Young Ned Of The Hill
The Pogues| La ballata originale gaelica | |
| YOUNG NED OF THE HILL Have you ever walked the lonesome hills and heard the curlew's cry Or seen the raven, black as night, upon a windswept sky? To walk the purple heather and hear the westwind cry. To know that where the rapparee must die. Since Cromwell pushed us westward to live our lowly lives, There's some of us deemed to fight from Tipperary mountains high Noble men with wills of iron, who are not afraid to die, Who will fight with Gaelic honour held on high. Of one such man I'd like to speak, a rapparee by name and deed His family dispossessed and slaughtered, he swore to fight the British breed, His name is known in song and story and his deeds are legend still, I'll tell you now the sorry fate of Eamonn of the Hill. CHORUS: You may rob our house and fortune, even drive us from the land, But you'll never break our spirit, 'cos you'll never understand The love of dear old Ireland, that will forge an iron will As long as there are gallant men like Young Ned of the Hill. A scourge to the redcoat soldiers with a price upon his head, To tempt a weaker soul to tell where he kept his bed, One night as he lay sleeping, his head beside his sword, Murdered by his cousin Dwyer to claim a coward's reward, The day after O'Dwyer had murdered Young Ned in his bed, He went for his blood money but was jailed himself instead, For poor Ned he had been pardoned the very day before, And a noose upon the gallows was O'Dwyer's just reward. A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell, you who raped our motherland, I hope you're rotting down in hell for the horrors that you sent To our misfortunate forefathers whom you robbed of their birthright 'To Hell or Connaught,' may you burn in hell tonight." | ÉAMONN AN CHNOIC "Cé hé sin amu a bhfuil faobhar a ghuth, a’ réabadh mo dhorais dhúnta?" "Mise Éamonn a' Chnoic, atá báite fuar fliuch, ó shíor-shiúl sléibhte is gleannta." "A lao ghil 's a chuid, cad a dheánfainn-se dhuit mura gcuirfinn ort binn de mo ghúna? 'S go mbeidh púdar dubh 'á lámhach linn go tiubh, ‘s go mbeidh muid araon múchta!" "Is fada mise amu faoi shneachta is faoi shioc, ‘s gan dánacht agam ar éinne. Mo bhranar gan cur, mo sheisreach gan scor, is gan iad agam ar aon chor! Níl cara agam— is danaid liom sin— a ghlacfadh mé moch ná déanach. ‘S go gcaithfe mé ghoil thar fairraige soir, ó's ann nach bhfuil mo ghaolta." |
