Mary Jane Lamond - A Mhòrag 's na Horo Gheallaidh | Текст песни

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• Mary Jane Lamond
• A Mhòrag 's na Horo Gheallaidh

Ó ì og ì ò
A Mhòrag 's na ho rò gheallaidh
Ó ì og ì ò

A Mhòrag bheag a' chùil riomhaich
Dheanainn-sa do chìr a cheannach

A Mhòrag bheag a' chùil dualaich
'S tric do luaidh a' tighinn air m'aire

Mis' amuigh air luing a' seòladh
'S mi gun dòigh air tighinn gu baile

An cuimhne leat an oidhche bha sinn
'S a' luing bhàin air bhàrr na mara

An oidhche sin a chaidh ar fuadach
Thànaig a' mhuir mhùr 'na gleannaibh

'S truagh a Rìgh nach ann a bha mi
'N ciste-laigh nam bòrdan tana

Bhon a chunna mi na coinnlean
Ag gabhail araoir air do bhanais

Nuair dheidheadh tu amach a dh'fhia'chadh
Bu trom do thriall bhon a' bhaile

Le d'ghunna leathann 's le d'fhùdar
Le do ghille 's cù 'na dheannamh

Leagadh tu 'n damh donn a' bhùirein
'S fhuil 'ga thùcadh 's e gun anail

Cha leiginn thu chrò nan caorach
Air eagal d'aodach a shalach

Cha leiginn thu chrò nan gobhar
No bhleoghainn a' chruidh as t-earrach

Mi air chùl nam beanntan àrda
Cha chluinn mo mhàthair mo ghearain

A Mhòrag bheag nighean an Leòdaich
Airson a dheanainn dòrtadh faladh

A Mhòrag bheag à tìr nan Leòdach
Dh'òlainn do dheoch-slàint' a dh'aindheoin

English:


Little Morag of the lovely locks
I would buy you a comb

Little Morag of the curling tresses
Often your love comes to mind

Me, out on the ship sailing
Without a way to return home

Do you remember the night we were on board?
The white sailed ship on the surface of the sea

That was the night we were driven off course
By the sea that rose in billows

It's a pity that I wasn't
In the coffin of narrow boards

Since I saw the candles
Blazing at your wedding banquet

When you went on the hunt
Heavy your procession from the village

With your slender barrelled gun
Powder, attendant and bounding dog

You would kill the rutting brown stag
Leaving him breathless and choked on his blood

I would not permit you to go to the sheep pen
For fear you would soil you clothing

I would not permit you to go to the goat pen
Or to milk the cows at springtime

I am on the backside of the high mountains
My mother can't hear my complaint

Little Morag, daughter of the MacLeod chief
For whom I would spill blood

Little Morag from the land of the MacLeods
I would drink your toast notwithstanding

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