This is a traditional Irish love song written from the perspective of a woman who is missing her man. I learnt it at Oideas Gael in Donegal in Ireland.
Síleann céad acu gur leo féin mé nuair ólaim leánn,
Téann dhá dtrian síos domh nuair a smaoiním ar a gcomhrá liom,
Sneachta séidte agus é dá shíorchur ar Shliabh Uí Fhloinn,
Tá mo ghrá-sa mar bhláth na n-áirní 'bíos ar an droighneann donn.
Fear gan chéill a bhíos ag dréim leis an chraobh ró-ard,
An crann beag íseal lena thaobh sin ar a leagfadh sé a lámh,
Cé gurb ard an crann caorthainn bíonn sé searbh as a bharr,
Fásfaidh sméara 'gus bláth sú craobh ar an chrann is ísle bláth.
Dá mbeinn 'mo bhádóir ba deas a shnámhfainn ar an fharraige seo anonn,
Dá mbeadh léann agam scríobhfainn líne le barr mo phinn,
Monuar géar gan mé is tú a chráigh mo chroí,
I ngleanntáin sléibhe le héirí gréine 'gus an drúcht 'na luí.
Ní bean búclaí, nó bean ribín a d'fhóirfeadh domh,
Ach an gearrchaille gruama a bhí dána dubh,
Mairéad na ngoirnín 'sí a phógfadh mo bhéal,
Tá mé buartha fá mo mhuirnín agus ní náir liom é.
Má thig tú choíche, orú, tar san oíche go cúl an tí,
Tráthnóna nó go moch ar maidin nuair a bhíos an drúcht 'na luí,
Cé nach labhraimse bím ag meabhrú go mór fá mo chroí,
Is tú mo chéadsearc, agus ní féidir mo chumhaidh a chloí.
A hundred men think I am their own when I drink beer,
Two thirds falls from me when I think of their conversation with me,
Driven snow and it falling always on Flynn's Mountain,
And my love is like the blossom of the sloe on the blackthorn.
It's a foolish man who tries to climb a high branch,
When there's a low tree next to him that he could lay his hand upon,
Although the rowan tree is high, it’s bitter at the top
And berries and sweet blossoms grow on the tree with the lowest-growing flowers.
If I were a sailor it would be nice to swim across this ocean,
If I were educated I would write lines with the nib of my pen,
Alas the torment of my heart is bitter without you,
In moutain glens with the rising of the sun and the fall of the dew.
I am not a woman who is suited to buckles and ribbons,
But the bitter veil was bleak, black and bold
Mary of the curls kisses my mouth,
I am worried about my darling and ashamed.
If you ever return, come at night to the back of the house,
In the evening or early in the morning when the dew is lying
Although I won't speak I think of my darling a lot,
You are my love, and I cannot forget you.
The translation is partly my own, and I welcome corrections and suggestions for improvements.
Information about this song
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