Alasdair Mhic Cholla Ghasda
A waulking song from the island of Barra. Waulking songs, known as Orain Luaidhaidh,
were sung to accompany the rhythm of beating cloth on a table. This was the method of
shrinking tweed or blanket cloth taken from the loom. These songs were sung throughout
the Highlands and the Hebrides and they are of a type unkown elsewhere in Western Europe.
Alasdair Mhic o ho
Cholla Ghasda
As do laimh-s’ gun o ho
Earbainn tapaidh trom eile
Chall eile bho chall a ho ro
Chall eile bho chall a ho ro
Chall eile huraibh i chall a ho ro
‘S haoi o ho trom eile
As do laimh-s’ gun o ho
Earbainn tapaidh o ho
Mharbhadh Tighearna o ho
Ach-nam-Breac leat trom eile
‘S ged ‘s beag mi fhein o ho
Bhuail mi ploc air o ho
Chuala mi’n de o ho
Sgeul nach b’ait leam trom eile
Chuala mi’n de o ho
Sgeul nach b’ait leam o ho
Glaschu a bhith o ho
Dol ‘na lasair trom eile
Glaschu a bhith o ho
Dol ‘na lasair o ho
‘S Obair-Dheathain o ho
‘N deidh a chreachadh trom eile
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Alasdair, Son of Gallant Coll
Alasdair, son of exile Cholla
In your hand I would entrust deeds
The Lord of Ach-nam-breac would be
killed by you
He would be buried at the edge of the loch
And although I would get a bow,
I heard yesterday a sad story
That Glasgow was going down
And Aberdeen is being pillaged
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Iain Ghlinn’ Cuaich
This is the Barra version of a beautiful and tender song of unrequited love.
John of Glen Cuaich is thought to have belonged to the Perthshire glen of that name.
O Iain Ghlinn’ Cuaich, fear do choltais cha dual da fas,
Cul bachlach nan dual ‘s e gu camlubach suas gu bharr,
‘S i do phearsa dheas ghrinn a dh’fhag mi cho tinn le gradh,
‘S nach’ eil cron ort ri inns’ o mhullach do chinn gu d’sail.
Ach an trian dhe do chliu cha chuir mise, a ruin an ceill,
‘S caoimh’ faiteal dhe d’ghnuis na ur choille fo dhruchd ri grein,
Gum b’ e miann mo dha shuil a bhith sealltainn gu dluth ad dheidh,
‘S math a b’airidh mo run-s’ air ban-oighre a’ chruin fo sgeith.
Iain, Iain, a ghaoil, cuim’ a leig thu me faoin air chul,
Gun ghuth cuimhn’ air a’ ghaol a bh’againn araon air tus?
Cha tug mise mo speis do dh’fhear eile fo’n ghrein ach thu,
Is cha toir as do dheidh gus an cairear mo chre ‘san uir.
Ged a chinn thu rium fuar, bheil thu, Iain, gun truas ‘s mi ‘m chas,
‘S a liuthad la agus uair chuir thu ‘n ceill gum bu bhuan do ghradh?
Ach ma chaochail mi buaidh, ‘s gun do choisinn mi t’fhuath na t-fhearg,
Tha mo bheannachd ad dheidh, ‘s feuch an tagh thu dhuit fhein nas fhearr.
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John Of Glen Cuaich
Oh John of Glencuaich it does not seem right that you should be so beautiful,
Your tresses, in ringlets, are tightly curled to the tips,
Your upright handsome appearance has left me love-sick,
And you are faultless from head to heel.
But, my love, I cannot relate one third of your merits
Your presence is more refreshing than the sun-kissed dew-bedecked young trees,
I long to have you always within my sight,
My beloved is well worthy of defending a royal heiress.
John, John my love, why did you abandon me so completely,
Without any reminder of the mutual love we once shared,
I have never loved any other man on earth but you,
Nor will I ever love anyone else ’til my body is interred in the soil.
Although your feelings towards me have turned cold,
Are you, John, without pity for me in my plight,
When you so often declared your undying love for me
But if I have so changed in character that I have earned your hatred and anger.
My blessings still go with you, and if you can, try to choose someone better.
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Fosgail An Dorus/Nighean Bhuidh’ruadh
Two songs composed for dancing to – “Puirt a beul” (mouth music)
Fosgail an dorus dh’an tailleir fhidhleir
Fosgail an dorus dh’an fhidhleir thailleir
Fosgail an dorus dh’an tailleir fhidhleir
Cliamhain a’ righ fidhleir tailleir.
‘S dileas mise dha ‘s cairdeach mi dha
‘S dileas mise dh’an fhidhleir thailleir
‘S dileas mise dha ‘s cairdeach mi dha
Cliamhain a’ righ fidhleir tailleir.
Bainne nan gobhar dh’an tailleir fhidhleir
Bainne nan gobhar dh’an fhidhleir thailleir
Bainne nan gobhar dh’an tailleir fhidhleir
Cliamhain a’ righ fidhleir tailleir.
Nighean bhuidh’ ruadh bh’aig Domhnall ruadh Piobair,
Rachadh i bhal nam faigheadh i fidhleir,
Nighean bhuidh’ ruadh bh’aig Domhnall Ruadh Piobair,
Dheanadh i sith nam faigheadh i dram.
Dheanadh i cardadh, dheanadh i cireadh,
Rachadh i bhal nam faigheadh i fidhleir,
Dheanadh i caradadh, dheanadh i cireadh,
Dheanadh i sith nam faigheadh i dram.
Nighean bhuidh’ ruadh bh’aig Domhnall Ruadh Piobair,
Rachadh i bhal nam faigheadh i fidhleir,
Nighean Dhuidh’ ruadh bh’aig Domhnall Ruadh Piobair,
Dheanadh i sith nam faigheadh i dram.
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Open the Door/Russet-Haired Daughter
Open the door for the fiddling tailor
Open the door for the tailoring fiddler
Open the door for the fiddling tailor
The King’s son-in-law is the tailoring fiddler.
Faithful am I to him, kinsman am I to him
Faithful am I to the tailoring fiddler
Faithful am I to him, kinsman am I to him
The King’s son-in-law is the tailoring fiddler.
Goat’s milk for the fiddling tailor
Goat’s milk for the tailoring fiddler
Goat’s milk for the fiddling tailor
The King’s son-in-law is the tailoring fiddler.
Donald Ruadh the piper’s russet-haired daughter
Would attend a ball if she could catch the fiddler’s eye
Donald Ruadh the piper’s russet-haired daughter
Would be quite peace loving
Provided she was given a dram
She would card wool, she would comb wool,
She would attend a ball
If she could catch the fiddler’s eye
She would be quite peace loving
Provided she was given a dram.
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Oh Mo Dhuthaich
An emigrant song in praise of Uist. The beautiful words were written
by Allan MacPhee who lived at Loch Carnan, South Uist.
O mo dhuthaich’ stu th’air m’aire
Uibhist chumhraidh ur anan gallan,
Far a faighte na daoin’ uaisle,
Far ‘m bu dual do Mha ‘ic Ailein.
Tir a’ mhurain, tir an eorna
Tir ‘s am pailt a h-uile seorsa
Far am bi na gillean oga
Gabhail oran ‘s ‘g ol an lionna
Thig iad ugainn, carach, seolta
Gus ar mealladh far ar n-eolais;
Molaidh iad dhuinn Manitoba,
Duthaich fhuar gun ghual, gun mhoine.
Cha leig mi leas a bhith ‘ga innse,
Nuair a ruigear, ‘sann a chithear,
Samhradh goirid foghar sitheil,
Geamhradh fada na droch-shide
Nam biodh agam fhin de storas
Da dheis aodaich, paidhir bhrogan
Agus m’fharadh bhith ‘nam phoca
‘Sann air Uibhist dheanainn seoladh.
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Oh My Country
O my country are on my mind
Fresh, fragrant Uist of the saplings,
Where the noble men are found
Who gave their hereditary allegiance to “Mac ic Ailein”.
Land of seabed, land of barley
Land of abundance of every kind
Where the young lads will be
Singing songs and drinking beer
They will come to us cunning and wily
In order to entice us from our homes
They will praise Manitoba to us
A cold country with no coal and no peat!
I don’t need to say
That when we reach it we’ll see it
A short summer and a peaceful autumn
A long winter of bad weather.
If I had riches
A change of clothes and a pair of shoes
And my prayer in my pocket
It is to Uist that I would be sailing.
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