.
Oh, and I cried the first round at Sound Lake, the second bottom to chroiche round, the third round over your choirpse include Donegal both splitting my head.
If you were in my place you should, Below Sligo or Ballinrobe, Bhrisfí the crowned and charged the rope is allowed Denis White home on the information.
Oh, that Dhonncha White, it was not the most strands hung thee, But wept for most litter barns struck, the plow of retreating left and right, and the red side of the upper jaw to.
Oh, that Dhonncha White, my pet is true, like I know what you have truly won, Drinking the cup is a redness of the pipe, is walking in the middle of the night dew.
Dear Mr. Mhaolchróin, which sciúrsa the misfortune, not cow calf hacker was my brother, But pretty accurate boy on a hill is a hill, A softly from fuaimín would hurl.
Oh, that Dhonncha White, that in the sorrow, To excel as an iomprófá spurs and boots, I would fashionable cloth you would permanence of cloth, and would put you off as a decent man.
Dear Mr. Mhaolchróin, your sons were not cohabiting, not your daughters want you dowry, are two of the empty board and the floor is filled, and Denis White, my, my pet, stretched.
A dowry Dhonncha White is coming home, is not cows, sheep or horses, But as pipe tobacco is bright candles, and not on those two mhaíochtáil consumption.
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