Nuair a d’eirigh mé ‘r maidin Dé Céadaoin
Níor choisreac mé m’éadan faraor
Nó gur bheir mé ar an arm a ba ghéire
Agus chuir mé a bhéal le cloich liomhth’
Dá mbínnse seacht mbliana faoin talamh
Nó i bhfiabhras na leapa mo luí
A chéadsearc an dtighteá ‘gus m’fhiafraí
Scéal cinnte go mbeinn leat mo shuí
Is trua nach marb bhí m’athair
Nuair a chuir sé mé go harm an Rí’
Is gurbh í an uaigh mo chrualeaba feasta
Is a chéadsearc nach trua leat mo luí
Is fada mo chrá croíse a dhéanamh
Mo thumba á prionntáil ag saor
‘Gus mo chónra á tógáil lá ‘n Earraigh
‘Gus na buachailli deasa gabháil faoi
Is trua nach marbh bhí m’athair
Nuair a chuir sé mé go harm an Rí’
Is gurbh í an uaigh mo chrualeaba feasta
Is a chéadsearc nach trua leat mo luí
Níor choisreac mé m’éadan faraor
Nó gur bheir mé ar an arm a ba ghéire
Agus chuir mé a bhéal le cloich liomhth’
Dá mbínnse seacht mbliana faoin talamh
Nó i bhfiabhras na leapa mo luí
A chéadsearc an dtighteá ‘gus m’fhiafraí
Scéal cinnte go mbeinn leat mo shuí
Is trua nach marb bhí m’athair
Nuair a chuir sé mé go harm an Rí’
Is gurbh í an uaigh mo chrualeaba feasta
Is a chéadsearc nach trua leat mo luí
Is fada mo chrá croíse a dhéanamh
Mo thumba á prionntáil ag saor
‘Gus mo chónra á tógáil lá ‘n Earraigh
‘Gus na buachailli deasa gabháil faoi
Is trua nach marbh bhí m’athair
Nuair a chuir sé mé go harm an Rí’
Is gurbh í an uaigh mo chrualeaba feasta
Is a chéadsearc nach trua leat mo luí
envoyé par Adriana e Riccardo - 1/12/2005 - 20:25
Langue: anglais
Versione inglese / English version
Dalla / From the Clár Cinn le hÁine Cooke
Dalla / From the Clár Cinn le hÁine Cooke
THE DESERTED SOLDIER
As I woke up on Wednesday morning
I forgot to bless myself, alas
And took the sharpest sword
And made its blade more keen
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
Tisn’t it a pity my father wasn’t dead
When he put me into the King’s army
For my bed is surely the grave
And darling do you not pity me?
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
Tisn’t it a pity my father wasn’t dead
When he put me into the King’s army
For my bed is surely the grave
And darling do you not pity me?
As I woke up on Wednesday morning
I forgot to bless myself, alas
And took the sharpest sword
And made its blade more keen
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
Tisn’t it a pity my father wasn’t dead
When he put me into the King’s army
For my bed is surely the grave
And darling do you not pity me?
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
Tisn’t it a pity my father wasn’t dead
When he put me into the King’s army
For my bed is surely the grave
And darling do you not pity me?
envoyé par Adriana e Riccardo - 1/12/2005 - 20:29
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Inserita dagli Skara Brae nel 1971 nell'album "Skara Brae". Una versione inglese è stata eseguita anche dai Chieftains.
Il testo è ripreso dalla Clár Cinn le hÁine Cooke. Grazie a Adriana per la segnalazione!
"In this song, the young man curses his father who has sent him to fight in the King's Army and now he is far from all that he loves."