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A Shéamais ’ic Mhurchaidh, a scoth na bhfear uasal, A phlanda den fhíorthreibh a shíolraigh ó uaisle, Is cosúil nár chuala tú go raibh do ghaolta le do ruaigeadh, Nuair nár éalaigh tú san oíche sular díoladh faoi do luach thú.
Tá mé inniu in Ard Mhacha agus is fuath liom a bheith ’mo ghéibheann ann, Siad mo chomharsa lucht mo chéasta agus is nimh liom a bpléisiúr, Ní thuigeann siad mo chanamhaint is dhá labhróinn leo Béarla, Nó go maróidh na ballaí mé atá ag dalladh na spéire.
’S a Mhalaí mhín mhór, má d’ordaigh tú an bás domh, Triall chun mo thórraimh is cóirigh faoi chlár mé, Nó más mian leat mé a phósadh is mó chroíse a bheith ar láimh leat, Pill ar ais is tabhair póg domh ’s beidh mo chroí istigh lán sláinte.
Ach is trua gan mé i mo dhíleann bheag ar thaobh mhalaí shléibhe, Nó ag fás mar dhos raithnigh os coinne ghanna gréine, Nó mar Shéamas ’ac Murchaidh ab fhearr a bhí in Éirinn, Agus chaithfinn an Nollaig sa Chreagán dá bhféadfainn.
Ach ag triall ’thí mo thórraimh tráthnóna Dé hAoine, Agus ar maidin Dé Domhnaigh fríd na bóithre os íseal, Tiocfaidh Neilí agus Nóra agus ógmhná na tíre, ’S beidh mé ag éisteacht lena nglórthaí faoi na fóid ’s mé sínte.
To James' ic Cahermurphy, a class of noble men, plant of the true tribe descended from nobility, like you did not hear your relatives for repelling, when you had not escaped the night before the sale your worth.
I have today in Armagh and I hate to be 'my captivity there, They are my neighbors who torture and poison to their pleasure, not they understand my chanamhaint two labhróinn them English, Or to kill the walls I of glare the horizon.
Smooth brow and large, if you ordered the death of me, Go to my wake is me in a coffin, Or if you want to marry me most heart you have on hand, Pill back, please kiss me and my heart full health.
But I pity without small digests on the mountain brow, Or grow ferns opposite dhos solar rays, Or as James' Murchaidh his best in all of Ireland, and I'd spend Christmas in Creggan, if I could.
But heading 'home my wake Friday evening, and on Sunday morning a road through the low tones, enter Neilí and Nora and the young women of the country, and I will listen to their voices under the sod and I stretched.
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