Ambientato nel XIX secolo: la storia della partenza e separazione di un soldato dall’amata
Tá na páipéir dá saighneáil,
Is tá na saighdiúir ag goil anonn,
Tá an drumadóirín aoibhinn aerach,
Clanna Gael ag goil go tír na long,
Dá mbeadh agam is dhuit a bhéarfainn,
Céad is dhá mhíle bó,
Ar chuntar tú bheith i d’fhéirín liom,
Go Condae Mhaigh Eo.
I mo luí dhom ar mo leaba,
Is í m’osna a bhíonn mór,
Is ar m’éirí dhom ar maidin,
Is í mo phaidir mo dheoir,
Tá gruaig mo chinn ag titim,
’Gus ag imeacht mar an gceo,
’S le cumha i do dhiaidh, a stóirínn,
Í bheidh mé i bhfad beo.
Nuair a éirím amach go huaigneach
Sea bhreathnaím ar an gcnoc úd thall,
Bím ag smaoineamh ar do chúilín dualach
A d’fhág an chrua-arraing trí mo lár,
Tá mo chroí istigh ina leac dhe ghual dubh
Is fear mo thruaigh níl ach Rí na nGrást,
Is cibé cailín óg a bhéarfas uaim tú,
Go síntear suas í i gcónra chláir.
Tá mo stocaí uilig stróicthe
Is tá mo phócaí gan pingin,
Tá mo nuachulaith phósta is é,
Mo léan géar, fós gan sníomh,
Tá fiacha i dteach an óil orm
Is níor ól mé ariamh braon,
Ach is é mo léan géar, a mhíle stóirín,
Gan mé is tú óg seal arís.
Is nach aoibhinn do na héiníní
A éiríonn go hard,
Is a bhíonn ag ceiliúradh lena chéile
Ar aon chraoibhín amháin,
Ní mar sin dhom féin
’Gus mo chéad mhíle grá,
Mar is fada fairsing óna chéile
A bhíonn ár n-éirí gach lá.
Is tá na saighdiúir ag goil anonn,
Tá an drumadóirín aoibhinn aerach,
Clanna Gael ag goil go tír na long,
Dá mbeadh agam is dhuit a bhéarfainn,
Céad is dhá mhíle bó,
Ar chuntar tú bheith i d’fhéirín liom,
Go Condae Mhaigh Eo.
I mo luí dhom ar mo leaba,
Is í m’osna a bhíonn mór,
Is ar m’éirí dhom ar maidin,
Is í mo phaidir mo dheoir,
Tá gruaig mo chinn ag titim,
’Gus ag imeacht mar an gceo,
’S le cumha i do dhiaidh, a stóirínn,
Í bheidh mé i bhfad beo.
Nuair a éirím amach go huaigneach
Sea bhreathnaím ar an gcnoc úd thall,
Bím ag smaoineamh ar do chúilín dualach
A d’fhág an chrua-arraing trí mo lár,
Tá mo chroí istigh ina leac dhe ghual dubh
Is fear mo thruaigh níl ach Rí na nGrást,
Is cibé cailín óg a bhéarfas uaim tú,
Go síntear suas í i gcónra chláir.
Tá mo stocaí uilig stróicthe
Is tá mo phócaí gan pingin,
Tá mo nuachulaith phósta is é,
Mo léan géar, fós gan sníomh,
Tá fiacha i dteach an óil orm
Is níor ól mé ariamh braon,
Ach is é mo léan géar, a mhíle stóirín,
Gan mé is tú óg seal arís.
Is nach aoibhinn do na héiníní
A éiríonn go hard,
Is a bhíonn ag ceiliúradh lena chéile
Ar aon chraoibhín amháin,
Ní mar sin dhom féin
’Gus mo chéad mhíle grá,
Mar is fada fairsing óna chéile
A bhíonn ár n-éirí gach lá.
Contributed by Dq82 - 2021/1/31 - 11:17
Language: English
traduzione inglese di Brendan da songsinirish.com
The papers have been signed,
And the soldiers are going over,
The drummers are happy and light-hearted,
The Irish are going to the Land of the Ships,
If I had them,
I'd give you two thousand, one hundred cows,
If you'd be with me,
In County Mayo.
Lying in my bed,
My sighs do be great,
And when I get up in the morning,
My tears are my prayers,
The hair on my head is falling out,
and disappearing like fog,
and with the help of God,
I won't be alive much longer.
When I get up and about, I'm lonely,
And I look out on the hill over yonder,
I remember your curly locks,
That have left me cut to the core,
My heart is a slab of black coal inside,
And no-one has pity for me except the King of Grace,
And whatever girl I would give you,
I would also put her in the coffin.
My stockings are all torn,
And my pockets are without a penny,
My wedding dress,
Alas, is still without a stitch,
I have debts at the pub,
But I have never drunk a drop,
But it is my greatest sorrow, my love,
That you and I wouldn't be young for a while again.
Isn't it lovely for the little birds,
Rising high up,
Celebrating together,
On one small branch,
But it's not so for me,
And my true love,
For as long as each day continues,
To keep us apart from each other.
And the soldiers are going over,
The drummers are happy and light-hearted,
The Irish are going to the Land of the Ships,
If I had them,
I'd give you two thousand, one hundred cows,
If you'd be with me,
In County Mayo.
Lying in my bed,
My sighs do be great,
And when I get up in the morning,
My tears are my prayers,
The hair on my head is falling out,
and disappearing like fog,
and with the help of God,
I won't be alive much longer.
When I get up and about, I'm lonely,
And I look out on the hill over yonder,
I remember your curly locks,
That have left me cut to the core,
My heart is a slab of black coal inside,
And no-one has pity for me except the King of Grace,
And whatever girl I would give you,
I would also put her in the coffin.
My stockings are all torn,
And my pockets are without a penny,
My wedding dress,
Alas, is still without a stitch,
I have debts at the pub,
But I have never drunk a drop,
But it is my greatest sorrow, my love,
That you and I wouldn't be young for a while again.
Isn't it lovely for the little birds,
Rising high up,
Celebrating together,
On one small branch,
But it's not so for me,
And my true love,
For as long as each day continues,
To keep us apart from each other.
Contributed by Dq82 - 2021/1/31 - 11:18
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