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11 Oct 19 - 05:33 PM (#4013127) Subject: Lyr Add: An Buachaille Ban From: RunrigFan 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 |
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11 Oct 19 - 05:36 PM (#4013129) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: An Buachaille Ban From: RunrigFan 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 |