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Tá mo mháithrín go tréanlag agus tá sí aonraic ar Chaladh na mBán,Bíonn sí ag osnaíl is ag éagaoin’ chuile oíche Domhnaigh go mbíonn sé ina lá, Tá a comrádaí sínte i gCill Bhríde is tá leac ar a cheann, Is tá a mac ina cheann siamsa ar fud na tíre agus jug ina láimh.
Is nach bhfuil grá do dháréag agam is tá siad aonraic ar aon tsloinne amháin, Ach tá bean óg ar an méid sin, ní fhéadfaidh mé a hainm a rá, Go n-athraí Loch Éirne is go dtréige an eala a clúmhach bán, Ní inseoidh mé go héag dhaoibh cén réasún le go dtug mé dhi grá.
Nach bhfuil grá do chailín óg agam is deir go leor liom nach mairfidh sí mí, Nuair a théimse go teach an ósta, níl spóirt ann is deise ná í, Tá a grua mar an rós is tá sí ag doirteadh na meala ar gach taobh Is an té a bhlaisfeadh dá póigín sé mo thuairim go mbeadh fad ar a shaol.
Ach chúns a bheas mé beo in Éirinn ní dhéanfaidh mé ciste ná stór, Chúns a bheas mé beo in Éirinn ní thréigfidh mé comhluadar óg, Chúns a bheas mé beo in Éirinn nach bpléascfaidh mé an jug ar an mbord Le do shláintese, a mhíle stóirín, sé an trua nach liom do dhá bhó.
Dar mo mhionna agus mo mhóide, is dar leabhar mór a bhfuil mé ag dul tríd, I gcomhluadar ban óg go deo deo ní ghabhfaidh mé aríst, Mar is leo a chaith mé mo bhróga ó thús m’óige go dtí deireadh mo shaoil ’S nár fhágadar i mo sheó mé ag cur tuairisc cá gcodlóinn an oíche.
Ach marach m’óige is mo dhíth céille nach lách éasca mar a chaithfinn mo shaol, Nuair a chuaigh mé thar sáile le Máirín ar uair an mheán oíche, Agus bhuail mé faoi na Búrcaigh, dream a diúltaíodh as flaithis na naomh, Is nár fhágadar faoi bhrón mé is tá ag gabháil orm amach go Trá Lí.
Nach bhfuil mo chóta mór stróicthe ó ghlúin is tá sé ag sileadh liom síos, Ach an té a chuirfeadh caoi is cóir air, céad faraor tá sé i bhfad ó mo shlinn, An táilliúr glan cóir ar an Aird Mhóir mar atá Tomáisín Bán, Is nach gcuirfeadh sé píosa air is green velvet aniar thrína lár.
Mo mhíle slán leat, a Abhainn Mhóir bhoicht, is é mo thrua gan mé anocht le do thaobh, Mar is iomaí sin bóithrín caol uaigneach atá ag dul idir mé is thú, Nach ann a bhíodh an spóirt againn chuile oíche Domhnaigh ag cur gaisce ina shuí, Is nach mbíodh an jug ar an mbord ann is bhíodh mo stóirín fial fairsing dá roinnt.
My mother that tréanlag and is individualized to the Port of women, she decides osnaíl is lamenting 'every Sunday night that it is a day, is a companion stretched Kilbride is a slab on his head, is a son a one entertainment throughout the country and jug in his hand.
It is not love to twelve I that are individualized for any surname only, But a young woman on the amount, nor can I name to say, That have change Lough Erne as dtréige the swan a fluffy white, will not tell expire Evening! I gave what I reasonably kinder love.
Not love for a young girl I most say enough I will not survive a month, when I go to the house of the host, not sports is nicer than her, has cheeks as rosy as she is pouring the honey on each side is whoever bhlaisfeadh two little kiss my opinion it would be all his life.
But habits while that I will be living in Ireland I will not fund or store, habits while will I live in Ireland not thréigfidh I company of young, habits while will I live in Ireland does not burst me the jug on the table With your shláintese, O my darling, I have pity it's two cows.
By my oath and my mhóide, most feel great book I'm going through, in the company of young women that I never ever undertaken again, As an I spent my youth my shoes from the beginning to the end of my life and not they left me I show a description of how the night gcodlóinn.
But my need my youth disposal of residual sense natured not easy as I'd spend my life, when I went abroad with Maureen at midnight, and I hit the Burkes, who refused from the holy heavens, are not they left I sorrow that I have engaged in Tralee.
Not my coat large torn from a generation that is flowing me down, But he who would repair should it, first alas it is far from my slate, the tailor net fair Ardmore as Tomáisín White, a it would not piece it is green Velvet resilience through his middle.
My special goodbye, a Blackwater poor, it is my lean without me tonight with your hand, as there are many lane narrow lonely which is between me and you, not there before the sporting every Sunday night at a record of achievement sitting, a bustle of the jug on the table there was my darling extensive if some generous.
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