Thíos I bPort an Chabhlaigh, ógbhean seang a`siúl i mbéal na toinne, Is í a caoile a chuireann
cluain ar chuile stócach, Shiúlfá tamaill sula gcásfaí a leithéid ortsa, Nó go bhfeicfeá radharc chomh bréa mar shuaimhneas
aigne.
Thíos I bport an Chabhlaigh, Buachaill óg a`súgradh ins a` ngaineamh, A ríocht faoina lámha beaga
aige, Mo mhairg a chaisleán breá istoiche, Nuair a sciobhfaidh sluaite na mara a bhallaí leo.
Iascairí
an chladaigh, Ag obair mar is toil leo leis na ciantaibh, Ag gabháil ar thóir na mbradán um thrathnóna, Is í
an fharraige a réim dúchais, A`s an ghrian ann mar a bheadh súil chirce.
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In sleepy Portacowley, A slender maiden paddles on the shore, Each young man`s eye transfixed by form and grace, You`d
travel far to meet her match and equal, Or such a sight to greet a roving eye. Down in Portacowley, A young
boy builds ,delighted ,in the sand, A little kingdom all beneath his hands, A pity on his little world this evening,
When the sea hosts shall ravage those fine walls. The fishers on the shoreline, Working as they`ve done for
generations, Chasing after salmon in the evening, This sea is their inheritance from nature, And the sun behind
them sets in amber glow.
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