Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
(The Widower's Lament)
or
(Sarah, My Wife, Will Not Come Home)
A version titled "A' Bhean Chomainn" appears in:
An Duanaire: a new collection of Gaelic songs, by Donald Macpherson, 1868, pp.34-35.
In this song a bereaved father mourns the premature death of his wife, Sarah (Mòr), the maid of the shieling, and mother of his child.
A' Bhean Chomainn
Fonn:
Dh' fhalbh mo bhean-chomainn;
Cha tig mo bhean-ghaoil.
Gu-n d' fhalbh mo bhean-chomainn;
Bean-thogail nan laogh.
1
Thig blàth air a' ghiubhas;
Agus ùbhlan air gèig;
Cinnidh gucag air luachair;
'S cha ghluais mo bhean fhèin.
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
2
Thig na gobhra da'n mhainnir;
Beiridh aighin duinn laoigh;
Ach cha tig mo bhean dachaigh,
A Clachan nan craobh!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
3
Thig màrt oirnn, thig foghar;
Thig todhar, thig buar;
Ach cha tog mo bheau luinneag,
Ri bleoghann, no buain !
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
4
Clia dìrich mi tulach;
Cha shiubhail mi frìth;
Cha-n fhaigh mi lochd cadail,
'S mo thasgaidli 's a' chìll!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
5
Tha m' aodach iar tolladh —
Tha'n olann gun snìomh;
Agus deadh bhean-mo-thaighe,
'Nà laidhe fo dhìon!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
6
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil,
Tha'n t-eadradh aig càch;
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh,
'N à shuidh' air a' bhlàr!
Dh' fhalbh, &c,
7
Tha m' fhàrdach-sa creachta,
"S lom mo leac, 'us gu-r fuar;
Tha m' ìonmhas 's mo bheairteas,
Fo na leacan 'n a suain!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
8
Uist, a chagarain ghràdhaich —
Caidil sàmhach, a luaidh;
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair,
Dean ba-bà a-nis 'uain!
Dh' fhalbb, &c.
The Widowed Fathers Lullaby To His Motherless Infant
For a translation see:
Folk tales and fairy lore in Gaelic and English, by James Macdougall, 1910, pp.112-115.
Chorus:
My wife has gone;
My love will never return.
My wife has gone;
The calf raising wife.
1
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And apples grow from the branches,
The rush bud shoot upwards,
But my wife shall not wake.
2
Though goats come to the pen,
And heifers should calve,
My wife will not come home,
From the churchyard.
3
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
My wife lilts no more,
At milking, or reaping.
4
I no more climb the hills,
I no more roam the forest,
I am foresaken of sleep,
My treasure is gone.
5
My clothes are unmended,
The wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife,
Has left it undone.
6
My cattle have not been let out,
Others remain tethered,
My babe is untended,
And left on the floor.
7
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold.
My treasure and riches,
Lies under the gravestone asleep.
8
Hush, my little darling
Sleep quietly, my love,
Crying will not wake your mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.
----------
"Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dachaidh"
printed in Mac-Talla, Vol vii, No.9, Di-haoine (Friday) April 28 1899, p.307.
Fonn:
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dachaidh
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean ghaoil,
Cha tig màthair mo leinibh
Nochd a laidhe ri m' thaobh.
1
Thig blath air a' ghiubhas
Agus ùbhlan air geig,
Cinnidh gucag air luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean fhein.
2
Fàsaidh bàrr air an iubhar
Fàsaidh duilleach air chraoibh,
Thig fras air an luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean ghaoil.
3
Thig Màrt oirnn', thig Foghar
Thig todhar, thig buar,
Ach cha tog mo bhean luinneag
Ri bleodhan no buain.
4
Thig na gobhair do'n mhainnir
Beiridh aighean duinn laoigh,
Ach cha tig mo bhean dhachaidh
A clachan nan craobh.
5
Tha an crodh anns an eadradh
'S iad a' freagairt nan laogh,
Tha Mòr an Dun-bheagain
'S cha fhreagair i 'n glaodh.
6
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil
Tha 'n t-eadradh aig càch.
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh
'Na shuidh air an làr.
7
Tha m' aodach air tolladh
Tha 'n olainn gun sniomh,
Agus deadh bhean-mo-thighe
'Na laidhe fo dhion,
8
Tha m' fhardach-sa creachta
'S lorn mo leac is gur fuar,
Tha in' ionmhas 's mo bheirteas
Fo na leacan 'na suain.
9
'So a' bhliadhna chur as domh
Thug am falt bharr mo chinn,
Chuid nach eil deth air glasadh
'Falbh na shad leis a' ghaoith.
10
Cha dirich mi tulach-
Cha shiubhail mi frith,
Cha'n fhaigh mi drùb chadail
'S mo thasgaidh 'si' chill.
11
Dean an cadal a leinibh
Agus fidir mar tha—
Tha do mhàthair fo leacaibh
'S tha m' achlais dhut fàs.
12
Uist! a chagarain ghràdhaich
Caidil sàmhach a luaidh,
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair
Dean ba-bà a nise uain.
Chorus:
My wife Marion will never return home.
Marion, my beloved wife will never return.
The mother of my child will not come
Tonight to lie by my side
1
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And apples grow from the branches,
The rush bud shoot upwards,
But my wife shall not wake.
2
The yew tree will come in bloom.
The trees will grow leaves
And seed will appear on the rushes,
But my darling wife will not wake.
3
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
My wife lilts no more,
At milking, or reaping.
4
Though goats come to the pen,
And heifers should calve,
My wife will not come home,
From the churchyard.
5
The cattle are in the milking fold
Lowing in answer to the calves.
Marion will not return from Dunvegan
To respond to their calls.
6
My cattle have not been let out,
Others remain tethered,
My babe is untended,
And left on the floor.
7
My clothes are unmended,
The wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife,
Has left it undone.,
8
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold.
My treasure and riches,
Lies under the gravestone asleep.
9
This year I am in ruin
I am losing hair from my head
It is not combed down
But blown away with the wind
10
I no more climb the hills,
I no more roam the forest,
I am foresaken of sleep,
My treasure is gone.
11
I put the baby to sleep
And it may already be so
Your mother is under the gravestone
And I place you in my arms
12
Hush, my little darling
Sleep quietly, my love,
Crying will not wake your mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.
.
Subject:
Lyr Add: Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
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From:
Rory
Cha Tig Mor Mo Bhean Dhachaidh
(The Widower's Lament)
or
(Sarah, My Wife, Will Not Come Home)
A version titled "A' Bhean Chomainn" appears in:
An Duanaire: a new collection of Gaelic songs, by Donald Macpherson, 1868, pp.34-35.
In this song a bereaved father mourns the premature death of his wife, Sarah (Mòr), the maid of the shieling, and mother of his child.
A' Bhean Chomainn
Fonn:
Dh' fhalbh mo bhean-chomainn;
Cha tig mo bhean-ghaoil.
Gu-n d' fhalbh mo bhean-chomainn;
Bean-thogail nan laogh.
1
Thig blàth air a' ghiubhas;
Agus ùbhlan air gèig;
Cinnidh gucag air luachair;
'S cha ghluais mo bhean fhèin.
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
2
Thig na gobhra da'n mhainnir;
Beiridh aighin duinn laoigh;
Ach cha tig mo bhean dachaigh,
A Clachan nan craobh!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
3
Thig màrt oirnn, thig foghar;
Thig todhar, thig buar;
Ach cha tog mo bheau luinneag,
Ri bleoghann, no buain !
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
4
Clia dìrich mi tulach;
Cha shiubhail mi frìth;
Cha-n fhaigh mi lochd cadail,
'S mo thasgaidli 's a' chìll!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
5
Tha m' aodach iar tolladh —
Tha'n olann gun snìomh;
Agus deadh bhean-mo-thaighe,
'Nà laidhe fo dhìon!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
6
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil,
Tha'n t-eadradh aig càch;
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh,
'N à shuidh' air a' bhlàr!
Dh' fhalbh, &c,
7
Tha m' fhàrdach-sa creachta,
"S lom mo leac, 'us gu-r fuar;
Tha m' ìonmhas 's mo bheairteas,
Fo na leacan 'n a suain!
Dh' fhalbh, &c.
8
Uist, a chagarain ghràdhaich —
Caidil sàmhach, a luaidh;
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair,
Dean ba-bà a-nis 'uain!
Dh' fhalbb, &c.
The Widowed Fathers Lullaby To His Motherless Infant
For a translation see:
Folk tales and fairy lore in Gaelic and English, by James Macdougall, 1910, pp.112-115.
Chorus:
My wife has gone;
My love will never return.
My wife has gone;
The calf raising wife.
1
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And apples grow from the branches,
The rush bud shoot upwards,
But my wife shall not wake.
2
Though goats come to the pen,
And heifers should calve,
My wife will not come home,
From the churchyard.
3
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
My wife lilts no more,
At milking, or reaping.
4
I no more climb the hills,
I no more roam the forest,
I am foresaken of sleep,
My treasure is gone.
5
My clothes are unmended,
The wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife,
Has left it undone.
6
My cattle have not been let out,
Others remain tethered,
My babe is untended,
And left on the floor.
7
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold.
My treasure and riches,
Lies under the gravestone asleep.
8
Hush, my little darling
Sleep quietly, my love,
Crying will not wake your mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.
----------
"Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dachaidh"
printed in Mac-Talla, Vol vii, No.9, Di-haoine (Friday) April 28 1899, p.307.
Fonn:
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean dachaidh
Cha tig Mòr mo bhean ghaoil,
Cha tig màthair mo leinibh
Nochd a laidhe ri m' thaobh.
1
Thig blath air a' ghiubhas
Agus ùbhlan air geig,
Cinnidh gucag air luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean fhein.
2
Fàsaidh bàrr air an iubhar
Fàsaidh duilleach air chraoibh,
Thig fras air an luachair
Ach cha ghluais mo bhean ghaoil.
3
Thig Màrt oirnn', thig Foghar
Thig todhar, thig buar,
Ach cha tog mo bhean luinneag
Ri bleodhan no buain.
4
Thig na gobhair do'n mhainnir
Beiridh aighean duinn laoigh,
Ach cha tig mo bhean dhachaidh
A clachan nan craobh.
5
Tha an crodh anns an eadradh
'S iad a' freagairt nan laogh,
Tha Mòr an Dun-bheagain
'S cha fhreagair i 'n glaodh.
6
Tha mo chrodh gun an leigeil
Tha 'n t-eadradh aig càch.
Tha mo leanabh gun bheadradh
'Na shuidh air an làr.
7
Tha m' aodach air tolladh
Tha 'n olainn gun sniomh,
Agus deadh bhean-mo-thighe
'Na laidhe fo dhion,
8
Tha m' fhardach-sa creachta
'S lorn mo leac is gur fuar,
Tha in' ionmhas 's mo bheirteas
Fo na leacan 'na suain.
9
'So a' bhliadhna chur as domh
Thug am falt bharr mo chinn,
Chuid nach eil deth air glasadh
'Falbh na shad leis a' ghaoith.
10
Cha dirich mi tulach-
Cha shiubhail mi frith,
Cha'n fhaigh mi drùb chadail
'S mo thasgaidh 'si' chill.
11
Dean an cadal a leinibh
Agus fidir mar tha—
Tha do mhàthair fo leacaibh
'S tha m' achlais dhut fàs.
12
Uist! a chagarain ghràdhaich
Caidil sàmhach a luaidh,
Cha tog caoineadh do mhàthair
Dean ba-bà a nise uain.
Chorus:
My wife Marion will never return home.
Marion, my beloved wife will never return.
The mother of my child will not come
Tonight to lie by my side
1
The pine-tree shall blossom,
And apples grow from the branches,
The rush bud shoot upwards,
But my wife shall not wake.
2
The yew tree will come in bloom.
The trees will grow leaves
And seed will appear on the rushes,
But my darling wife will not wake.
3
Come spring-time, come harvest,
Come tathing, come fold,
My wife lilts no more,
At milking, or reaping.
4
Though goats come to the pen,
And heifers should calve,
My wife will not come home,
From the churchyard.
5
The cattle are in the milking fold
Lowing in answer to the calves.
Marion will not return from Dunvegan
To respond to their calls.
6
My cattle have not been let out,
Others remain tethered,
My babe is untended,
And left on the floor.
7
My clothes are unmended,
The wool is unspun,
For my own good housewife,
Has left it undone.,
8
My dwelling is harried,
My hearth bare and cold.
My treasure and riches,
Lies under the gravestone asleep.
9
This year I am in ruin
I am losing hair from my head
It is not combed down
But blown away with the wind
10
I no more climb the hills,
I no more roam the forest,
I am foresaken of sleep,
My treasure is gone.
11
I put the baby to sleep
And it may already be so
Your mother is under the gravestone
And I place you in my arms
12
Hush, my little darling
Sleep quietly, my love,
Crying will not wake your mother,
Ba Ba now, my lamb.
.
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