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Tráthnóna breá ciúin is an ghrian ina luí,Agus mé cois na tine im shuaimhneas im shuí, Tháinig bean bhocht ’dtí an doras ag lorg lóistín, Is í ag féachaint tuirseach tréis an bhóthair; Bhí a slipéirí briste gan rannaí gan bonn, ’S bhí seanabhrat giobalach casta ar a ceann, Ní raibh cosaint ón bhfuacht uirthi dá mbeadh sé ann, Is thugas cead luí sa scioból di.
Do ghaibh sí liom baochas is dúras léi suí, Go nglaofainn ar Nóra go bhfaigheadh sí greim bidh, Ach dúirt sí nár bheag léithe uaimse an lóistín, Is go gcasfadh sí arís tréis suipéir di; Níorbh fhada gur rugadh go dian ar mo lámh, Cé bheadh ann ach Nóra is í ag liúirigh go hard, ‘Éirigh id sheasamh, a Shéamais a ghrá – Thá an macha amuigh lán de thincéirí!’
Do phreabas go tapa gan giog as mo bhéal, Agu síos go dtí an doras do chuas de ghlanléim, ’S cé gur theangaíos le bacaigh go fairsing im shaol, Thug na ridirí stáin úd an chraobh leo; Bhí tincéirí breaca agus tincéirí dubha, Bhí tincéirí fionna agus tincéirí rua, ’S an bhean úd do tharraing óm chroíse an trua, Ina giolla ar scuaine tincéirí.
Bhí asail don dúiche ann is stán don chontae, Ceaintíní, cáirteanna agus córacha tae, Bhí stampa camchoiseach a raibh a shrón mar cáiréid, Ag tabhairt orduithe láimhe ina thaobh uaidh; Dúirt mé leis stad dá chuid bóiceáil gan mhoill, ’S an aicme úd a thóigint amach as mo radharc, ‘Scrios,’ a dúirt mise, ‘chomh mear is thá id bhoinn – Ní áras é seo do thincéirí.’
‘Bí ciúin, a ’mhadáin,’ arsa an stamaire cam, ‘Ar dhaoine dhed shórtsa is beag é ár mbeann, Nín ao’ rud i gcóir dhúinn anois chuirfinn geal, Cé gur chuireamar cuntas roimh ré chughat; Nín sásamh ná spleáchas le fáilt agat uainn, Ní ghuífear dod mhairbh ’s ní dhéanfar duit trua, Ach tú a ghreadadh sa smúsach mar a chífir go luath – Sin léite agat dlí na dtincéirí.’
Le bun bata rámhainne a bhí caite lem ais, Do dh’aimsíos mo bhuachaill ar dheiseacht sa chlab, Is fé a bhfuair sé a lapaí a chruinniú ina gceart, Do shín mé sa macha go maol é; A mhiceó mo chroí, is ansan do bhí an gleo – Bhí an cogadh ar lasadh is an t-arm i gcóir, Bhí an tlú aige Nóra im fhochair sa spórt, Agus goic uirthi ag lascadh tincéirí.
Evening perfectly quiet as the sun lying, and I by the fire im peace im sitting, came a poor woman 'to the door looking for accommodation, is looking tired after National road; Her slippers broken without departmental without foundation, and had giobalach seanabhrat complex that one, did not protect her from the cold if it were there, is lying in the barn I gave her permission.
Your caught it I baochas most Durrus her sit, In nglaofainn on Nora that she would get a bite of food, But she said considerable gray my accommodation, is that she would again after National supper her; not long been born hard on my hand, Though Nora would not yelling is high, 'Arise id position, James love - Tha outside the herds thincéirí lot!'
For phreabas quickly without a squeak out of my mouth, Agu down to the door dish of ghlanléim, and although theangaíos a lame extensively my life, gave the knights tin in question champion; was knackers beret and knackers black, was knackers knackers tonsils and red, and the lady in question drew pity from my heart, his servant on queue knackers.
Had donkeys for the district as tin county, canteens, charts and modes of tea, was stamped camchoiseach had his nose as carrots, Taking orders hand thereof him; I told him stop his bóiceáil without delay, and the class that have been thóigint out of my sight, 'Delete,' said I, 'as quick as tha id base - not to thincéirí this home.'
'Be quiet, be' mhadáin, 'said the stamaire crooked, ' On those dhed shórtsa little our peak, Nin ao 'thing for to us now would put bright, While we account prior Ruin; NIN satisfaction than dependency fáilt from us, not thy ghuífear dead and you will not pity, But you whisked in smúsach as lake you'd see soon - that dtincéirí reading of the law. '
To stick up last rámhainne was beside me, For my boyfriend's grandest dh'aimsíos in chlab, a subject which he did raise his paws right, For I stretched in herds that is bald; A mhiceó my heart, then it is your the din was - was burning the war the army is for, was Nora butter him curling his sport, and continue switching knackers GOC.
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