Nead na lachain sa Mhúta
Nead na lachain sa mhúta (x3)
'S cuirfidh mé amach ar an gcuan thú
A chailín bhig ghleoite mheidhrigh
Bailigh do lachain 'is feighil iad (x3)
Bhéarfaidh mé curach is criú dhuit (x3)
Is cuirfidh mé amach ar an gcuan thú
Ceannóidh mé slat agus d'rú dhuit (x3)
Is cuirfidh mé amach ar an gcuan thú.
Girleen don't be idle (x3)
Gather your ducks and mind them
Cuirfimid Deaindí
1. Cuirfimid deaindí, deaindí, cuirfimid deaindí ar Mháire
Cuirfimid deaindí, deaindí, bróga ‘s stocaí bána (x2)
Curfá:
Óró damhas ‘is damhas ‘is, óró damhas go haerach
Óró damhas ‘is damhas ‘is, damhas is damhas a laoi ghil (x2)
2. Déanfaidh sí damhas ‘s damhas, déanfaidh sí damhas le pléisiúr
Déanfaidh sí damhas ‘s damhas, mé fhéin is í fhéin le chéile (x2)
3. Caithfimid suas ‘is suas í, caithfimid suas go heasc í
Caithfimid suas ‘is suas í, seachain a chroí ‘s ná pleasc í (x2)
4. Caithfimid suas ‘is suas é, caithfimid suas an páiste
Caithfimid suas ‘is suas , ‘s tiocfaidh sé anuas amaireach (x2)
Bog Braon
Bog braon, bog braon, bog braon don seanduine
Bog braon, 's blais féin, 's é a thabhairt don seanduine
Cuir a chodladh, cuir a chodladh, cuir a chodladh an seanduine
Cuir a chodladh, 's nigh a chosa, ‘is bog deoch don seanduine
Ubh circe, ubh circe, ubh circe don seanduine
Ubh circe, 's bluirín ime, 's é a thabhairt don seanduine
Cuir a chodladh, cuir a chodladh, cuir a chodladh an seanduine
Cuir a chodladh, 's nigh a chosa, ‘is bog deoch don seanduine
Feoil úr, feoil úr, feoil úr don seanduine
Feoil úr, is braon súip, 's é a thabhairt don seanduine
Cuir a chodladh, cuir a chodladh, cuir a chodladh an seanduine
Cuir a chodladh, 's nigh a chosa, ‘is bog deoch don seanduine
Priosún Chluain Meala
Ó, bliain is an lá amárach, sea d’fhágas an baile,
Ag dul go hArd Phádraig, ag cur lasaí lem hata,
Do bhí buachaillí bána ann is rás acu ar eallaibh,
Agus mé go dubhach uaigneach i bPríosún Chluain Meala.
Tá mo shrian agus m’iallait ar iasacht le fada,
Mo chamán ar fiaradh fé iarthar mo leapa,
Mo liathróid dá bualadh ag buachaillí an ghleanna,
Is do bhuailfinn poc báire chomh hard leis na fearaibh.
A Chiarraígh, bídh ag guí dom, is bog binn dom bhur nglórtha,
Is beag a shíleas-sa choíche ná fillfinnse beo oraibh,
Go mbeidh ár dtrí gcinn-ne ar thrí spíce mar sheó acu,
Fé shneachta na hoíche is gach síon eile dá ngeobhaidh chugainn.
Go hUíbh Ráthach má théas tú, beir scéala go dtí mo mhuintir,
Go bhfuilim daortha ar an gcuma seo is ná fuil beo agam ach go hAoine;
Bailíg gléas tórraimh agus cónra breá im thimpeall,
Sin críoch le Ó Dónaill, is go deo deo bíg’ ag guí dhom.
Coal Creek
What hills what hills my true love that burn with the fires of hell
Those are the hill of Coal Creek where miners work and dwell
I worked in the mines on Tuesday, I worked the day before
At 3 o’clock on Wednesday I’ll work in the mine no more
I boarded a train Wednesday morning, into the mine did go
At seven o’clock in the morning we heard an awful blow
Shut up in the mines of Coal Creek we know that we must die
But if we trust in Jesus our souls to heaven will fly
Goodbye father and mother, goodbye my wife and child
Shut up in the mines of Coal Creek we know that we must die
The birds are gladly singing the sun is shining bright
But where we are this evening it is as dark as night
From Spideoigín
Rye Tearnin’ (Fair in Belaghy) (words and music: Tony Small)
I will not speak unkindly of solder and tin,
Of the great traveling craftsmen John Martin and Jim,
Not lazy or polished like some settled men,
Who envy our freedom our ways and our women.
Rye Tearnin’, Right Tearnin’, Tearnin’ away!
There’s a fair in Belaghy this fine summer’s day
Farewell to the Coveys ‘round Westport Mayo,
We’ll travel through Shamtown to Ballinasloe,
To the walled town of Galway then southward Hooray!
We’ll speed through the Banner to Miltown-Malbay.
We’ll deal at the Spancil and then we’ll head south
To the Kingdom of Kerry, Kilorglin no doubt,
We’ll talk of our travels with our own kith and kin
Aunts uncles and cousins, there’s hundreds of them
Rye Tearnin’ full Tearnin' Tearnin' away!
There’s a fair in Belaghy this fine summer’s day.
We’ll make no great hurry North Kerry or Clare,
There’s no need to worry we always get there,
To fulfill the promise we’re destined to go,
To spend the wild winter on the bogs of Mayo.
Rye Tearnin'’ Right Tearnin' Tearnin' away!
There’s a fair in Belaghy this fine summer’s day.