aɪ hæv tˈoʊld ɔːlɹˌɛdi hˌaʊ ðə fˈɛɹ ɡɹˈiːn stɹˈædəlz ɐ hˈɪl ˌʌndɚ wˌɪtʃ bˈoʊhɚbwˌiː, ðə jˈɛloʊ ɹˈoʊd ʌv mˈænɑːn mˈæk lˈɜːz kˈaʊz, pˈæsᵻz; hˌaʊ ɪt lˈʊks əkɹˌɑːs tə ðə blˈʌdi bˈæɾəlfˌiːld ʌv sˈiːnˌɑːkɐnˈɑːɹ; hˌaʊ ɪɾ ɪz kɹˈaʊnd wɪð ɐ mˈaɪɾi lˈiːoʊz wˌɪtʃ ɪz kɹˈɛdɪɾᵻd wɪð bˌiːɪŋ ðə bˈɛɹɪəl ɡɹˈaʊnd ʌvðə fˈaɪənə.
I have told already how the fair green straddles a hill under which Boherbwee, 'the yellow road' of Manaan MacLir's cows, passes; how it looks across to the bloody battlefield of Cnocanaar; how it is crowned with a mighty lios which is credited with being the burial ground of the Fianna.