Ochoin a ri, 'si mo rhibhin donn, Dh 'fhag mi fo mhi-ghean 'us m'inntinn trom! Gur e a boichead a rinn mo leonadh, 'S cha bhi bed gun mo rhibhin donn.
Is truagh an drasda nach robh mi 'm bhard A ghleusadh clarsach 's a sheinneadh dan 'S gu 'n innsinn buadhan Na maighdinn nasail, Mu' bheil mo smuaintean gach oidhehe 's la.
Gur boidheach, dualach an cuailcan min A th'air a'ghruagaich a bhuair mo chridh', Gur binne comhradh Na guth na smeoraich; 'S tha mise bronach o'n dh'thag i mu.
Ged tha mo ghrian-sa a'triall fo sgleo, Ils mise 'm bhadhna mar ian 'sa deo. Togaidh 'n sgaile 'S ni ise dearrsadh 'S gu 'm faigh mi slainte gach la ri 'm bheo.
The Brown Haired Maiden
Alas and woe is me, my brown haired maiden The cause of my discontent and my heavy heart! It is her beauty which has left me grieving And I cannot survive without her.
Would that I were a bard Who could tune a harp and sing a song So that I might extol the virtues Of that gentle maiden Who feels my thoughts both night and day.
Beautiful and luxuriant is the delicate hair Of the maiden who has wounded my heart; Her conversation is sweeter Than the singing of the thrush And I am filled with sorrow since she left me.
When the month of May comes to the heathery glen And all the plants of the meadow into full bloom It reminds me of my loved one, The comely little flower which grew so tenderly.
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Copy to Clipboard: Ochoin a ri, 'si mo rhibhin donn, Dh 'fhag mi fo mhi-ghean 'us m'inntinn trom! Gur e a boichead a rinn mo leonadh, 'S cha bhi bed gun mo rhibhin donn.
Is truagh an drasda nach robh mi 'm bhard A ghleusadh clarsach 's a sheinneadh dan 'S gu 'n innsinn buadhan Na maighdinn nasail, Mu' bheil mo smuaintean gach oidhehe 's la.
Gur boidheach, dualach an cuailcan min A th'air a'ghruagaich a bhuair mo chridh', Gur binne comhradh Na guth na smeoraich; 'S tha mise bronach o'n dh'thag i mu.
Ged tha mo ghrian-sa a'triall fo sgleo, Ils mise 'm bhadhna mar ian 'sa deo. Togaidh 'n sgaile 'S ni ise dearrsadh 'S gu 'm faigh mi slainte gach la ri 'm bheo.
The Brown Haired Maiden
Alas and woe is me, my brown haired maiden The cause of my discontent and my heavy heart! It is her beauty which has left me grieving And I cannot survive without her.
Would that I were a bard Who could tune a harp and sing a song So that I might extol the virtues Of that gentle maiden Who feels my thoughts both night and day.
Beautiful and luxuriant is the delicate hair Of the maiden who has wounded my heart; Her conversation is sweeter Than the singing of the thrush And I am filled with sorrow since she left me.
When the month of May comes to the heathery glen And all the plants of the meadow into full bloom It reminds me of my loved one, The comely little flower which grew so tenderly.
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