Lyr Add: An Buachaille Ban

Subject: Lyr Add: An Buachaille Ban
From: RunrigFan
Date: 11 Oct 19 - 05:33 PM

As sung by Anne Lorne Gillies


The Fair-Haired Boy

Alas, and alack what a sorry sickness is love.
No-one suffers it without feeling each day as long as a week
It has broken my heart and emptied very veins of my well-being to see you gone,
my sapling of the fair white breast, fair white

When you go walking on the street my love,
Have a guinea in your pocket and drink my good health
in every place where you sit at table,
Your heart is fair, generous, light, joyful, and youthful and sweet to
me is the mouth from which came the music, the music.

Oh fair-haired boy, if only you would be the first to speak,
yours is my hand without further ado if only you would approach me
Is it not sad that you and I could not meet on an island without a beach,
without a oar, without a boat, without a helm, without a helm

If you could imagine a sapling growing up on a misty morning,
with such a appearance as to beguile people in their hundreds.
Your voice is sweeter than the strings of a violin playing, and do,
you not pity left behind all alone on a knoll lamenting, lamenting

Alas, and alack what a sorry sickness is love.
No-one suffers it without feeling each day as long as a week
It has broken my heart and emptied very veins of my well-being to see you gone,
my sapling of the fair white breast, fair white.

Sung to the tune of Come By The Hills by Gordon Smith

Capercaillie's version

Och, ochan a righ
Gura tinn an galair an gradh
Chan eil neach air am bi
Nach saoil gura seach dainn gach la
Gunn bhrist e mo chridh
'S gun sgaoil e cuislean mo shlaint
Bhith 'g amharc ad dheidh
A gheug a'bhrollaich ghil bhain
Ghil bhain

A bhuachaille bhain
Ma 's aill leat labhairt air thuis
Gura leatsa gun dail mo lamh
Ma thig thu rim dluth
Gur truagh mar ta
Nach d'tharlaidh mis'agus thu
An eilein gun truagh
Gun ramh, gun choite, gun stiuir
Gun stiuir

Na faiceadh sibh geug
'S i 'g eirigh maduinn chiuin cheo
Le pearsa dha reiri iu
Ceudan mhealladh 'nan doigh
Gur binne do bheul
Na teudan thidheall ri ceol
Nach truagh leat mi 'd dheidh
Leam fhein air cnoc ri bron
Ri bron

Och, ochan a righ
Gura tinn an galair an gradh
Chan eil neach air am bi
Nach saoil gura seach dainn gach la
Gunn bhrist e mo chridh
'S gun sgaoil e cuislean mo shlaint
Bhith 'g amharc ad dheidh
A gheug a'bhrollaich ghil bhain
Ghil bhain
Ghil bhain

as and alack
What a deadly sickness is love
There is none who suffers it
But feels every day is a week
It has broken my heart
And sapped the springs of my health
To keep gazing after you
Young of the fair white bosom
White bosom

Fair-haired lad
If you but care to speak first
My hand shall be yours without delay
If you come for me
Play it is true
You and I did not find ourselves
On an island with no ebb
With no oar, no boat, no rudder
No rudder

If you could see such a shoot
Springing up on a calm misty morning
With looks to go with it
To win the hearts of thousands
Sweeter is your voice
Than the strings of violins playing
Can you not take pity on me
Alone without you, lamenting on a knoll?
Lamenting

Alas and alack
What a deadly sickness is love
There is none who suffers it
But feels every day is a week
It has broken my heart
And sapped the springs of my health
To keep gazing after you
Young of the fair white bosom
White bosom
White bosom

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: An Buachaille Ban
From: RunrigFan
Date: 11 Oct 19 - 05:36 PM

Must note the translation is from the vinyl of songs of the gaels. No Gaelic words

https://open.spotify.com/track/6zjVc0bmPggPYkcCC36WN4?si=cXjv_y9tR_2hjruXLRdYXg