| Tuirse mo chroí ar a phósadh
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| 'S ar bhuachaillí óige an tsaiol
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| Nár bhfearr daoife cailín deas leofa
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| Na bean a mbeadh puntaí léi
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| Oíche mhór fhada bheith dúcaí
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| Nár dheas a bheith ag súgradh léi
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| B’faras a chaillteach bhíos srannfaí
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| Is ag tarraingt an phlaincéad léi
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| Nuair a théim go tí faire ná tórraimh
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| 'Sé d’fiafras an óig bhean díom
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| 'Chormaic a bhfuil tú do phósadh
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| Nó nach n’aithníonn tú an óig fhear groí
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| 'Sé duirt se 'gus deirim féin leofa
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| Go minic go mór faraor
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| 'S an mhéid acu 'tá gan pósadh
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| Gur acu 'tá spóirt a' tsaiol
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| Ó rachaidh mé scilleadh 's a chaitheadh
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| Go Baile na hiarr fhad siar
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| 'S bhéarfaidh mé 'n ruaig sin go hÁrainn
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| 'S ar and ainnir chráidh mo chroí
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| Dár a leoga mar rinneadh mo phósadh
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| Ní mó ná gur cealgadh mo chroí
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| 'S rachaidh mé arís na Róimhe
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| Go bhfaigh mé cead pósta arís
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| I’m tired to my heart of marriage
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| And of the young men of this world
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| They’d be better off with a nice girl
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| Than a woman who had money
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| To stay awake the whole long night
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| Wouldn’t it be fine to be sporting with her
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| Instead of the old woman who snores
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| And pulls the blanket to her
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| When I go to a wake-house or funeral
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| All the young women ask me
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| Cormac, are you getting married
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| Or do you see that youth is wearing away?
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| I said to them and I still say
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| That I do indeed see it, alas
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| And those who aren’t married
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| Have all the fun in life
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| I will go complaining and chattering
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| To far in the west
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| I’ll take a trip to Aron
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| To the young woman who has tormented my heart
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| By the book, if my marriage has been made
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| It’s not that my heart has been bound
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| And I’ll go off to Rome
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| To get permission to marry again |