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Capercaillie Crosswinds Am Buachaile Ban Och, ochan a Righ gura timn 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 gheng a' bhrollaich ghil bhdin - ghil bhdin. A Bhuachaille Bhain, ma 's aill leat labhairt air thuis Gura loatsa gun dail, mo lamh, ma thig thu rimm dluth: Gur truagh mar ta nach d'tharlaidh mis' agus thu An eilein gum traigh, gun ramh, gun choite, gun stinir - gun stinir. Na faiccadh sibh geng, 's i 'g eirigh maduinn chiuin cheo. Le pearsa dha reiri iu candan mhenlladh 'nan doigh: Gur binne do bhen, na reudan thidheall ri ceol, 'Snach truagh leat mi 'd dheidh leam fhein air cnoam ri bron - ri bron. The Fair Shepherd 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. 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. If you could see such a shoot springing up on a calm, misty morning, With looks to go with it fit 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? |
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