English (machine translation)
I am stretched on your grave and you will get there ever I,
would bar both hands I not scarfainn you forever,
A the pick as aonsearc is time for me to convince you,
as a smell of cold clay you, the color of the sun is the wind.
Most are likely to my people that mbímse on my bed,
on your tomb is when I am stretched from night to morning,
describing my hardship is at cruaghol firmly,
She's my girlfriend quiet prudent moved I was a child .
The priests are the brothers every day with me in anger,
To be in love with you, dear wife, you are dead,
I would wind sheltering you, are you from the rain roof,
and sadness on my heart you have in the ground below.
Is the gcuimhin own the night I was-in and you,
below the tree Drinagh, that was the night taking cuisne,
First praise Jesus not dheineamar the destruction,
is that the crown Mhaighdin 'the tree lights in against.
And give my curse to your mother, not your father áirimse,
is to live every day of your friends while living,
Did not you let me marry my id as you live alive,
So do not you just ask for a dowry impress you in bed.
The sorrow of my heart filled with love thee,
is melancholy side below him are so black with the sloes,
Sara becomes nothing on me that maintains the I die,
Oh, beadsa in my shí wind ahead below the bántaibh.
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