Скачать с ютуб Emma Ní Fhíoruisce - An Saighdiúir Tréigthe в хорошем качестве

Emma Ní Fhíoruisce - An Saighdiúir Tréigthe

Seo amhrán a d’fhoghlaim mé ó bheith ag éisteacht le Suzanne Uí Ghallachóir anseo Ar YouTube. ***Liricí*** English Translation Below* Nuair a d'éirigh mé ar maidin Dé Céadaoin Níor choisric mé m'éadan, faraor Nó gur bheir mé ar an arm a ba ghéire Agus chuir mé a bhéal le cloch líof' Chaith mise domh mo chuid éadaigh Is mo chiall mhaith gur lig mé le gaoth Is nuair a chuala mise iomrá ar mo chéadsearc Orú, steall mé an chorrmhéar ón alt díom Deir daoine go bhfuil mé tinn treallach, Is nach bhfuil faoiseamh ag m'aicíd le fáil, Ó chuir mé mo spéis ins an spéirbhean, Tá 'na cónaí ar mhalaí a' tSléibhe Bháin. Is fada mo chosa gan bróga 'Gus is faide mo phócaí gan pinghin Is fada mé ag gabháil le mná óga Ach níor ól mé riamh deor le mo mhian Is fada mo chrá croíse á dhéanamh Is mo thumba á phriontáil ag saor, Is mo chónair á tógáil lá an Earraigh, Is na buachaillí deasa' gabháil faoi. Dá mbeinnse seacht mbliana faoi thalamh Ná i bhfiabhras na leabaidh i mo luí A chéadsearc, dá dtiocfá' mé a fhiafraí Scéal cinnte go mbeinn leat' mo shuí. Ó, nach trua nach marbh a bhí m'athair, Nuair a chuir sé mé go harm an Rí. Is gurb í an uaigh ó mo chrualeaba feasta 'S a chéadsearc, nach trua leat mo luí? The Deserted Soldier ***ENGLISH TRANSLATION**** When I arose on Wednesday morning I didn't bless myself, alas, As I took the weapon that would be the sharpest And I put an edge on it with a polished stone. I put on my clothes And my good sense left with the wind And when I heard a rumor about my sweetheart I cut off my index finger at the joint People say that I am ill and capricious, And that there is no relief for my ailment, Oh I fell for a beautiful woman, Who lives in the slopes of the white mountain. It's long my feet have been without shoes It is longer my pockets without pennies It is long since I have been going with young women But never before have I drunk the tears of my desire I have suffered for too long A mason carves my name for the tomb This spring day my coffin is being made And fine boys ready to carry it Were I seven years buried Or lying in my bed with fever If you asked for me, my beloved I would surely be up and by your side It 's a pity that my father wasn't killed When he put me in the king's army. And it would be him in his misery and my hard dying also And, sweetheart, isn't it a pity my dying? The translation is partly my own and partly from the sites listed below.