| 59 | Chunnaic Mise Mo Leannan | 59 |
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Séist Na 's horò hì, hòireanan Horo chall éileadh Na 's horò hì, hòireanan |
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Gur e mise tha fo mhulad Air an tulaich 's mór m'éislean Chunnaic mise mo leannan 'S cha do dh'aithnich e 'n dé mi. Chunnaic mise mo luaidh Dol seachad buaile na spréidheadh. 'Cha d'fhidir 's cha d'fharraid, 'S cha do ghabh e mo sgeula. 'S ann a ghabh e orm seachad Air each glas nan ceum eutrom. Air each glas nan ceum luthmhór 'Ghearradh sunndach an fhéithe. Bha do ghunn' air do ghualainn Dol a ruagadh na h-éilde. Tha mo leannan nam achlais 'S mi gun taic fo'n ghréin dha. Mar a théid mi nam onar 'G iarraidh lòn air gach té dha. Gur h-ann shuas air an àirigh Thug mi ghràidh mo chiad spéis dhuit. Cha b'e mise bu choireach 'S ann bu choirach e-fhéin ris. Gur e mo rùn Clann Dòmhnaill Sud an còmhlan nach tréiginn. Luchd nan calpanna troma Chìte foinnich fo'n fhéileadh. Luchd 'nam boghachan iubhair Chuireadh siubhal fo shaighdean. Luchd nan gunnaichean dubhghorm Chuireadh smùid air feadh sléibhe. |
I am sadly Crying on the hillside. I saw my lover yesterday And he did not acknowledge me. I saw my sweetheart Passing the cattle fold With no notice or sympathy He made no enquiry for me. I saw (him) passing On a grey light-footed horse. On the grey horse that would Happily jump over the bogs Your gun was on your shoulder Going to hunt the deer. My baby is in my arms And I with no provisions for him. I may go insane Begging food from all the women for him. It was at the shieling That I fell in love with you. It was not my fault He was the one that was to blame. My love is of Clan Donald That's the group I'd not forsake. The fellows with the strong calves, Showing under their kilts The fellows with the yew-bows That would make the arrows travel. The fellows with the blue black guns That would leave smoke lying across hillsides. |
| 59B | Chunna Mise Mo Leannan | 59B |
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Séist 'S horò ho hì, hòireanan Horò chall éileadh Horò ho hì, hòireanan |
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Gur e mis' tha fo mhulad Air an tulaich 's mór m'éislean Mi 'n a m'laidh' ann an Crosal, 'S trom an osna 'g a m'léireadh. 'S chunna mise mo leannan 'S cha do dh'aithnich e 'n dé mi. 'Cha d'fhidir 's cha d'fharraid, 'S cha do ghabh e mo sgeula. Chunna mise mo luaidh Dol seachad buaile na spréidheadh. Chunna mis' e dol seachad Air each glas nan ceum eutrom. Bha do ghunn' air do ghualainn Dol a ruagadh na h-éilde. 'S gheibhte fuil an daimh bhallaich Ann am bannan do léine. Gur h-ann shuas air an àirigh Thug mi, ghràidh, mo chiad spéis dhuit. Cha taobh mise fear bàta. Ged a chàradh e bréid rith'. 'S mór gum b'fhearr leam fear mullaich, D'am biodh grunnan beag spréidheadh. Fear a rachadh do 'n mhunadh Le a ghunna mun éirinn. Gur e mo rùn Clann Dòmhnaill Sid an còmhlan nach tréiginn. Sian nach sòradh 's an Dòmhnaich Le Clann Dòmhnaill nan geur lann. Luchd nan calpanna troma Chìte foinnidh fo'n fhéileadh. Luchd 'nan claidheamhnan geala, Chuireadh faileas ri gréin diùbh. Luchd nam musgaidean dubha Dheanadh bruthadh is reubadh. Luchd 'nam boghachan iubhair Chuireadh siubhal fo shaighdean. Luchd nan gunnaichean dubhghorm Chuireadh smùid air feadh sléibhe. Nach cuirte claidheamh an truaill leo, Gun a' bhuaidh aig Rìgh Seumas. |
I am indeed sad Sitting on the hillock, shedding tears. As I lie in Crosal My heavy sighs are tormenting me. I saw my sweetheart yesterday And he did not recognize me. He did not notice, nor inquire after me, And he did not ask news of me. I saw my sweetheart Passing by the fold of cattle I saw him passing by Mounted on a grey horse of light steps. Your gun was on your shoulder Going to hunt the hind. The blood of the speckled stag May be found on your shirt-bands. It was up at the shieling that I, dearest one, Bestowed my first affection upon you. I will not be partial to a boat-man Although he would hoist a sail to her. I would greatly prefer a man who lived in the uplands and who had a small herd of cattle. A man who would go to the hill With his gun before I arose in the morning. My love belongs to the Clan Donald That's the company I'd not forsake. Clan Donald of the sharp blades, and battle-charm That would not hesitate to be effective on Sundays. The men of well built legs that would be seen, In their shapely form beneath their kilts The men of glistening swords that would Scintillate in the sunshine. The men of black muskets That would bruise and wound. The men of the yew-bows That would make arrows dart travel. The men of the blue black guns That would raise smoke about the slopes. That will not sheathe their swords Until King James is victorious. |
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Courtesy of
An Cliath Clis
www.ancliathclis.ca