| 82 | Aideacheadh an Fhleasgaich Ghlic | 82 |
| Séist A nighean donn an t-sùgraidh, 'S mo chaileag laghach, shunndach, A nigheann donn an t-sùgraidh, Gu subhlainnsa air m'aineòl leat. | Chorus Brown-haired, playful girl, My pleasant, cheerful maiden, O brown-haired playful girl, I would travel far with you. |
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Gur mise nach eil brònach O'n latha rinn mi pòsadh, 'S a fhuair mi caileag bhòidheach A chuir air dòigh mo dhachaidh-sa. Fhad' 's a bha mi gòrach A' cumail tigh' nam onrachd, Bha mi gun toirt, gun sòlas, Ged bha mi 'n còmhnuidh cabhagach. Bha 'n lèin' agam gun chàradh, 'S gun mise matha le snàthaid; A' bhriogais, cha b' e 'n t-àgh i, Le tàirnean anns na gaileisean. Mo stocainean, cha b'fheàrr iad - Gu'n dh'fhalbh an cinn 's an sàiltean; An ordag mhór air cnamh orm Ged bu laidir, fallain i. 'S a' mhaduinn an àm éirigh Gu'm biodh mo bhiadh ri ghréidheadh; An t-aran rinn mi 'n dé 'S e cho cruaidh ri earr a' bharaille. Bha crodh ri cuir do 'n bhuaile, Am bainne ri thoirt uapa; 'S ri chuir roimh 'n inneal-uachdair, 'S an t-uachdar chuir 's a' chrannachan. An crannachan a' cruachadh 'S gun dòigh agam tigh'nn uaithe, Ach loineid a chinn chuachaich A chuir gu luath gu maistreadh ann. Gu'm biodh na laoigh le geumnaich, A' mhuc 's an fhang le h-éigheach, 'S na cearcan tigh'nn 'nan leum Cuir an geill gu'n robh an t-àcras orr'. Gu'm biodh a' phòit ri sgùradh, Am bòrd agus an t-ùrlar, 'S mu'n glanainn h-uile cùil dheth, Bu dlùth bhiodh cuirnean falais orm. 'M bùntata agam gun ùireadh, 'S na daolagan ri spùineadh, Is bodaich ghlas a' Chùil 's iad A' call an luths a' fanaid orm. 'S e bha cuir m' obair àite Air deireadh mar a bha i, Gun neach bhith leam a' tàmh, Gu cuir àird air obair tighe dhomh. B' i comhairle na còrach A thug an "Sagart Mór" dhuinn; Gur mise fhuair an stòras 'N uair thug mi Seònaid dhachaidh leam. Tha muirn, is toirt, is mànran, A nis agam 'n am fhàrdaich; An coimeas mar a bha mi 'S ann tha mi 'n dràsd am flaitheanas. |
It's I am no longer sad Since the day I got married, And got a pretty girl To put my home in order. All the while I was foolish, Keeping house for myself; I was without decorum or happieness, Though I was always rushing about. Mys hirt needed repairs, And I not good with the needle; My trousers not a lovely sight, With nails to fasten the braces on them. My stockings are no better, The toes and the heels are out of them; My big toe is decaying, Though it used to be strong and healthy. At time of rising in the morning, My food would have to be cooked; The bread I made yesterday Would be as hard as the barrel-ends. The cows are to be put to the pasture; The milking to be done, And the milk put through the separator, And the cream put in the churn. The churn so heaped up And no way for me to get away from it; So with the curved dasher, I'll quickly churn it up. The calves would be bawling And the pig crying from its sty, And the hens coming in leaps and bounds, Certainly they were starving. The pot would need scouring And the table and the floor as well, And if were to clean every corner, Sweat would be dripping off me. The potatoes haven't been sprayed, The beetles are killing them off; And grey-haired old men are Growing weak laughing at me. What was putting the farm work Behind schedule was, That there was no one living with me Who could plan the housework. It was wise advice That the Big Priest gave us; It was me that got the treasure When I brought Janet home with me. There is hospitality and decorum And serenity now in my home; Compared to the state I was in, I'm now in heaven. |
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Courtesy of
An Cliath Clis
www.ancliathclis.ca