Folk Tales and Fairy Lore/A' Bhean-Chomuinn, Widowed Father's Lullaby to his Motherless Infant
Gu'n dh'fhalbh mo bhean-chomuinn,
Cha tig mo bhean-ghaoil,
Gu'n dh'fhalbh mo bhean-chomuinn,
Bean thogail nan laogh.
Thig blàth air a' ghiubhas,
Agus ùbhlan air géig,
Cinnidh gucag air luachair,
'S cha ghluais mo bhean féin.
Thig na gobhra do'n mhainnir,
Beiridh aighean duinn laoigh,
Ach cha tig mo bhean dachaidh
A clachan nan craobh.
Thig Màrt oirnn, thig foghar,
Thig todhar, thig buar,
Ach cha tog mo bhean luinneag
Ri bleoghann no buan.
Cha dìrich mi tulach,
Cha shiubhail mi frìth,
Cha'n fhaigh mi lochd cadail
'S mo thasgaidh 's a' chill.
Tha m' aodach air tolladh,
Tha 'n olann gun snìomh,
Agus deadh bhean mo thighe
'Na laighe fo dhìon.
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil,
Tha 'n t-eadradh aig càch,
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh,
'Na shuidh' air a' bhlàr.
Tha m'fhàrdach-sa creachta,
'S lom mo leac is gur fuar,
Tha m' ionmhas 's mo bheartas
Fo na leacan 'na suain,
Uist! a chagarain ghràdhaich,
Caidil sàmhach, a luaidh;
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair,
Dean bà bà a nis, 'uain.
My wife shall come never,
My own, my late bride,
My wife shall come never
To rest by my side.
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And leafage forth break,
The rush bud shoot upwards—
My wife shall not wake.
Though goats to the pen come,
And heifers should calve,
Ne'er home shall my wife come
From yonder church-yard.
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
At milking, or reaping,
My wife lilts no more.
The mountains I climb not,
The forest ne'er roam,
By sleep I'm forsaken,
My treasure is gone.
My clothes are unmended,
My wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife
Has left it undone.
My cows are unmilked,
Though noontide is o'er,
My babe is unfondled
And left on the floor.
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold,
My treasure and riches
Is laid in the mould.
Hush! hush! little darling,
Sleep soundly, my man,
No crying wakes mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.