1. Puirt Chruinne: Fear an Dùin Mhóir/ Nighean na Cailliche/ Tiugainn leam Tha fear an Dùin Mhóir a’ mire ri Mór. Tha fear an Dùin Mhóir is Mór a’ mire ris. Tha fear an Dùin Mhóir a’ mire ri Mór, Ach cò nì mire ri Màiri? Tha fear an Dùin Bhig a’ mire gu tric. Tha fear an Dùin Bhig gu tric a’ mire rith’. Tha fear an Dùin Bhig a’ mire gu tric, Gu tric a’ mire ri Màiri. _ _ _ Nighean na calliche crotaiche crùbaich Thionndadh i cùl is throideadh i rium. Bhreabadh i casan mu seach air an ùrlar Thionndadh i cùl is throideadh i rium. Thionndadh i cùlaibh, thionndadh i cùlaibh, Thionndadh i cùlaibh ’s throideadh i rium. Nighean na calliche ’s mios’ anns an dùthaich, Thionndadh i cùlaibh ’s throideadh i rium. _ _ _ Tiugainn leam ’ille dhuibh, tiugainn ’na bhuailidh. Tiugainn leam ’ille dhuibh, tiugainn ’na bhuailidh. Tiugainn leam ’ille dhuibh, tiugainn ’na bhuailidh. Tiugainn a luaidh a dh’iomain nam bò. Tiugainn leam ’ille dhuibh tiugainn ’an aonaich. Tiugainn leam ’ille dhuibh tiugainn ’an aonaich. Tiugainn leam ’ille dhuibh tiugainn ’an aonaich. Tiugainn a luaidh a dh’iomain nam bò. 1 Jigs: Man from the Big Fort/ Daughter of the Old Woman/ Come with me The man from the big fort is flirting with Marion. He and Marion are flirting. The man from the big fort is flirting with Marion. But who will flirt with Mary? The man of the small fort is often flirting. He of the small fort is often flirting with her. The man of the small fort is often flirting, Often flirting with Mary. _ _ _ The daughter of the crippled old woman would turn her back and scold me. She’d stomp her feet back and forth on the floor, Turn her back and scold me. She’d turn her back, she’d turn her back, She’d turn her back and scold me. Daughter of the worst old lady in the land, She’d turn her back and scold me. _ _ _ Come with me dark-haired lad, come to the cattle fold. Come with me dark-haired lad, come to the cattle fold. Come with me dark-haired lad, come to the cattle fold. Come my dear to drive the cows. Come with me dark-haired lad, come to the slope. Come with me dark-haired lad, come to the slope. Come with me dark-haired lad, come to the slope. Come my dear to drive the cows.

2 Òran: Tha mo Bhreacan Dubh fo’n Dìle Tha mo bhreacan dubh fo’n dìle Chan fhaodar innse mar tha e Tha mo bhreacan dubh fo’n dìle Tha mo bhreacan air a mhilleadh Aig na gillean anns a’ bhàrsa. Tha mo bhreacan gu fliuch salach, Chan fhaod mi fantainn ri fhàsgadh. Tha mi ’màireach ’dol a sheòladh, Chan ann gun eòlas a tha mi. ’Dol dha eilean nan eun fiadhaich Cha robh duine riamh a’ tàmh ann. ’Dol dha eilean nan eun ruadhach Cha bhi sinn sùbhach no sàmhach. ’S buidhe dha na gillean òga Th’air an còmhdach aig mo mhàthair. Chan ionnan ’s mar a dh’éirich dhomhsa, Dh’fhalbh an fheòil dhiom far na cnàmhan. 2 Song: My Dark Plaid is Soaked My dark plaid is soaked It cannot be told how My dark plaid is soaked My plaid has been ruined By the boys on the barge. My plaid is wet and dirty, I cannot wait to fold it. Tomorrow I go sailing, I am not without experience. Going to the isle of the wild birds Where no man has ever lived. Going to the isle of the red birds, We will not be happy or quiet. Lucky are the young lads Who are clothed by my mother. That’s not how it happened for me, The flesh has left my bones.

3 Srath-spéidh, Ruidhlean: Poca sìl/ A’ Phirearaig/ Giobal Bodaich Eadaraibh a h-ùinn ò, poca sìl an t-sealgair, Eadaraibh a h-ùinn ò, poca sìl an t-sealgair, Eadaraibh a h-ùinn ò, poca sìl an t-sealgair, Am poc’ a bh’ air, an sac a bh’ air, am poc’ a bh’ air ’s e falbh leis. Am poc’ a bh’ air, an sac a bh’ air, am poc’ a bh’ air ’s e falbh leis. Am poc’ a bh’ air, an sac a bh’ air, am poc’ a bh’ air ’s e falbh leis. Am poc’ a bh’ air, an sac a bh’ air, am poc’ a bh’ air ’s e falbh leis. Eadaraibh a h-ùinn ò, poca sìl an t-sealgair Chunnacas a’ tighinn e, chan fhacas a’ falbh e. Chunnacas a’ tighinn e, chan fhacas a’ falbh e. Chunnacas a’ tighinn e, chan fhacas a’ falbh e. Eadaraibh a h-ùinn ò, poca sìl an t-sealgair. B’ fhoghainneach i, beadarach i, b’ aigeanach an t-seana bhean, B’ fhoghainneach i, beadarach i, b’ aigeanach an t-seana bhean, B’ fhoghainneach i, beadarach i, b’ aigeanach an t-seana bhean, Eadaraibh a h-ùinn ò, b’ aigeanach an t-seana bhean. _ _ _ Ò hò phirearaig, a phirearaig, a phirearaig, Ò hò, phirearaig ga prìthig anns an inn’s. Ò hò phirearaig, a phirearaig, a phirearaig, Ò hò, phirearaig ga prìthig anns an inn’s. Phirearaig as ainmeil’ a bha riamh an Alba, Tha dubh ’s geal ’s dearg innt’ is dh’earball a’ choin duinn. Phirearaig as ainmeil’ a bha riamh an Alba, Tha dubh ’s geal ’s dearg innt’ is dh’earball a’ choin duinn. - - - Nam biodh agam gioball bodaich bhogainn anns an allt e. Nam biodh agam gioball bodaich bhogainn anns an allt e. Nam biodh agam gioball bodaich bhogainn anns an allt e. ’S mur biodh e glan nuair bheirinn às e, bhogainn rithist ann e. Bhogainn e, ’s gun togainn e, ’s gum bogainn anns an allt e, Bhogainn e, ’s gun togainn e, ’s gum bogainn anns an allt e, Bhogainn e, ’s gun togainn e, ’s gum bogainn anns an allt e, ’S mur biodh e glan nuair bheirinn às e, bhogainn rithist ann e. 3 Strathspey, Reels: Bag of Seeds/ The Periwig/ Ragged Old Man Eadaraibh a-hùinn ò, the hunter’s bag of seeds, Eadaraibh a-hùinn ò, the hunter’s bag of seeds, Eadaraibh a-hùinn ò, the hunter’s bag of seeds, The bag he had, the sack he had, the bag with which he left. The bag he had, the sack he had, the bag that he took with him. The bag he had, the sack he had, the bag that he took with him. The bag he had, the sack he had, the bag that he took with him. Eadaraibh a-hùinn ò, the hunter’s bag of seeds. He was seen coming, he wasn’t seen leaving. He was seen coming, he wasn’t seen leaving. He was seen coming, he wasn’t seen leaving. Eadaraibh a-hùinn ò, the hunter’s bag of seeds. Valiant was she, flirty was she, lively was the old woman. Valiant was she, flirty was she, lively was the old woman. Valiant was she, flirty was she, lively was the old woman. Eadaraibh a-hùinn ò, lively was the old woman. _ _ _ Oh, ho Periwig, oh periwig, oh periwig, Oh, ho Periwig like grass heaped in the field. Oh, ho Periwig, oh periwig, oh periwig, Oh, ho Periwig like grass heaped in the field. The most famous Periwig ever seen in Scotland, There’s black and white and red in it and the brown dog’s tail. The most famous Periwig ever seen in Scotland, There’s black and white and red in it and the brown dog’s tail. - - - If I had a ragged old man, I’d soak him in the brook. If I had a ragged old man, I’d soak him in the brook. If I had a ragged old man, I’d soak him in the brook. And if he wasn’t clean when I brought him out, I’d soak him once again. I’d soak him and I’d lift him and I’d soak him in the brook, I’d soak him and I’d lift him and I’d soak him in the brook, I’d soak him and I’d lift him and I’d soak him in the brook, And if he wasn’t clean when I brought him out, I’d soak him once again.

4 Puirt Chruinne: Dh’fhalbhainn Sgiobalta/ Fada gun Phòsadh/ Ribeanan Dh’fhalbhainn sgiobalta, siobalta, sgiobalta, Dh’fhalbhainn sgiobalta, ’s gheibhinn air dòigh. Dh’fhalbhainn sgiobalta, choimhead air Iseabal, Chuirinn mo bhriogais orm ’s gheibhinn air dòigh. Sìle, Sìle, ’s i bu docha leam, Sìle, Sìle, am boireannach còir. Sìle, Sìle, ’s i bu docha leam, Peigi nighean Uilleim cha ghabh mi ri ’m beò. _ _ _ Am fear a bhios fada gun phòsadh, Fàsaidh feur is fraoch is fireach air. Am fear a bhios fada gun phòsadh, Fàsaidh feusag mhór air. Fàsaidh feur ’s fàsaidh fraoch, Fàsaidh feur ’s fraoch ’s fireach air. Am fear a bhios fada gun phòsadh Fàsaidh feusag mhór air _ _ _ Ribeanan rìomhach, nighean an fhìdhleir, Còta dimitidh, beatagan caileago. Ribeanan rìomhach, nighean an fhìdhleir, Còta sìod’ air Màiri. Brògan àrda, cleòca sgàrlaid, Còta dimitidh, beatagan caileago. Brògan àrda, cleòca sgàrlaid, Ribeanan rìomhach Màiri. 4 Jigs: I would go Quickly/ Long without Marrying/ Ribbons I would go quickly, quickly, quickly, I would go quickly, and get myself ready. I would go quickly to call upon Isabel, I would put on my trousers and get myself ready. Julia, Julia, she’s my hope, Julia, Julia, such a fine woman. Julia, Julia, she’s my hope, Peggy, William’s daughter, I won’t accept as long as I live. _ _ _ The man who is long without marrying, Grass and heather and moor will grow on him. The man who is long without marrying, Will grow a great big beard. Grass will grow and heather will grow, Grass and heather and moor will grow on him. The man who is long without marrying, Will grow a great big beard. _ _ _ Ravishing ribbons, the fiddler’s daughter, A dimity, and calico petticoats. Ravishin ribbons, the fiddler’s daughter, Màiri’s silken coat. High heeled shoes, a cloak of scarlet, A dimity and calico petticoats. High heeled shoes, a cloak of scarlet, Màiri’s ravishing ribbons.

5 Òran: Càite Bheil i ann am Muile? Och a ìu ’s na hìuraibh èile Och a ìu ’s na hìuraibh èile Hìuraibh ò agus hò ro èile Mo Chruinneag dhonn gura trom ’ad dhéidh mi. Càite bheil i ann am Muile, Cruinneag bhòidheach is gile muineal? Rìbhinn àlainn a’ bhroillich shoilleir, ’S bu deacair dhòmhs’ a cur air a bhonnaibh. Càite bheil i ann an Albainn, Cruinneag chruinn donn is gile calpa? Slios mar fhaoilinn air aodann fairrge; ’S gur e do throm-gaol a rinn mo mharbhadh. Tha an oidhche a-nochd fliuch fuaraidh; Laidh an sneachd air na beanntan shuas ud, Cha téid mise a dh’fhios na gruagaich, Ach gus am fàs na gleanntan uaine. Nuair a thèid mi chun na féille, Bidh mo shùil air a’ chruinneig ghlé-ghil, ’S binne Gàidhlig ’s is deise Beurla, ’S bidh sàiltean àrd air a brògan eutrom. Tha do shùilean mar na smeuran, No mar dearcagan donn an t-sléibhe; Dubh ’s donn ann am-measg a chéile; ’S gur e ceann dubh air mo chruinneig ghlé-ghil. Tha do shùil-ghorm dhaite bhòidheach, Fo d’mhala chaol ann ad aodann bòidheach, Pearsa dhìreach de fhìor Chlann Dòmhnaill, Gur math thig gùn dhut an cuairt nan òg-bhean. An uair a bha sinn anns a’ mhonadh, ’S e bu bhiadh dhuinn na cìrean meala, Barr an fhraoich ’s e ’na chaoran meallach, ’S an eunlaith fhiadhaich a’ sgiallaich tharraing. 5 Where is she on Mull? Och a ìu ’s na hìuraibh èile Och a ìu ’s na hìuraibh èile Hìuraibh ò agus hò ro èile My brown haired girl, my heart is set on you. Where is she on Mull, The beautiful woman of the fairest neck? Elegant woman of the light breast, It would be difficult for me to describe her. Where is she in Scotland, The buxom brown-haired woman with fair calves? Her sides like the seagulls on the ocean’s crest, The weight of your love has been my undoing. The night tonight is cold and wet, The snow lies on those high mountains. I won’t go to know the woman, Until the glens grow green. When I go to the festival, My eyes will be on the fair woman. Of the sweetest Gaelic, and the readiest English, With high heels on her light shoes. Your eyes are like blackberries, Or like the brown currants of the hillside. Black and brown in amongst each other, on the dark head of my fair woman. Your colorful, beautiful blue eyes, Beneath narrow eyebrows in your lovely face, You bear the upright appearance of the true Clan Donald, A gown becomes you in the company of the young women. When we were were on the moor, Our food was the honey comb. The top of the heather covered with berries, And the wild birds flying over.

6 CSR: A’ Sheana Bhean Bhochd/ Bat’ an Tàilleir/ Nuallan a’ Chuain/ Ameireaga/ Tàillear A’ sheana bhean bhochd, chan fhalbh thu a-nochd. A’ sheana bhean bhochd, chan fhalbh thu a-nochd. A’ sheana bhean bhochd, chan fhalbh thu a-nochd, No idir moch a-màireach. Thig am fidhlear a-nochd ’s bheir e sgrìobh air a’ phort. Thig am fidhlear a-nochd ’s bheir e sgrìobh air a’phort. Thig am fidhlear a-nochd ’s bheir e sgrìobh air a’phort, ’S ged a dh’fhalbhadh e an-diugh thig e màireach. _ _ _ Tha bat’ an tàilleir ’s cromag air. Bat’ an tàilleir rinn e fhàgail Aig a mhàthair ’s cromag air, ’S e fhéin gun chothrom gluasaid. Chan eil cù no cat agam; Chan eil cù nach téid an cùil Nuair gheibh e smùid de’n bhata seo, ’S cha charaich e ’s cha ghluais e. _ _ _ Siud an rud a thogadh m’ fhonn, Seo an rud a thogadh m’ fhiughair, Siud an rud a thogadh m’fhonn, Nuallan a’ chuain. Crònan is nuallan, is nuallan is crònan, Nuallan na Linne Muilich, Nuallan a’ chuain. - - - Null thar nan Eileanan dh’Ameiriga gun téid sinn, Null thar nan Eileanan dh’Ameiriga gun téid sinn, Null thar nan Eileanan dh’Ameiriga gun téid sinn, Null rathad Shasainn agus dhachaidh rathad Éirinn. ’S e siud am port a bh’againn a’ dol seachad air Dùin Éideann, ’S e siud am port a bh’againn a’ dol seachad air Dùin Éideann, ’S e siud am port a bh’againn a’ dol seachad air Dùin Éideann, Null rathad Shasainn agus dhachaidh rathad Éirinn. _ _ _ Tàillear a bha mi sireadh ’s figheadair a fhuair mise. Tàillear a bha mi sireadh ’s figheadair a fhuair mi. Tàillear a bha mi sireadh ’s figheadair a fhuair mise. Tàillear a bha mi sireadh ’s figheadair a fhuair mi. Ho ro, mo dhuilichinn, mo dhuilichinn a rinn mi. Ho ro, mo dhuilichinn, mo dhuilichinn a rinn mi. Ho ro, mo dhuilichinn, mo dhuilichinn a rinn mi. Ho ro, mo dhuilichinn nach robh mi na mo mhaighdinn. 6 MSR: Poor old Woman/ The Tailor’s Crook/ The Roaring of the Sea/ America/ Tailor Poor old woman, you won’t go out tonight. Poor old woman, you won’t go out tonight. Poor old woman, you won’t go out tonight, nor early tomorrow morning. The fiddler will come tonight and he’ll try out the tune. The fiddler will come tonight and he’ll try out the tune. The fiddler will come tonight and he’ll try out the tune, And though he’d leave today he’ll come tomorrow. _ _ _ The tailor’s stick has a crook. The tailor’s stick that he left With his mother has a crook in it, And himself unable to move. I have neither dog nor cat; There isn’t a dog that won’t go to a corner When he gets a swipe of this stick, And he will not shift or move. _ _ _ That’s the thing that lifts my mood, This is what lifts my expectation, That’s the thing that lifts my mood, The roaring of the sea. The murmuring and the roaring, And the roaring and the murmuring, The roaring of the Sound of Mull, The roaring of the sea. - - - Over the isles to America we’ll go, Over the isles to America we’ll go, Over the isles to America we’ll go, Over the English way and back home the Irish way. That’s the tune we had going past Edinburgh, That’s the tune we had going past Edinburgh, That’s the tune we had going past Edinburgh, Over the English way and back home the Irish way. _ _ _ It was a tailor that I sought, but a weaver that I got. It was a tailor that I sought, but a weaver that I got. It was a tailor that I sought, but a weaver that I got. It was a tailor that I sought, but a weaver that I got. Ho ro, my sorrows, my sorrows I brought on my self. Ho ro, my sorrows, my sorrows I brought on my self. Ho ro, my sorrows, my sorrows I brought on my self. Ho ro my sorrows, if only I were still a maiden.

7 Òran: Dh’ éirich Mi Moch Madainn Cheòthar Hì làthill ò ho gù Hì ù ri bhò hì a hù Hì làthill ò ho gù Dh’éirich mi moch madainn cheòthar Chuir mi stocainn orm ’s brògan Ghabh mi mach aig cois a’ lòinein Thàna’ mo leannan nam chòmhdhail Bha sgian bheag aige ’na phòcaid Bha e muigh air m’ fhuil a dhòrtadh [Ghoid e dhiom na bh’air mo chòta] Cha cheannaich e aig a’ stòr e ’S maraich’ e thàirneas ròpa Air long mhór nan crannan àrda Dhèanadh clàradh air na brògan Falt mo chinn a chur fo bhrògan Dhèannain iomadach nì neònach Dhèannain càirtean ’s dhèannain clòitean Agus iomadach nì bòidheach 7 Song: I Rose Early on a Misty Morning Hì làthill ò ho gù Hì ù ri bhò hì a hù Hì làthill ò ho gù I arose early on at misty morning I put on my socks and shoes I went out to walk through the meadow My love came along with me He had a little knife in his pocket He was out to spill my blood He stole from me what was on my coat He won’t buy it at the store He’s a sailor who pulls rope On a big boat on the high masts He’d repair the shoes He’d put my hair beneath his shoes (He’d cause me great sorrow) I would do many strange things I would make wool cards and woven cloth And many beautiful things

8 Puirt Chruinne: Cha Leigeadh Tu Leas/ Cò Bha ’g Ràdh?/ Fear a’ Chùil Bhàin Cha leigeadh tu leas bhith breabadh do chas, Chan fhaigh thu bean òg am bliadhna. Bean òg, bean òg, chan fhaigh thu rid bheò, Ged chuireadh tu ’n t-òr ga h-iarraidh. Bean òg, bean òg chan fhaigh thu bean òg, Chan fhaigh thu bean òg am bliadhna, Bean òg bean òg chan fhaigh thu rid bheò, Ged chuireadh tu ’n t-òr ga h-iarraidh. _ _ _ Cò bha ’g ràdh gum bitheadh tu daor? Cò bha ’g ràdh gun gabhadh tu fearg? Am fear a bha ’g ràdh gum bitheadh tu daor, B’fheàrr leam fhìn gun robh e marbh. Bidh guirmean is màdar, càrnaid is pronnastan, Guirmean is màdar, càrnaid is alum. Bidh cùram mud chàirdean, bidh cùram mud dealgan, ’S snàth dubh, ’s snàth geal, agus snàth dearg. _ _ _ ’S e fear a’ chùil bhàin mo ghràdh a dh’fheith rium, Mo ghràdh a dh’fheith rium, mo ghràdh a dh’fheith rium, ’S e fear a’ chùil bhàin mo ghràdh a dh’fheith rium, ’S e ’m Baile nan Cailleach gu Bealltainn. ’S muladach mise gun duin’ ach mi fhéin, ’S muladach mi, ’s mi gun duin’ agam. ’S muladach mise gun duin’ ach mi fhéin, ’S càch ag iomain nan gamhna. 8 Jigs: You needn’t bother/ Who was Saying?/ The Fair Haired Man You needn’t bother tapping your feet, You won’t get a young wife this year. A young wife, a young wife, you’ll never find, Though you should send gold to fetch her. A young wife, a young wife, you’ll never find, You’ll not get a young wife this year, A young wife, a young wife, you’ll never find, though you should send gold to fetch her. _ _ _ Who was saying that you would be costly? Who was saying that you would be angry? The man who said that you would be costly, I would that he were dead. Indigo and madder, carnation and sulphur, Indigo and madder, carnation and alum. Take care with your wool cards, take care with your needles, And the black thread, the white thread, and the red thread. _ _ _ The fair haired man, my love who waited for me, My love who waited for me, my love who waited for me, The fair haired man, my love who waited for me, He is in Nunton til Beltane. I am sad and there’s no one but me, I am sad and me with no one. I am sad and there’s no one but me, And the others driving the stirks.

9 Òran: A’ Ruma Bàn Thug mi ’n oidhche ’n raoir ’s an àiridh Thug mi ’n oidhche ’n raoir ’s an àiridh An oidhch’ a- nochd gu bheil mi foighneachd Cò thug dhaibh a’ ruma bàn ud? ’S iomadh olc a thig air daoine, ’S iomadh trioblaid thig air dùthaich. Thàinig an African Prince dha ’n dùthaich, ’S gun tug i na daoraichean dha ’n àite. ’S bochd nach deach i às a chéile, Mun do ràinig i Ceap Sable, Shàbhaladh e iomadh creutair’ A thug spéis dha’n ruma bhàn ud. ’S ann aig cnoc Gilleasb’ ’ic Fhionnlaigh, Chuala sinn ùpraid ’s an éibheach, Cuid dhiubh a’ seinn, “Tipperary,” ’S aig na béistean an droch chànail. Tha ceathrar do dhaoine sgairteil, Timcheall a’ sàbhaladh casg dheth. Roll iad suas e ann am pasgan, Gus am faighte dhachaidh sàbhailt’. ’S gum bheil balaich òg’ na dùthcha, Falbh an cois luchd na daoraich. ’S bochd nach faiceadh leithid as cuid dhiubh, A’ dol null dha’n sgoil Shàbaid. Chan eil bodach anns an tìr seo, Nach bi falbh a’ slaodadh creamer. Cha bhi foighneachd gu dé ’s prìs dha, Ach gu cinnteach gum bi ’n làn ann. ’S tha ’n t-àm agaibh sgur dhan ùpraid, ’S a bhith tuiteam air ur glùinean, ’S a bhith tric a’ gabhail ar n-ùrnaigh, Mun tig am flù is gun sibh sàbhailt’. Cha dean e dhomhs’ a bhith ro phròiseil, Ged a ni mi duanag òrain, Oir tha mòran dha mo chàirdean, ’G òl alcohol a’ ruma bàn ud. 9 The White Rum Last night I went to the field, Last night I went to the field, Tonight is the night I am asking, Who brought them the white rum? Many evil things come to mankind, Many troubles come to the country. The African Prince came to the country And brought drunkenness to this place. It’s a pity she didn’t break apart, Before she reached Cape Sable, It would have saved many a creature Who is fond of that white rum. It was at the Archie Findlay’s hill, We heard the uproar and the shouting, A few of them singing, “Tipperary,” At the beasts, with slurred speech. There are four vigorous men, Around saving the casks. They rolled them up in a bundle, To get them home safely. The young boys of the neighborhood, Are following the drunkards. It’s a pity we wouldn’t see their like, Going to Sunday School. There isn’t an old man in this land, Who won’t be dragging a creamer jug. He won’t be asking what the price is, But he’ll be certain that it’s full. The time is upon us to stop this uproar, To be falling on our knees, To be praying often, In case the flu comes and we haven’t been saved. It isn’t fitting for me to be too proud, Even though I make a ditty of a song, For many of my friends, Drink the white rum.