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Tóigfidh mé mo sheolta go Dúiche Sheoigheach ar maidin, Ar cuairt chuig mo mhíle stóirín is go deo deo ní chasfad, Go dtaga bláth buí ar an eorna is go dtosaí an fómhar ag goil chun finne, Is nach breá deas an rud í an óige is i ndiaidh mo stóirín atá mise.
’Mo dhílleachtín cráite sea fágadh mé gan athair, ’S dá mbeadh mo chliú i ndán dom cér chás dhom a bheith folamh, Níl aon fhear in Éirinn a dhéanfadh éagóir ar mo shamhail, Nár dheacair dhó a leas a dhéanamh ná a ghoil ar aon chor do na flaithis.
Thuas i gciumhais an tsléibhe atá an péarla a bhíos mo mhealladh, Buachaillín na gruaige báine a bhfuil fáthadh an gháire faoina hata, Agus gheall sé dhom go bpógfadh sé mo rós-bhéilín meala, Ach ní léir dhom na bóithrí ag na deora do mo dhalladh.
Tá a fhios ag na daoine gur iomaí smaoineamh crua deacrach Ag imeacht thrí m’intinn gach oíche ar mo leaba, Ach más fortún é atá i ndán dom is nach bhfuil fáil agam a ghoil thairis, Bí romham ag na crosbhóithrí is beidh muid pósta roimh an mhaidin.
Tá féar fada agus fásach i ngleanntaí álainn i bhfad ó bhaile, A mbíonn úllaí agus airní ann fásta ar bharra cranna, Is cuma liomsa céard déarfas aon neach, ní hé mo chéadsearc a déarfas tada, Más í do mháithrín atá i do dhiaidh orm, fuil a croí amuigh ar leac an teallaigh.
Traditional to Joyce Country in the morning, on a visit to my dearest darling is never ever chasfad, Let your yellow flower on the barley that dtosaí the harvest was going to witness, is not perfectly nice to her the youth after my darling's yours.
'My dhílleachtín plagued yes I was left without a father, and if my chliú destined me who owned case me be empty, no man in Ireland would by my model, not been a difficult two to make do wept at all to the heavens.
Up at the edge of the mountain is the pearl which charms me, boy with fair hair and fáthadh the smile under his hat, and he promised he'd kiss my rosy-lips honey, But I can not see the road, the tears are my blinded .
Is aware that many people think of a difficult At my mind each night on my bed, But if Fortun facing me is that I have not wept provide otherwise, Join me at the crossroads and we'll married before the morning.
A long grass and in glens beautiful far from home, A is apples and sloes there grown crops of masts, does not matter to me what anyone says, it is not my sweetheart who says, nothing, Where is your mother's behind me, blood her heart out on the hearth slab.
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