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Nach é seo an scéal deacrach sa tír seoLe hanacair chroí agus brón, Ó fhágas tú Cnocán an Líne Go dté tú go dtí an Fál Mór, A leithéid de screadadh is de chaoineadh Níor cluineadh sa tír seo fós, Ach níl againn aon ionadh Ó cailleadh, faraor, Eoghan Cóir.
Bhí gnaoi agus gean ag gach éinne air, An seanduine críon is an t-óg, Bhí an saibhir is an daibhir i ngrá leis I ngeall ar a chroí maith mór, Le togha agus rogha na tíre A chaitheadh sé píosaí óir, Is le daoine bochta eile níor spíd leis Buidéal den tsíbín a ól.
Ba rómhaith ag tógáil an chíosa é, Ba bheag aige mí nó dhó Go ndíolfá do bhó ar an aonach Nó an giota a bhíodh sa tseol, Is é dúirt Séamas Pheadair Mac Riabhaigh Is é ag agairt ar Rí na nDeor, ‘De réir mar bhí seisean le daoine, Gurb amhlaidh ’bheadh Críosta dhó.’
Is é raibh de mhairg an tsaoil ann, Dá gcastaí leis aoileann óg, Mheallfadh sé leis í san oíche Go bhfaigheadh sé i gcois íseal póg, Bheadh sé de shearc ina croí istigh Go n-atfadh sí líonta mór’, Is ag séanadh na clainne údaí a bhíodh sé, Cé gur fairsing sa tír a bhí a phór.
Tá Antoine Ó Gacháin ag caoineadh Is ní bheidh Seán Ó Baoill i bhfad beo, Ó cailleadh a gcaraid sa tír seo, Is é d’fhága a gcroí faoi bhrón, I dTearmann Carrach níor síneadh Le fada faoi liag ná fód Éinne ba mheasa don dís seo Ná an duine bocht maol, Eoghan Cóir.
Bréag atá siadsan a déanamh, Níor cailleadh an fear gnaoi go fóill, Ach chuaigh sé ar cuairt chun a ghaolta Go bhfeicfeadh sé an ríocht is mó, Má thigeann sé ar ais chun an tsaoil seo, Ní thiomáinfidh sé choíche aon bhó, Ach cuirfimid amach as an tír é Is an leanbh Ó Baoill a bheas leo.
Aon is a seacht insa líne Is a hocht a chur síos faoi dhó, Tráth a ghlac seisean cead lena dhaoine Is níor labhair sé gíog níos mó, Tá sé lándearfa scríofa, Gur talamh is críoch gach beo, Is chomh fada is a bheimid sa tsaol seo, Níor mhiste dhúinn braon beag a ól!
This is not the story deacrach in this country Le distress heart and sorrow, Since I left you Hill Online may you go to the Fallmore, Such a scream as of lament not were heard in this country yet, But we have to wonder From lost, alas, Eugene Fair.
Was well pleased and affection by everyone it, the older obsolete as the young, was the rich the poor in love with Due to the good heart big, With the election and choice of country A would spend six gold pieces, a people other poor, Speed ??was not the bottle of drink tsíbín.
Was comfortably taking the rent it, was little his month or two So you sell your cow to the fair Or the bit before the tseol, said to James Peter McCreevy is suing a King of Tears, 'As was people who, That is so 'Christ would burn.'
Is had by indifferently lifetime there, As turns the maid young, would attract to her in the night that he would sail low kiss, It would trove an inner core That atfadh she filled a large ', is denying the family Udai it used, While the country was extensive to breed.
Antoine Gacháin is crying is John Boyle will not live long, Oh gcaraid lost in this country, is fhága hearts of grieving, I Carrach Reserve extended not long been on stone or sod Nobody's worst pair this not the poor person bald, Eugene Fair.
False are they to do, not the loss of a man well pleased yet, But he went to visit his relatives To see it the largest kingdom, If thigeann back to this world, not drive it forever cow, But will out the country is the child who'll Boyle.
A seven INSA line is eight to down twice, At the time he took permission people are not spoke to squeak more, is lándearfa written, That land territory all live, is long will we be in this world this may be useful to us in small drops to drink!
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