Текст песни Connie Dover - An Spailpin Fanach
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Go deo deo arís ní rachad go Caiseal Ag díol nó reic mo shláinte, No ar mhargadh ne saoire I mo shuí cois balla I mo scaoinse ar leataobh sráide. Bodairí na tíre ag teacht ar a gcapaill Ag fiafraigh an bhuilim híreálta. Ó téanaim chun siúil, tá an cúrsa fada, Seo are siúl an Spailpín Fánach. I mo Spailpiín Fanach fágadh mise Ag seasamh ar mo shláinte. Ag siúl an drúchta go moch ar maidin Is ag bailiú galair ráithe. Ní fheicfear corrán I mo láimh chun bainte Súiste nó feac beag ramhainne Ach colours na bhFrancach os cionn mo leapan Agus pike agam chun sáite Mó chúig chéad slán chun duthaighe m'athar Is dhun an Oileáin gradhmhair. 'S chun buachailli na Cúlach ós díobh nár mhisde I n-aimsir chasta an ghárda Ach anois ó taimse im chadhain bhocht dealbh I measc na nduthaigh bhfán so Sé mo chumha croidhe mar fuair mé an ghairm Bheith riamh im Spailpín Fánach Is ró-bhreá is cuimhin liom mo dhaoine bheith sealadh Thiar ag droichead Cháile Fé bhuaibh, fé chaoririgh, fé laoigh beaga gheala Agus capaill ann le h-áireamh Ach b'é toil Chroist é gur cuireadh sinn asta 'S no ndeaghmhar i leith ár sláinte 'S gurbh é bhris mo chroí I ngach tír da rachainn "Call here, you spailpín fánach" Translation from Irish Gaelic to English: I will never go again to Caishel Selling or bartering myself in hire Or selling my freedom, sitting by the wall Lounging by the side of the road. Rude, boorish men from all over the country, coming on their horses Asking if I am for hire Oh, come let us go, the journey is long The journey of the wandering laborer I will quit this itinerant laboring Hiring myself out Walking over night to early morning Weary of endless journeying I would not see a sickle in my hand for reaping A flail for threshing nor a small spade handle But rather, the colors of the French flying over my head And a pike in my hand to thrust forth Five hundred farewells to the town of my father And to my beloved island And to the boys of Luach, sure there was no harm in them During the times we tangled with the Garda But now, since I am in my poor destitute cell In the midst of my own native land, outcast My heart is full of woe, that I ever go the calling To be a wandering laborer It's well I remember when my parents were hewing Over at Gaile bridge With oxen, with sheep with bright young calves And horses to take care of But it was the will of Christ that it was taken from us And we were put out for hire And it would break my heart, every where I would go, to hear "Call here, you spailpín fánach" |
Again, not ever go until Cashel
Or wholesale selling my health ,
Ne market or I leave my sitting by a wall
In my street scaoinse aside .
Ireland bucks coming their horses
At the bhuilim híreálta ask .
From téanaim away , the long course ,
Here are Off goes .
I am leaving my random Spailpiín
Standing on my health .
Walking the early morning dew
Is a collection of diseases quarter .
I is not seen my hand sickle for harvesting
Flail or small spade ramhainne
But the French colors over my bed
And pikes for stabbing
Five main duthaighe farewell to my father
Gradhmhair Island is closed .
And for boys because of the Coole not mhisde
In the troubled times of the christ
But now I am poor Brent butter sculpture
Among the District of this bhfán
My heart sorrow as I found the profession
Off goes ever be im
Is fine too I remember people being sealing
West bridge repute
Subject cows under chaoririgh , small warrior under sea
And plenty of horses - including
But it was the will Chroist therefrom is that we were
And no ndeaghmhar for our health
And it broke my heart that I 'd go all da country
" Call here , you laborer trivial "
Translation from Irish Gaelic to Béarla :
I will never be again to Caishel
Selling or bartering myself in hire
Or selling my freedom , sitting by the wall
Lounging by the side of the road .
Rude , boorish men from all over the country , coming on Their horses
Asking if I am for hire
Oh , come let us in , the journey of a ship
The journey of the wandering laborer
I will quit this itinerant laboring
Hiring myself out
Walking over night to EARLY morning
Weary of endless journeying
I would not see a sickle in my hand for reaping
A flail for threshing nor a small spade handle
But rather , the colors of the French flying over my head
And to pikes in my hand to trusted Forth
Five hundred farewells to the town of my father
And to my beloved island
And to the boys of value , sure there was no weapon at them
During the times we tangled with the Guard
But now , I am in my zinc destitute poor cell
In the midst of my own native land , outcast
My heart is full of woe , that I ever that the calling
To be a wandering laborer
It's well I remember my Parents When hewing fainic
Over at Steam bridge
With oxen , sheep with bright with young calves
And horses to take care of
But it was the Will of Christ that it was taken from us
And we fainic Put out for hire
And it would break my heart, I would that every Where , to hear
" Call here , you laborer trivial "