Gur h-e m’ anam is m’ eudail
A bha ’n-dè ’n Gleanna Garadh,
Fear na gruaige mar òr
Is nam pòg air bhlas meala.
O hì ò o hù ò
O hì ò o hù ò
Hìriri oho èileadh
O hìri riri o gheallaibh o.
Fear na gruaige mar òr
Is nam pòg air bhlas meala.
’S tu as fheàrr dhan tig deise
Dha na sheas air an talamh;
’S tu as fheàrr dhan tig culaidh
Dha na chunna mi dh’fhearaibh.
’S tu as fheàrr dhan tig osan
’S bròg shocrach nam barrall;
Còta Lunnainneach dùbhghorm,
’S bidh na crùintean ga cheannach;
’S math thig triubhais on iarann
Air sliasaid a’ ghallain;
’S math thig bonaid le fàbhar
Air fear àrd a’ chùil chlannaich.
An uair a ruigeadh tu ’n fhèill,
’S e mo ghèar-sa thig dhachaigh: |
It was my love and my darling
Who was yesterday in Glen Garry,
He of the hair like gold
And kisses sweet as honey:
He of the hair like gold
And kisses sweet as honey:
You carry your clothes best
Of any who have stood on the earth.
You carry your gear best
Of all the men I have ever seen.
You suit your hose best
And the well-fitting shoe with the laces,
A dark blue coat from London
That costs crowns to buy;
Well do trews fresh from the iron look
On the thigh of the gallant;
Well does a bonnet with a cockade look
On the tall man with the curly hair.
When you would arrive at the fair,
This is the gear you would bring home to me: |
