Песня «I'll Tell Me Ma» исполнителя Spiritual seasons. Скачать или слушать онлайн

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Текст песни:

I'll tell me Ma when I go home
The boys won't leave the girls alone.
They pull my hair, they stole my comb,
But that's alright till I go home.

Chorus:
She is handsome, she is pretty
She is the belle of Belfast city
She is courtin' one, two, three.
Please won't you tell me, who is she?

Albert Mooney says he loves her,
All the boys are fighting for her.
They knock at the door and ring at the bell
Saying Oh, my true love are you well?
Out she comes as white as snow,
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.
Oul Jenny Murray says she'll die,
If she don't get the fellow with the roving eye.

Chorus
Let the wind and the rain and the hail blow high
And the snow come tumblin' from the sky
She's as nice as apple pie
And she'll get her own lad by and by.
When she gets a lad of her own,
She won't tell her Ma when she goes home
Let them all come as they will
For it's Albert Mooney she loves still.

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Follow Me up to Carlow

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Lift Mac Cahir Og your face, You're broodin' o'er the old disgrace That Black Fitzwilliam stormed your place and drove you to the ferns Gray said victory was sure, And soon the firebrand he'd secure Until he met at Glenmalure with Fiach McHugh O'Byrne Chorus: Curse and swear, Lord Kildare, Fiach will do what Fiach will dare Now Fitzwilliam have a care, Fallen is your star low Up with halbert, out with sword, on we go for, by the Lord Fiach McHugh has given the word "Follow me up to Carlow" See the swords of Glen Imaal, They're flashing o'er the English Pale See all the childer of the Gael, Beneath O'Byrne's banner Rooster of the fighting stock, Would you let a Saxon cock Crow out upon an Irish Rock, Fly up and teach him manners Chorus From Tassagart to Clonmore, There flows a stream of Saxon gore And great is Rory Og O'More At sending loons to Hades White is sick and Gray is fled, And now for black Fitzwilliam's head We'll send it over, dripping red to Liza and her ladies Chorus
Pa Vagorna

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Foggy Dew

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As down the glen one Easter morn To a city fair rode I, Their armed lines of marching men In squadrons passed me by. No pipe did hum, no battle drum Did sound its loud tattoo But the Angelus' bells o'er the Liffey swells Rang out in the foggy dew. Right proudly high in Dublin town Hung they out a flag of war. It was better to die beneath an Irish sky Then at Suvla or Sud el Bar. And from the plains of Royal Meath Strong men came hurrying through; While Brittania's Huns with their long-range guns Sailed in through the foggy dew. 'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that «small nations might be free»; Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe of the great North Sea. Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha Their graves we’d keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew. The bravest fell, and the requiem bell Rang mournfully and clear For those who died that Easter-tide In the springing of the year. While the world did gaze with deep amaze At those fearless men but few Who bore the fight that freedom's light Might shine through the foggy dew. And back through the glen I rode again And my heart with grief was sore For I parted then with valiant men Whom I never shall see more But to and fro In my dreams I go And I kneel and pray for you For slavery fled Oh, glorious dead When you fell in the foggy dew.
Varulven (Version)

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Junfrun hon skulle sig åt stugan gå Linden darra i lunden Så tog hon den vägen åt skogen blå Ty hon var vid älskogen bunden Och när som hon kon till skogen blå Där mötle henne en ulv så grå Kära ulver du bit inte mig Dig vill jag giva min silversärk Silversärk jag passar ej på Ditt unga liv och blod måst gå Kära du ulver bit inte mig Dig vill jag giva min silversko Silversko jag passar ej på Ditt unga liv och blod måst gå Kära du ulver du bit inte mig Dig vill jag giva min guldkrona Guldkrona jag passar ej på Ditt unga liv och blod måst gå Jungfrun hon steg sig så högt i ek Och ulven han gick ner på backen och skrek Ulven han grafte den ek till rot Jungfrun gav upp ett så hiskeligt rop Och ungersven han sadlar sin gångare grå Han red litet fortare än fågeln flög Och när som han kom till platsen fram Så fann han ej mer än en blodiger arm Gud trösta Gud bättra mig ungersven Linden darra i lunden Min jungfru är borta min häst är förränd Ty hon var vid älskogen bunden Девушка припозднилась домой, Липы трепещут в чаще И выбрала путь через лес прямой. Дитя под сердцем несчастной. Только зашла она в лес густой, Вышел огромный волк из кустов. "Милый волк, меня пощади – Серебром расшитый мой плащ возьми!" "Плащ твой волку не по плечу – Кровь молодую пустить хочу!" "Милый волк, меня пощади – Сапожки сафьянные мои возьми!" "Сапогов-то я не ношу – Кровь молодую твою пущу!" "Милый волк, меня пощади – Венец золотой за меня возьми!" "Твой венец волку ни к чему – Жизнь молодую твою возьму!" Дева забралась на высокий сук, Волк стал рычать и ходить вокруг. Корни у дуба волк перегрыз – Вскрикнув, дева упала вниз. Рыцарь коня оседлал стремглав И в темный лес полетел, как стрела. Когда ж он к чаще лесной прискакал – Лишь руку любимой он отыскал. "Ах, сохрани и спаси нас Бог! Липы трепещут в чаще "Невеста погибла, мой конь издох." Дитя под сердцем несчастной.