An Gréasaí Bróg

It is a traditional Irish song structured as a conversation between a mother and daughter. The daughter pleads to be allowed to go to the fair, but her mother replies that she can go when she turns thirteen — she is only nine now, and as an analogy, too young to make life’s big decisions. The mother teases that her little girl is already in love with the shoemaker, highlighting the humour and affection of the piece.

Lyrics
Beidh aonach amárach i gContae an Chláir
Beidh aonach amárach i gContae an Chláir
Beidh aonach amárach i gContae an Chláir
Cén mhaith dom é? Ní bheidh mé ann.

Cúrfa (Chorus):
Is a mháithrín an ligfidh tú chun aonaigh mé (x3)
Is a mhuirnín óg ná héalaigh é

I
Beidh aonach amárach i gContae an Chláir (x3)
Cén mhaith dom é? Ní bheidh mé ann

II
Tá ‘níon bheag agam is tá sí óg (x3)
Is tá sí i ngrá leis an ghreasaí bróg

III
Níl tú a deich nó a haon déag fós (x3)
Nuair a bheas tú trí déag, beidh tú mór

IV
B’fhearr liom féin mo ghréasaí bróg (x3)
Ná fir na n-arm faoina lascú óir

V
‘S iomaí bean a phós go hóg (x3)
Is a mhair go socair lena greasaí bróg

Chorus:
Oh Mammy, won’t you let me go to the fair
Oh dearest love, don’t plead with me

I
There’s a fair tomorrow in County Clare (x3)
Why should I care? I won’t be there

II
I have a little daughter and she’s very young (x3)
And she’s in love with the shoemaker

III
You are only ten or eleven years old (x3)
When you reach thirteen, you’ll be grown

IV
I’d prefer my shoemaker (x3)
Than the men of the army with their gilded bands

V
Many a woman married young (x3)
And lived peacefully with her shoemaker

Trasna na dTonnta

It is a traditional Irish song whose melody is widely believed to be adapted from the Scottish air Westering Home. The song is strongly associated with Gaoth Dobhair.

Irish Lyrics
Trasna na dtonnta, dul siar, dul siar,
Slán leis an uaigneas is slán leis an gcian.
Geal é mo chroí, agus geal í an ghrian,
Geal a bheith ag filleadh go hÉirinn!

English (chorus translation)
Over the waves in a westerly way,
Farewell to loneliness, farewell to exile.
Light is my heart, bright is the sun,
Now I’m returning to Erin.

Raithineach (Rachaimidne), a Bhean Bheag

It is a traditional Irish work and play song, often sung rhythmically while preparing food or during community gatherings. The refrain phrase, Rachaimidne a bhean bheag (“We will go, little woman”), is thought to have been misheard or reinterpreted over time as Raithineach (“bracken”).

Liricí
Do chuireas mo ghearrchaile go Barra na hÍne,
Ag iarraidh steampí nó cácaí milse,
Nuair a tháinig sí abhaile ní bhlaisfeadh fear an tí é,
Is beag an mhaith an steampí mura mbeadh an t-im air.
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag,
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag is déanfaimid císte.
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag,
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag is déanfaimid aríst é.

Tá tigh mór fairsing i mBarra na hÍne,
Bíonn bean acu á ghlanadh agus bean acu á scríobadh,
Bean eile acu á fháscadh ós cionn corcáin ar a dícheall,
Agus seanbhean ar a corraghiob á leathadh ar an ngríosaigh.
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag,
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag is déanfaimid císte.
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag,
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag is déanfaimid aríst é.

Nuair a ghluaisíonn Máire, Siobhán agus Síle,
Nóra agus Cáit is sásta a bhíd siad,
An juga ar an gclár is an cháirt dá líonadh,
Is mo cheol go brách sibh, a mhná Chois Íne.
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag,
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag is déanfaimid císte.
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag, a bhean bheag,
Rachaimidne a bhean bheag is déanfaimid aríst é.

Literal English Translation
I sent my little girl to Barra na hÍne,
Looking for steampí (potato cakes) or sweet cakes,
When she came home the man of the house would not taste it,
Little good is the steampí if there isn’t butter on it.
We will go, little woman, little woman, little woman,
We will go, little woman, and we will make a cake.
We will go, little woman, little woman, little woman,
We will go, little woman, and we will make it again.

There is a large spacious house in Barra na hÍne,
A woman of theirs cleaning it and a woman of theirs scrubbing it,
Another woman of theirs wringing clothes over pots with all her might,
And an old woman on her heels spreading it by the fire.
We will go, little woman, little woman, little woman,
We will go, little woman, and we will make a cake.
We will go, little woman, little woman, little woman,
We will go, little woman, and we will make it again.

When Máire, Siobhán and Síle set off,
Nóra and Cáit, and happy they are,
The jug on the dresser and the churn being filled,
And my blessing forever on you, women of Cois Íne.
We will go, little woman, little woman, little woman,
We will go, little woman, and we will make a cake.
We will go, little woman, little woman, little woman,
We will go, little woman, and we will make it again.

Notes

• Steampí: A type of traditional Irish potato cake, usually fried on a griddle or baked on the hearth.
• Barra na hÍne / Cois Íne: Probably refer to a local place near Inagh, County Clare, where the Íne (Inagh) River flows.
• Rachaimidne: Means “we will go.” In oral versions, the word was often pronounced quickly and rhythmically, which later led singers to interpret it as Raithineach.

Cad é sin don té sin

Traditional Irish song in which the singer tells how he went to the market, sold his cow, and then spent or gave away the money as he pleased. When others question his choices, he laughs it off with the line “Cad é sin don té sin nach mbaineann sin dó?” — “What is that to that person; whom it doesn’t concern?”

Liricí

Chuaigh mé chun aonaigh
Is dhíol mé mo bhó
Ar chúig phunta airgid
Is ar ghiní bhuí óir
Má ólaim an t-airgead
Is má bhronnaim an t-ór
Ó cad é sin don té sin
Nach mbaineann sin dó

Má ólaim an t-airgead
Is má bhronnaim an t-ór
Ó cad é sin don té sin
Nach mbaineann sin dó

Má théim ’na choille chraobhaigh
Cruinniú smeara nó cró
A bhaint úllaí de ghéaga
Nó a bhuachailleacht bó
Má shíním seal uaire
Faoi chrann a dhéanamh só
Ó cad é sin don té sin
Nach mbaineann sin dó

Má shíním seal uaire
Faoi chrann a dhéanamh só
Ó cad é sin don té sin
Nach mbaineann sin dó

Má théimse chuig airnéal
Is rince is spórt
Chuig aonach is rásaí
’S gach cruinniú den tsórt
Má chím daoine súgach
Is má bhím súgach leo
Ó cad é sin don té sin
Nach mbaineann sin dó

Deir daoine go bhfuil mé
Gan rath ’s gan dóigh
Gan earra gan éadach
Gan bólacht ná stór
Má tá mise i sásta
Mó chónaí i gcró
Ó cad é sin don té sin
Nach mbaineann sin dó

Chuaigh mé chun aonaigh
Is dhíol mé mo bhó
Ar chúig phunta airgid
Is ar ghiní bhuí óir
Má ólaim an t-airgead
Is má bhronnaim an t-ór
Ó cad é sin don té sin
Nach mbaineann sin dó

Literal English Translation
I went to the fair
And I sold my cow
For five pounds in silver
And a yellow guinea of gold.
If I drink the money
And if I give away the gold,
Oh, what’s that to that person,
That does not concern him.

If I go into the leafy wood
To gather berries or nuts,
To pluck apples from the branches
Or to herd cattle,
If I lie for a while
Beneath a tree at ease,
Oh, what’s that to that person,
That does not concern him.

If I go to a night-gathering
Of dancing and sport,
To fairs and races
And every such meeting,
If I see merry people
And am merry with them,
Oh, what’s that to that person,
That does not concern him.

People say that I am
Without luck and without hope,
Without goods, without clothing,
Without cattle or store.
If I myself am content
Living in a hut,
Oh, what’s that to that person,
That does not concern him.

I went to the fair
And I sold my cow
For five pounds in silver
And a yellow guinea of gold.
If I drink the money
And if I give away the gold,
Oh, what’s that to that person,
That does not concern him.

Pota Mór Fataí

The verses in this song describe Baba sleeping soundly while a big pot of potatoes boils in Pádraic Con Rí’s house. The playful repetition and lilting rhythm make it ideal for children, often sung with gestures or clapping. Like many Irish songs, it combines domestic imagery with musical fun and community spirit.

Irish Lyrics
Tá Baba ina codladh ar leaba chlúmhaigh,
Tá Baba ina codladh ar leaba chlúmhaigh,
Tá Baba ina codladh ar leaba chlúmhaigh,
Tá sí ina codladh is ná dúisígí í!

Agus abhó mo leana, is abhó mo lao,
Is abhó mo leana, is cé a déarfadh nach í!
Agus abhó mo leana, is abhó mo lao,
Is abhó mo leana, is cé a déarfadh nach í!

Tá pota mór fataí tigh Phádraic Con Rí,
Tá pota mór fataí tigh Phádraic Con Rí,
Tá pota mór fataí tigh Phádraic Con Rí,

Casadh an tSúgáin

It is one of Ireland’s best-known love songs, performed in both lively and slow airs. The title means “The Twisting of the Straw Rope.” The song uses the image of a rope being twisted from straw-rope (súgán) as a metaphor for the twists of love and longing.

Irish Lyrics
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom, a stóirín mo chroí,
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom, os comhair an tsaoil.
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom, a stóirín mo chroí,
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom, os comhair an tsaoil.

Agus rinne mise cleas
Ag Tigh Mhic Uí Dhomhnaill aréir,
Is an tarna cleas ag teach
An Ósta lena thaobh.

An triú cleas ní b’fhearr domh
A chur le mo scéal,
Is gur mhinicí domh bheith ag caitheamh
An dúthracht mhaith léi.

A Rí na bhfeart, cad do chas
Ins an dúiche seo mé?
’S gur mó cailín deas a gheobhainn
Im’ dhúthaigín beag féin.

Gur casadh mé isteach mar a raibh searc
Agus rún geal mo chléibh,
Is chuir an tseanbhean amach mé
Ag casadh an tsúgáinín féir.

Curfá (Chorus)
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom,
A stóirín mo chroí;
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom,
Os comhair an tsaoil;
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom,
Gach orlach de do chroí;
Is é mo lionn go fann nach liom
Dé Domhnaigh thú mar mhnaoi.

Tá mo cheannsa liath le bliain,
Is ní le críonnacht é;
Ní bheathaíonn na briathra
Na bráithre, pé sa domhan scéal é.

Is táim i do dhiaidh le bliain
Is gan fáil agam ort féin,
Is gur geall le fia mé ar sliabh
Go mbeadh gáir chon ina dhéidh.

(Curfá)

Do threabhfainn, d’fhuirsinn,
Chuirfinn síol ins an chré,
’S do dhéanfainn obair shocair
Álainn, mhín, réidh.

Do chuirfinn crú fén each
Is mire shiúil riamh ar féar,
Is ná héalaodh bean le fear
Ná déanfadh san féin.

Literal English Translation
If you are with me, be with me, my darling of my heart,
If you are with me, be with me, before the world.
If you are with me, be with me, my darling of my heart,
If you are with me, be with me, before the world.

Happy am I to be speaking with you,
And softly talking about you,
With your small gentle hand in my hand,
And your sweet little mouth full of kisses for me.

If you are with me, be with me, my darling of my heart,
If you are with me, be with me, before the world.
If you are with me, be with me, my darling of my heart,
If you are with me, be with me, before the world.

My heart is within in pain and sorrow,
As if it were in bondage beneath a yoke,
And if you do not come to me, my darling of my heart,
I shall never be alive without you again.

If you are with me, be with me, my darling of my heart,
If you are with me, be with me, before the world.
If you are with me, be with me, my darling of my heart,
If you are with me, be with me, before the world.

Notes

• Súgán: A rope made from twisted straw, often used for chairs or beds. It symbolises connection and tension — fitting for a love song.

Is é an pota na leathchloiche a chuireann siad síos.

Agus abhó mo leana, is abhó mo lao,
Is abhó mo leana, is cé a déarfadh nach í!
Agus abhó mo leana, is abhó mo lao,
Is abhó mo leana, is cé a déarfadh nach í!

Literal English Translation
Baba is asleep on a feather bed,
Baba is asleep on a feather bed,
Baba is asleep on a feather bed,
She’s asleep — don’t wake her!

Oh my dear child, oh my little calf,
Oh my dear child, and who would say it isn’t she!
Oh my dear child, oh my little calf,
Oh my dear child, and who would say it isn’t she!

There’s a big pot of potatoes in Pádraic Con Rí’s house,
There’s a big pot of potatoes in Pádraic Con Rí’s house,
There’s a big pot of potatoes in Pádraic Con Rí’s house,
And it’s the half-stone pot they put down to boil.

Oh my dear child, oh my little calf,
Oh my dear child, and who would say it isn’t she!
Oh my dear child, oh my little calf,
Oh my dear child, and who would say it isn’t she!

Casadh an tSúgáin

This is a traditional Irish song arranged by The Bothy Band. It appears on the album The Best Of The Bothy Band, released in 1983.

From Joe Heaney, via https://songsinirish.com/?song=casadh-an-tsugain-lyrics

Well now, this is a very interesting story. You could call it love, maybe – and maybe you wouldn’t call it love. Casadh an tSúgáin – ‘The Twisting of the Rope.’ The rope that they’re talking about, it’s the rope they used to tie down the thatched cottages long ago. The way they used to do it, you had some straw or hay, and you came up, and you got a bit of a stick, and I was sitting here with the straw. And you put the stick into the straw and started twisting it and backing away like this, now. [demonstrates] Get me? And I’d be letting out the straw to you, until the rope was long enough to be cut; and then you’d start another rope, and tie them up until the day you were thatching the house.

Well, this fellow was in love with this particular girl, and there was only the girl and the mother in the house. And people say the mother was a bit jealous because he fancied the daughter; the daughter fancied the fellow, and the mother fancied the fellow, and the fellow fancied the daughter and he didn’t fancy the mother – let me put it that way. But anyway, he was going around from place to place, you know, moaning his loss, ‘til one night he says to himself, ‘I may as well make a bee-line for this house again.’ So in he goes, and when the old lady saw him coming, she said ‘I don’t want— I don’t like this at all.’ And he was sitting down, and he said to the old woman, ‘I like your daughter,’ he said, ‘Ma’am. Suppose if I married your daughter, what kind of a dowry would she get? And the old woman started tapping her foot. And she said – I can’t write this down, this is something I cannot write – stráca an phota is mar sin. ‘Stráca an phota’ is the old thing that used to lift up the pot off the fire. Was made…of wool or something, or knitted like a sock and pulled on. And she said, [sings] ‘Stráca an phota is mar sin.’ And then she started tapping her feet. Read more on joeheaney.org

Agus rinne mise cleas
Ag Tigh Mhic Uí Dhomhnaill aréir,
Is an tarna cleas ag teach
An Ósta lena thaobh.

An triú cleas ní b’fhearr domh
A chur le mo scéal,
Is gur mhinicí domh bheith ag caitheamh
An dúthracht mhaith léi.

A Rí na bhfeart, cad do chas
Ins an dúiche seo mé?
’S gur mó cailín deas a gheobhainn
Im’ dhúthaigín beag féin.

Gur casadh mé isteach mar a raibh searc
Agus rún geal mo chléibh,
Is chuir an tseanbhean amach mé
Ag casadh an tsúgáinín féir.

Curfá (Chorus)
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom,
A stóirín mo chroí;
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom,
Os comhair an tsaoil;
Má bhíonn tú liom, bí liom,
Gach orlach de do chroí;
Is é mo lionn go fann nach liom
Dé Domhnaigh thú mar mhnaoi.

Tá mo cheannsa liath le bliain,
Is ní le críonnacht é;
Ní bheathaíonn na briathra
Na bráithre, pé sa domhan scéal é.

Is táim i do dhiaidh le bliain
Is gan fáil agam ort féin,
Is gur geall le fia mé ar sliabh
Go mbeadh gáir chon ina dhéidh.

(Curfá)

Do threabfainn, d’fhuirsinn,
Chuirfinn síol ins an chré,
’S do dhéanfainn obair shocair
Álainn, mhín, réidh.

Do chuirfinn crú fén each
Is mire shiúil riamh ar féar,
Is ná héalaodh bean le fear
Ná déanfadh san féin.

Literal English Translation
I played a trick
At Mac Uí Dhomhnaill’s house last night,
And the second trick at the tavern
That stood beside it.

The third trick would be better left
Unadded to my tale,
For often I have spent
My kind affection on her.

O King of Miracles, what turned me
Into this district at all?
There are many fair girls I could find
In my own little homeland.

I happened to go in where was my love,
The bright secret of my heart,
But the old woman turned me out,
Twisting the little straw rope.

Chorus
If you are with me, be with me,
My darling of my heart;
If you are with me, be with me,
Before all the world;
If you are with me, be with me,
With every inch of your heart;
And it grieves me sore that you are not mine
As my wife on Sunday.

My head is grey this year,
And not from wisdom;
Words do not nourish
Nor do brothers, whatever tale the world tells.

I have been following you for a year
And cannot reach you myself;
I am like a deer on the mountain
With the hounds baying behind.

(Chorus)

I would plough, I would labour,
I would plant seed in the clay,
And I would do smooth,
Gentle, lovely work.

I would put a shoe on the horse
That ever trod the grass with grace,
And no woman should flee with a man
Who would not do the same.