Fhir a' bhàta, na
hòro éile,
Fhir a' bhàta, na hòro éile,
Fhir a' bhàta, na hòro éile,
Mo shoraidh slàn dhuit's gach àit' an téid thu.
'S tric mi sealltuinn o'n chnoc as àirde,
dh'fheuch am faic mi fear a' bhàta;
An tig thu 'n diugh, na 'n tig thu màireach
'S mar tig thu idir, gur truagh a tà mi.
Fhir a' bhàta ...
Tha mo chridh'-sa briste, brùite;
'S tric na deòir a ruith o m' shùilean;
An tig thu nochd, na 'm bi mo dhùil riut,
Na 'n dùin mi 'n dorus, le osna thùrsaich?
Fhir a' bhàta ...
'S tric mi foighneachd do luchd nam bàta,
Am fac iad thu, na 'm bheil thu sàbhailt;
Ach 's ann a tha gach aon diubh 'g ràitinn,
Gur gòrach mise ma thug mi gràdh dhuit.
Fhir a' bhàta ...
Gheall mo leannan dhomh gùn do 'n t-sìoda,
Gheall e sud agus breacan rìomach;
Fainn' òir anns am faicinn 'iomhaigh;
Ach 's eagal leam gun dean e dìchuimhn'.
Fhir a' bhàta ...
Ged a thu'irt iad gun robh thu aotrom,
Cha do lughdaich sud mo ghaol ort;
Bidh tu m' aisling anns an oidhche,
'Is anns a' mhadainn bidh mi 'gad fhoighneachd.
Fhir a' bhàta ...
Thug mi gaol dhut, 's cha'n fhaod mu
àicheadh;
Cha ghaol bliadhna, 's cha ghaol ràidhe;
Ach gaol a thòisich nuair bha mi 'm phàisde,
'S nach searg a chaoidh, gus an claoidh am bàs mi.
Fhir a' bhàta ...
Tha mo chàirdean gu tric ag ìnnseadh,
Gum feum mi d'aogas a leig' air dìchuimhn';
Ach tha 'n comhairle dhomh cho diamhain;
'S bi tilleadh mara 's i tabhairt lionaidh.
Fhir a' bhàta ...
Bi'dh mi tuille tùrsach
dèurach,
Mar eala bhàn 's i an dèighs a rèubadh;
Guileag bàis aic' air lochan fèurach,
Is càch gu lèir an dèis a trèigadh. |
Oh, my boatman, o
hòro éile
Oh, my boatman, o hòro éile
Oh, my boatman, o hòro éile
My farewell and health to you, wherever you go.
Often I gaze from the highest hill
Striving to see the boatman:
Will you come today, or will you come tomorrow?
And if you don't come at all it is wretched that I'll be.
Oh, my boatman ...
My heart is bruised and broken;
Often the tears run from my eyes.
Will you come tonight - or should I even expect you?
Or will I just close the door with a melancholy sigh?
Oh, my boatman ...
It is often that I ask of mariners around
Whether they saw you; are you unharmed?
But every one of them says to me
How foolish I am to have given my love to you.
Oh, my boatman ...
My darling promised me a silken gown;
He promised me that and a tartan plaid of beauty:
A gold ring in which I could see his image,
But I fear that he has now forgotten.
Oh, my boatman ...
Although they said you had no substance
That did not diminish my love for you.
You will be in my dreams at night
And in the morning I will search for you.
Oh, my boatman ...
I dearly loved you, I do not deny,
Not a year's love nor for just a season;
But a love that began when I was a child
And will not wither until death consumes me.
Oh, my boatman ...
My friends and kinfolk often say
That I must spurn my memories of you,
But their advice to me means no more
Than the ebbing and flowing of the sea.
Oh, my boatman ...
I will be forever tearful
and dejected
Like a wild swan wounded and broken
Wailing its song of death on some weedy pond -
Left by the others, alone and abandoned. |
