Lyr Add: Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh

Subject: Lyr Add: Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
From: GUEST,Rory
Date: 03 Feb 21 - 05:12 AM

Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
(The Widower's Lament)
or
(Sarah, My Wife, Will Not Come Home)


A version titled "A' Bhean Chomainn" appears in:
An Duanaire: a new collection of Gaelic songs, by Donald Macpherson, 1868, pp.34-35.

In this song a bereaved father mourns the premature death of his wife, Sarah (Mòr), the maid of the shieling, and mother of his child.


A' Bhean Chomainn

Fonn:
Dh' fhalbh mo bhean-chomainn;
Cha tig mo bhean-ghaoil.
Gu-n d' fhalbh mo bhean-chomainn;
Bean-thogail nan laogh.

1
Thig blàth air a' ghiubhas;
Agus ùbhlan air gèig;
Cinnidh gucag air luachair;
'S cha ghluais mo bhean fhèin.
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

2
Thig na gobhra da'n mhainnir;
Beiridh aighin duinn laoigh;
Ach cha tig mo bhean dachaigh,
A Clachan nan craobh!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

3
Thig màrt oirnn, thig foghar;
Thig todhar, thig buar;
Ach cha tog mo bheau luinneag,
Ri bleoghann, no buain !
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

4
Clia dìrich mi tulach;
Cha shiubhail mi frìth;
Cha-n fhaigh mi lochd cadail,
'S mo thasgaidli 's a' chìll!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

5
Tha m' aodach iar tolladh —
Tha'n olann gun snìomh;
Agus deadh bhean-mo-thaighe,
'Nà laidhe fo dhìon!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

6
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil,
Tha'n t-eadradh aig càch;
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh,
'N à shuidh' air a' bhlàr!
Dh' fhalbh, &c,

7
Tha m' fhàrdach-sa creachta,
"S lom mo leac, 'us gu-r fuar;
Tha m' ìonmhas 's mo bheairteas,
Fo na leacan 'n a suain!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

8
Uist, a chagarain ghràdhaich —
Caidil sàmhach, a luaidh;
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair,
Dean ba-bà a-nis 'uain!
Dh' fhalbb, &c.


The Widowed Fathers Lullaby To His Motherless Infant
For a translation see:
Folk tales and fairy lore in Gaelic and English, by James Macdougall, 1910, pp.112-115.

Chorus:
My wife has gone;
My love will never return.
My wife has gone;
The calf raising wife.

1
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And apples grow from the branches,
The rush bud shoot upwards,
But my wife shall not wake.

2
Though goats come to the pen,
And heifers should calve,
My wife will not come home,
From the churchyard.

3
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
My wife lilts no more,
At milking, or reaping.

4
I no more climb the hills,
I no more roam the forest,
I am foresaken of sleep,
My treasure is gone.

5
My clothes are unmended,
The wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife,
Has left it undone.

6
My cattle have not been let out,
Others remain tethered,
My babe is untended,
And left on the floor.

7
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold.
My treasure and riches,
Lies under the gravestone asleep.

8
Hush, my little darling
Sleep quietly, my love,
Crying will not wake your mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.


----------



"Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dachaidh"
printed in Mac-Talla, Vol vii, No.9, Di-haoine (Friday) April 28 1899, p.307.

Fonn:
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dachaidh
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean ghaoil,
Cha tig màthair mo leinibh
Nochd a laidhe ri m' thaobh.

1
Thig blath air a' ghiubhas
Agus ùbhlan air geig,
Cinnidh gucag air luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean fhein.

2
Fàsaidh bàrr air an iubhar
Fàsaidh duilleach air chraoibh,
Thig fras air an luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean ghaoil.

3
Thig Màrt oirnn', thig Foghar
Thig todhar, thig buar,
Ach cha tog mo bhean luinneag
Ri bleodhan no buain.

4
Thig na gobhair do'n mhainnir
Beiridh aighean duinn laoigh,
Ach cha tig mo bhean dhachaidh
A clachan nan craobh.

5
Tha an crodh anns an eadradh
'S iad a' freagairt nan laogh,
Tha Mòr an Dun-bheagain
'S cha fhreagair i 'n glaodh.

6
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil
Tha 'n t-eadradh aig càch.
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh
'Na shuidh air an làr.

7
Tha m' aodach air tolladh
Tha 'n olainn gun sniomh,
Agus deadh bhean-mo-thighe
'Na laidhe fo dhion,

8
Tha m' fhardach-sa creachta
'S lorn mo leac is gur fuar,
Tha in' ionmhas 's mo bheirteas
Fo na leacan 'na suain.

9
'So a' bhliadhna chur as domh
Thug am falt bharr mo chinn,
Chuid nach eil deth air glasadh
'Falbh na shad leis a' ghaoith.

10
Cha dirich mi tulach-
Cha shiubhail mi frith,
Cha'n fhaigh mi drùb chadail
'S mo thasgaidh 'si' chill.

11
Dean an cadal a leinibh
Agus fidir mar tha—
Tha do mhàthair fo leacaibh
'S tha m' achlais dhut fàs.

12
Uist! a chagarain ghràdhaich
Caidil sàmhach a luaidh,
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair
Dean ba-bà a nise uain.


Chorus:
My wife Marion will never return home.
Marion, my beloved wife will never return.
The mother of my child will not come
Tonight to lie by my side

1
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And apples grow from the branches,
The rush bud shoot upwards,
But my wife shall not wake.

2
The yew tree will come in bloom.
The trees will grow leaves
And seed will appear on the rushes,
But my darling wife will not wake.

3
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
My wife lilts no more,
At milking, or reaping.

4
Though goats come to the pen,
And heifers should calve,
My wife will not come home,
From the churchyard.

5
The cattle are in the milking fold
Lowing in answer to the calves.
Marion will not return from Dunvegan
To respond to their calls.

6
My cattle have not been let out,
Others remain tethered,
My babe is untended,
And left on the floor.

7
My clothes are unmended,
The wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife,
Has left it undone.,

8
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold.
My treasure and riches,
Lies under the gravestone asleep.

9
This year I am in ruin
I am losing hair from my head
It is not combed down
But blown away with the wind

10
I no more climb the hills,
I no more roam the forest,
I am foresaken of sleep,
My treasure is gone.

11
I put the baby to sleep
And it may already be so
Your mother is under the gravestone
And I place you in my arms

12
Hush, my little darling
Sleep quietly, my love,
Crying will not wake your mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.



.



Subject:        
Lyr Add: Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
Help
From:        
Rory
Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
(The Widower's Lament)
or
(Sarah, My Wife, Will Not Come Home)


A version titled "A' Bhean Chomainn" appears in:
An Duanaire: a new collection of Gaelic songs, by Donald Macpherson, 1868, pp.34-35.

In this song a bereaved father mourns the premature death of his wife, Sarah (Mòr), the maid of the shieling, and mother of his child.


A' Bhean Chomainn

Fonn:
Dh' fhalbh mo bhean-chomainn;
Cha tig mo bhean-ghaoil.
Gu-n d' fhalbh mo bhean-chomainn;
Bean-thogail nan laogh.

1
Thig blàth air a' ghiubhas;
Agus ùbhlan air gèig;
Cinnidh gucag air luachair;
'S cha ghluais mo bhean fhèin.
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

2
Thig na gobhra da'n mhainnir;
Beiridh aighin duinn laoigh;
Ach cha tig mo bhean dachaigh,
A Clachan nan craobh!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

3
Thig màrt oirnn, thig foghar;
Thig todhar, thig buar;
Ach cha tog mo bheau luinneag,
Ri bleoghann, no buain !
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

4
Clia dìrich mi tulach;
Cha shiubhail mi frìth;
Cha-n fhaigh mi lochd cadail,
'S mo thasgaidli 's a' chìll!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

5
Tha m' aodach iar tolladh —
Tha'n olann gun snìomh;
Agus deadh bhean-mo-thaighe,
'Nà laidhe fo dhìon!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

6
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil,
Tha'n t-eadradh aig càch;
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh,
'N à shuidh' air a' bhlàr!
Dh' fhalbh, &c,

7
Tha m' fhàrdach-sa creachta,
"S lom mo leac, 'us gu-r fuar;
Tha m' ìonmhas 's mo bheairteas,
Fo na leacan 'n a suain!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.

8
Uist, a chagarain ghràdhaich —
Caidil sàmhach, a luaidh;
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair,
Dean ba-bà a-nis 'uain!
Dh' fhalbb, &c.


The Widowed Fathers Lullaby To His Motherless Infant
For a translation see:
Folk tales and fairy lore in Gaelic and English, by James Macdougall, 1910, pp.112-115.

Chorus:
My wife has gone;
My love will never return.
My wife has gone;
The calf raising wife.

1
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And apples grow from the branches,
The rush bud shoot upwards,
But my wife shall not wake.

2
Though goats come to the pen,
And heifers should calve,
My wife will not come home,
From the churchyard.

3
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
My wife lilts no more,
At milking, or reaping.

4
I no more climb the hills,
I no more roam the forest,
I am foresaken of sleep,
My treasure is gone.

5
My clothes are unmended,
The wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife,
Has left it undone.

6
My cattle have not been let out,
Others remain tethered,
My babe is untended,
And left on the floor.

7
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold.
My treasure and riches,
Lies under the gravestone asleep.

8
Hush, my little darling
Sleep quietly, my love,
Crying will not wake your mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.


----------



"Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dachaidh"
printed in Mac-Talla, Vol vii, No.9, Di-haoine (Friday) April 28 1899, p.307.

Fonn:
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dachaidh
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean ghaoil,
Cha tig màthair mo leinibh
Nochd a laidhe ri m' thaobh.

1
Thig blath air a' ghiubhas
Agus ùbhlan air geig,
Cinnidh gucag air luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean fhein.

2
Fàsaidh bàrr air an iubhar
Fàsaidh duilleach air chraoibh,
Thig fras air an luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean ghaoil.

3
Thig Màrt oirnn', thig Foghar
Thig todhar, thig buar,
Ach cha tog mo bhean luinneag
Ri bleodhan no buain.

4
Thig na gobhair do'n mhainnir
Beiridh aighean duinn laoigh,
Ach cha tig mo bhean dhachaidh
A clachan nan craobh.

5
Tha an crodh anns an eadradh
'S iad a' freagairt nan laogh,
Tha Mòr an Dun-bheagain
'S cha fhreagair i 'n glaodh.

6
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil
Tha 'n t-eadradh aig càch.
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh
'Na shuidh air an làr.

7
Tha m' aodach air tolladh
Tha 'n olainn gun sniomh,
Agus deadh bhean-mo-thighe
'Na laidhe fo dhion,

8
Tha m' fhardach-sa creachta
'S lorn mo leac is gur fuar,
Tha in' ionmhas 's mo bheirteas
Fo na leacan 'na suain.

9
'So a' bhliadhna chur as domh
Thug am falt bharr mo chinn,
Chuid nach eil deth air glasadh
'Falbh na shad leis a' ghaoith.

10
Cha dirich mi tulach-
Cha shiubhail mi frith,
Cha'n fhaigh mi drùb chadail
'S mo thasgaidh 'si' chill.

11
Dean an cadal a leinibh
Agus fidir mar tha—
Tha do mhàthair fo leacaibh
'S tha m' achlais dhut fàs.

12
Uist! a chagarain ghràdhaich
Caidil sàmhach a luaidh,
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair
Dean ba-bà a nise uain.


Chorus:
My wife Marion will never return home.
Marion, my beloved wife will never return.
The mother of my child will not come
Tonight to lie by my side

1
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And apples grow from the branches,
The rush bud shoot upwards,
But my wife shall not wake.

2
The yew tree will come in bloom.
The trees will grow leaves
And seed will appear on the rushes,
But my darling wife will not wake.

3
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
My wife lilts no more,
At milking, or reaping.

4
Though goats come to the pen,
And heifers should calve,
My wife will not come home,
From the churchyard.

5
The cattle are in the milking fold
Lowing in answer to the calves.
Marion will not return from Dunvegan
To respond to their calls.

6
My cattle have not been let out,
Others remain tethered,
My babe is untended,
And left on the floor.

7
My clothes are unmended,
The wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife,
Has left it undone.,

8
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold.
My treasure and riches,
Lies under the gravestone asleep.

9
This year I am in ruin
I am losing hair from my head
It is not combed down
But blown away with the wind

10
I no more climb the hills,
I no more roam the forest,
I am foresaken of sleep,
My treasure is gone.

11
I put the baby to sleep
And it may already be so
Your mother is under the gravestone
And I place you in my arms

12
Hush, my little darling
Sleep quietly, my love,
Crying will not wake your mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.



.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
From: GUEST,Rory
Date: 03 Feb 21 - 05:19 AM

Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
(The Widower's Lament)
or
(Sarah, My Wife, Will Not Come Home)


Recording by Mary Jane Lamond
Album: Làn Dùil (1999)


Seist:
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dhachaidh
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean ghaoil
Cha tig màthair mo leanabh
Nochd a laighidh ri m’thaobh

Tha an crodh anns an eadraidh
‘S iad ri ‘freagairt nan laogh
Cha tig Mòr à Dùn Bheagain
‘S cha fhreagairt i an glaodh

Thig bàrr air an iubhar
Thig duilleag air chraoibh
Thig fràs air a’ luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean ghaoil

Ged a dheanainn-sa pòsadh
Mar bu chòir dhomh ‘nad dhéidh
Cha togadh mo chridhe
Ri fidhill nan teud

Ged a gheobhainn bean uasal
‘S daoin’ uaisl’ air gach taobh
‘S mùr gum b’fheàrr leam Mòr agam
‘Dol bhi laighe ri m’thaobh



Chorus:
My wife Sarah will never return home.
Sarah, my beloved wife will never return.
The mother of my child will not come
Tonight to lie by my side

The cattle are in the milking fold
lowing in answer to the calves.
Sarah will not return from Dunvegan
To respond to their calls.

The yew tree will come in bloom.
The trees will grow leaves
And seed will appear on the rushes,
But my darling wife will remain lifeless.

Although I should remarry,
As I ought to with you gone,
My heart will not lift
To the sound of the fiddle.

Although I should get a wife of means
With gentry on both sides (of the family)
I would far rather Sarah to be with me
And lying by my side.


.