Griogal Cridh'

Moch maduinn air Latha Lùghnasd
mi sùgradh mar ri m’ ghràdh;
ach mu’n d’thàinig meadhon latha,
bha mo chridhe air a chràdh.

‘S iomadh oidhche fhliuch is thioram,
sìde nan seachd sian,
gheibheadh Griogal dhomh-sa creagan
ris an gabhainn dìon.

Cúrfa
Òbhan òbhan òbhan iri, òbhan iri ò
Òbhan òbhan òbhan iri,
‘s mòr mo mhulad ‘s mòr.

Nuair ‘bhios mnathan òg a’ bhaile
‘nochd nan cadal sèimh,
‘s ann bhios mis’ aig bruaich do lice
‘bualadh mo dhà làimh.

Chaneil ùbhlan idir agam,
‘s ùbhlan uil’ aig càch;
‘s ann tha m’ùbhal cùmhraidh caineal,
‘s cùl a chinn ri làr.

Beloved Griogal

Early in the morning on Lùnasd day
I was sporting with my love;
But before midday came
my heart was wounded.

Many nights wet and dry,
in weather of the seven storms,
Griogal would find me a rock
where I could find shelter.

Chorus
Òbhan òbhan òbhan iri, òbhan iri ò
Òbhan òbhan òbhan iri,
great is my sorrow, great.

When the young wives of the village
tonight are sleeping soundly,
I’ll be at your graveside
beating my two hands.

I have no apples at all,
while the rest have all the apples;
But my apple is sweet-spiced,
and the back of his head to the ground.

 

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Last Updated 12 June 2005