Julie Fowlis - A Mhic Dhùghaill 'Ic Ruairidh [Son of Dougal, Son of Ruairidh] | Текст песни

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• Julie Fowlis
• A Mhic Dhùghaill 'Ic Ruairidh [Son of Dougal, Son of Ruairidh]

A Mhic Dhùghaill 'ic Ruairidh
A chuir am buaireadh fo m' chèill-sa

A chuir an tainead mo ghruaidhean
'S dh' fhàg mo ghruag air dhroch
ghrèidheadh

Mo mhìle mallachd dha m' phiuthar
Nighean bhuidhe a' chùil stèidhtich

'S gura diombach mi dha m' mhàthair
Ged is màthair i dhòmhsa

'S gura buidheach mi dha m' athair
'S e nach cuireadh droch-sgeul orm

'S mo mhìle mallachd dhan bhuachaill
A bha 'g uallach na sprèidhe

Mac bodachain shuaraich
Dha 'm bu dual bhith an gleann geugach

Chaidh a dhùsgadh nam balach
Moch sa mhadainn man èirich

Air thoiseach bha triùir ann
'S air thùs bha dà-reug ann

Thuirt mo bhràthair bu shine
Ligibh na balaich gu chèile

Thuirt mo bhràthair a b' òige
Chan e chòir ach an eucoir

'S ann a' dìreadh a' ghàrraidh
A' leig thu ghràidh a cheud èigh às

'S ann a' teàrnadh a' bhruthaich
A fhuair thu am bruthadh a lèir thu

'S gu robh fuil do chom chùbhraidh
A' sruladh troimh d' lèinidh

'S ged a dh' òl mi ghaoil pàirt dheth
Cha do shlànaich do chreuchdan

O nach robh mi 's tu m'eudail
Am Baile Pheairt na Dùn Èideann

Na 'n tìr nam fear dubha
Nan Còigeamh Mumhann na h-Eirinn

Man do chuir mi riamh ùidh annad
Lùb ùr a' chùil cheutaich.

Son of Dougal, son of Ruairidh,
who greatly challenged my senses

You thinned my cheeks
and left my hair unkempt

My curse on my sister,
yellow haired girl of wavy hair

I am resentful of my mother
although she is my own

I am thankful to my father,
he that would not put a bad tale on me

A thousand curses on the cow-herd,
who was watching the cattle

Son of a diminutive mean man,
that should be in a glen of branches

Who went to waken the boys
early morning before rising

At first there were three,
then at last there were twelve

My older brother said,
let the boys go together?

My younger brother said,
it is not right but unjust

It was climbing the garden,
you gave the first shout darling

It was descending the slope,
you got the fatal blow

And your blood on your lovely chest,
pouring through your shirt

Although I drank, my love, some of it,
it did not heal your wounds

O that I and you my love
were in Perth or Edinburgh

Or in the land of the black men,
or Munster of Ireland

Before I ever showed interest in you,
smart young fellow of the beautiful rear!

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