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Níl mo shláinte ar fónamh ó scaras leis an ól soAch casachtach agus ceo agus achrann mór im chroí, ’S gurb é a deirid na mná óga gur chúngaigh suas mo scornaigh Ná seinnfinn port ná ceol dóibh go rincfidís dhom ríl, Ach éirigh-se go rábach is cuirse díot do bhóthar, Is ná hinis cuid ded ghnó dá maireann beo ded bhuíon, Beidh a coc sa tiarsa romhat ann, na gloiní líonta ar bord ann Is dá gcuirfí fút an córda, go gcaithfeá briseadh tríd.
Is cuirse uait na feánna agus éirigh go dtí an mbráthair, Tógfaidh sé ar láimh tú is stopfaidh sé thú ar ól, Tabharfaidh sé dhuit coráiste chun scarúint leis an áirseoir, Mar is minic leat é páirteach nó in éineacht leat sa ród, Tá tú anois id stráire, níl ór agat ná pláta, Níl bean agat ná páiste ach do phíobaí lán de cheol, Agus tiocfaidh an bás ort i lúb an chlaí nó i mbearnain Is beidh t’anamsa go brách in ifreann dá dhó.
Tá mo chroí chomh dubh le hairne nó le gual a buailfí i gceártain Ó airíos iad á rá go raibh ifreann im chomhair, An sagart is an bráthair, an t-easpag is an Pápa, Ní thógfaidís mo pháirt mura stopfainnse den ól, Ach an landlady sí a chráigh mé nuair a thóg sí an leabhar im láthair Go n-ólfainn féin a sláinte is go suífinn síos go fóill, D’fhanas ar an stáir sin go dtí maidin lá arna mhárach, Is mo mheidlí is mo chártaí a d’fhágas fén mbord.
Stadfad feasta dom dhánta, ní mian liom a thuilleadh a rá acu Ach go bhfuil clanna Gael gan fáltha is gurb amhail a bheidh go fóill, Táid amuigh fén mbáistigh ag grafadh is ag tarlamh, Sagairt agus bráithre ramhar choirpigh feol’, Dá n-oirfeadh ola an bháis duit, ní chuirfí é ort láithreach Gan airgead nó pláta nó braonacha le n-ól, Ifreann tá a lán díobh, idir sagairt agus bráithre, ’S lucht meidlí agus cártaí go hard os a gcomhair.
Not my life serving from scaras to drink this But coughing and fog and confrontation have my heart, and that to deirid young women have been narrowed up my throat Do seinnfinn port or music for that rincfidís me reel, But success-se is booming off for road de Courcy, is not part of your business tell its live lives of your body, will tiarsa ts in front there, the glasses filled on board there is about if the cord, to spend break through.
The de Courcy you the beech and passed to the brother, will take over you that will prevent you a drink, will give thee coráiste to relinquish the áirseoir, as often you join or accompany you in the road, are you now stráire id, do not you gold plate, are not you a woman or a child but your pipes full of music, and you will die in the loop the fence or in a breach is t'anamsa will forever burn in hell if.
My heart is as black as hairne or coal buailfí in forge From airíos are saying that hell im him, the priest is the brother, the bishop is the Pope, not erected my part if stopfainnse of drinking, But landlady her I broke when she took the book in my presence in their own health ólfainn suífinn that down yet, was the history I stayed until the next morning, is my main mheidlí cards for I left under the table.
Stadfad henceforth my poems, I do not want more to say But that families Gael without fáltha is that as to be still, They are out under mbáistigh at grubbed is at tarlamh, priests and brothers grease criminals meat ', would suit the oil you die, it would not need immediate Without money or plate or drops to drink, Hell is a lot of them, between priests and brothers, and those meidlí and high cards in front of them.
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