Orain eibhinn / Humorous songs

Thoisich mi air na h-orain eibhinn nuair nach robh mi ach nam ghille og.  'S iad a b' fhaisge air mo chridhe de na h-orain a bhuineadh don Chaolas agus do Thiriodh.  Bha mi riamh den bheachd gun robh ealain air leth ann an orain eibhinn, agus gun robh iad daonnan fallain, ur, tlachdmhor, a chionns nach robh iad buailteach a bhith a' ruith ann an claisean abhaisteach nan oran-molaidh.  Agus gheibhinn gaire asda.

 

Chum mi orm leis na h-orain eibhinn nuair a bha mi anns na h-oilthighean.  Gu math tric bha iad nam faochadh agus nan leigheas dom inntinn.  Bha iad a' toirt cothromachd dom aignidhean, gu sonraichte nuair a bhithinn a' stri ri 'goraiche' luchd-rianachd is tachartasan annasach a bha duilich an tuigsinn.

 

Gu math tric, bhithinn a' cleachdadh nan oran eibhinn mar sheorsa de dh'aoir, 's a' toirt criomag a ladhar cuideigin, no a' magadh gu coibhneil, cairdeil air 'luchd an ardain mhoir' no eadhan air innealan is goireasan ura a bha air tighinn don duthaich.  Dh'atharraich na cuspairean tro na bliadhnachan, agus uiread a rudan neonach a' tighinn fom uidh.

 

'S e 'Oran an t-Samhraidh Thioraim' an t-oran as traithe dhiubh seo a tha air mairsinn.  Rinn mi e anns an t-samhradh 1968, nuair a bha samhraidh air leth teth againn ann an Tiriodh.   Chaidh a chur an clo ann an 'Gairm' ann an 1969.

 

 



FEARGAIDH MO RUIN-SA

Oran gaoil don TE20

Feargaidh mo rùin-sa, ’s e Feargaidh mo ghràidh,
An tractar bu bhrèagha bha riamh anns an àit’;
A thoit bha cho àlainn, ’s a shrann bha cho blàth;
Gur mise bha sàsaicht’ ’s a chuibheall nam làimh.

Ri cur no ri buain, ri gearradh no àr,
Dhèanadh Feargaidh beag àghmhor an obair a b’fheàrr;
Bha hydraulic na dheireadh le spuirean is spàrr,
Is thogadh e eallach gun trioblaid, gun chràdh.

’S e threabhadh an sgrìob, ’s a dhèanadh am fàn,
Cho dìreach ri saighead, cho domhain, ’s cho slàn;
Bhiodh eunlaith na machrach a’ tighinn gach là,
Gus an togadh iad sealladh air ealain mo ghràidh.

Gun cartadh e innear bho chùlaibh na bàthch’,

Is shlaodadh e feamainn le neart às an tràigh;

’S ann thogadh e ’n t-siteag ann an diog às a h-àit’

Le cumhachd nam fiaclan bha sìneadh bhon ghràp’.

Ri dìreadh na garbhlaich no siubhal nan càrn,

Bha grèim aig a chasan, ’s cha rachadh e ’n sàs;

Nuair chluinneadh na caoraich a ghairm air a’ bhràigh,

Gun tigeadh iad còmhla gun chù aig an sàil.

San fheasgar nuair theannadh an sgìos air gach sàr,
’S a bhiodh miann orra siubhal a fhliuchadh an càil,
Bhiodh am Feargaidh beag uasal gan giùlan don ‘bhàr’,
’S taobh muigh gach taigh-seinnse, bhiodh sreath dhiubh air blàr.

Aig suirghe no banais, cha robh tacsaidh no càr
Cho grinn no cho cuimir ri Feargaidh mo ghràidh;
Is iomadh fleasgach fhuair fàilte bhon chaileig a b’ àill,
Nuair chunnaic i carbad cho snasail na dàil.

Don eaglais gach Sàbaid bhiodh muinntir an àit’
A’ marcachd air Feargaidh le moit a bha àrd;
A-nall thar gach bealach gun cluinnte an gàir’,
’S gach cailleach na suidhe air earball mo ghràidh.

O Fheargaidh mo rùin-sa, ’s tu Feargaidh mo ghràidh;
Chan fhaca mi fhathast do leithid anns an àit’;
Do chraiceann tha glas, le sùilean beag’ bàn’,
Is roithean dubh’ daingeann nach sleamhnaich gu bràth.

 

Am Bàrd Tirisdeach




--------------------------------------------



THE OBAN LINKSPAN

When the locals go out shopping
from Tiree to Oban Bay,
they surge across the ocean
in the 'Clansman' 's lovely spray,
as her bow-wave breaks the rollers,
and she vibrates bow to tail,
and they sing their songs of sadness
as they lean across the rail.

It's 'Ochone, the time she's sailing!
Is the LOTI big enough?
Will my car get on the car deck?
Where will I park my stuff?
Will we reach far Oban
Before it's closing time,
So that we can spend our money
On yon delicious wine?'

And when that great big city
Looms out across the sea,
The passengers, delighted,
Let out a hearty cheer;
But then the good ship anchors
In the middle of the bay,
Waiting for the linkspan,
And the 'Mull' to sail away.

Lachie says to Murdo,
'CalMac is just a curse;
They say they give us service,
But they pick our very purse;
The timetable is in tatters,
In the midst of Oban Bay;
Och, this would not have happened
In the time of D. MacBrayne.'

The delay drags on forever,
And the Tirisdich go wild;
They rampage through the cardeck,
And storm the bridge's side;
They lock the Captain in the cabin,
And push the throttle hard;
She leaps with mighty power,
And thunders to the sand.

Hugh Dan now has a problem
To solve, lest Harold hears
Of how the wicked Tirisdich
Have fulfilled his grimmest fears;
The 'Clansman' is there stranded
And no tug in all the land,
Can pull her off the shingle,
Or detach her from the sand.

But oh, the clever fishermen!
Have they not won the fray?
They have a fine wee navy,
And they sail it all the way.
They now supply the service
To Tiree from day to day,
As the 'Clansman' lies embedded
In the mud of Oban Bay.

Am Bard Tirisdeach


--------------------------------------

ORAN AN ASTUTE

Togam fonn nam maraichean

Tha cho tapaidh agus gleusda;

Gaisgich mhòr’ nam fairgeachan -

Cò iad ach seòid an Nèibhidh! 

Fhuair iad long cho snasail

’S a bha riamh sa chruinne-chè seo,

Is ghabh iad cuairt ga dearbhadh,

Dol rathad Linne Shlèibhte!

 

Gun seòladh i ’s gun daidhbheadh i

Do aigeann a’ Chuain Rèidhe,

Gu doimhneachdan gun amharas

Nach gabh tomhas le cion cèille.
 

 

Astute, b’ e siud a b’ ainm dhi;

Mar mhuc-mhara bha an creutair;

Bha i cruinn is dubh is fada,

Le puinnsean grànd’ gu beumadh.
 

 

Abradh sibhse faram,

Nuair thug iad ainm don tè ud;

Bha ’n ceòl aig seann Bhritannia

Ag èirigh àrd sna speuran.

 

‘We’ll rule the world,’ bha aca,

‘And heaven help the natives,

Who try to take the mickey

From the gallant British Navy.’ 

Is thog iad orr’ a dh’Albainn

Air splaoid gun fheum, gun reusan,

Gus am biodh na maraichean

A’ faighinn beagan trèanaidh. 

Thuirt Andy an dèidh tacain,

‘Up periscope, right bravely,

To let these Scottish chancers

See the newest in the Navy!’

 

Ach às a siud chan fhaigheadh iad,

’S iad glact’ air grinneal Shlèibhte;

Nuair sheall iad leis a’ pheriscope,

’S e ’n Drochaid bha nan lèirsinn!
 

 

 

Bha Andy bha cho aighearach,

Is cho bragail na chuid èididh,

A’ glaodhach, ‘What’s the matter,

Have we caught an anchor cable?’

 ‘No, Sir’, ars’ fear-faire ris,

‘I can see it on the radar;

She’s stuck upon the gravel,

And we’ll need a tug to save us.’

 Nuair bha an tug dol faisg orra,

Gun do chuir i tolg nan slèisdean,

’S chosg an Crùn na muilleanan

Mus d’fhuair iad tuilleadh feum aist’.

 

Bu truagh bha càradh Andy,

’S an Admirality ga cheusadh;

Chan fhaigh e faisg air ‘drochaid’

’S ann tha e nis na chlèireach!

 Astute cha robh na balaich ud,

Ged bu ghasda an cuid Beurla;

Le ‘catalog’ de mhearachdan –

Gu dearbh, b’e siud an Nèibhidh!

 Am Bard Tirisdeach

 

 ------------------------------------------

BAIL' UR NA GAIDHLIG

Sèisd:

’S e baile mo rùin a thogas mo shùnnd;

’S e seo a’ Bhliadhn’ Ur thug sòlas dhomh.

 

Nuair chruinnich na balaich

Aig coinneimh sa mhadainn

Bu ghasda gach barail ’s iad fàbharach.

 

Am fear bha sa chathair

A’ labhairt gu bragail,

A’ cur aisling am facail gu h-àlainn dhaibh.

 

Cha chluinneadh tu anail

No osna ga tarraing

Ach  cumadh a’ bhaile ga fhàilteachadh.

 

Cha robh ach an clapadh,

Is bualadh nam basan,

Is Bodach a’ Bhradain mar ghràdh aca.

’S e teachd thar na mara

Le  poca is baga,

A’ cur thairis le airgead Gàidhligeach.

 

Gach gaisgeach le faram

Ag innse na naidheachd

Mun bhaile bhios snasail le fàrdaichean.

 

Gun idir aon chlaigeann

Nach cluinnear a’ labhairt

Sa chànan bu mhath leis na bàird againn.

 

’S an siud na dheas mheadhan

Gun suidhichear ionad

Airson rannsachadh iongantach, àrdanach.

 

Ma gheibhear aon sealladh

De neach dol am mearachd,

Gun toir iad a-steach e ga shàbhaladh.

 

Mus deanar aon ghaiseadh

’S mus millear am baile -

Chan fhuilingear facal de chàineadh ann.

’S e ‘Baile a’ Bhradain’

As ainm dha ri mhaireann,

’S bidh Soillse na Maidne àlainn ann.

 

’S e baile mo rùin a thogas mo shùnnd;

’S e seo a’ Bhliadhn’ Ur thug sòlas dhomh.

 Am Bàrd Tirisdeach

 --------------------------------

SECURITY – THE STORNO WAY!

(In honour of the exceptionally thorough security staff at Stornoway Airport)

 

Let the plane fly high, let the plane fly low,

Through Security I must go:

All the friskers shout, ‘Hello!

Donald, down your trousers!’

 I went up to Stornoway,

And sadly too came back that way;

I thought, ‘Och, I’ll be away

In seconds’ – but those trousers!

 

‘Take off that belt,’ I heard them say,

And confidence soon ebbed away;

‘We heard a ping, and you must stay,

Till we examine your trousers!’

 

Arsa mise, ‘How will they stay

Round my middle in that way;

If they fall, what will folk say

About a Prof without his trousers?’

 

‘Ahah, we’ve found a little pill,

And now we’ll really get a thrill;

We’ll check the metal in its frill –

There’s danger in your trousers!’

 

‘And then we must examine your soles;

We think a nail has made these holes!

A lurking bomb within your clothes

Could blow up your trousers!’

 

And there I was with knobbly knees

Standing naked in the breeze;

‘You Have Been Framed’ I’d fit with ease -

No shoes, no belt, no trousers!

 

‘The natives here,’ I heard them say,

‘Carry cupcakes all the way,

And we must check the recip-ay,

If you have them in your trousers!’

 
And so the flapjack, out it came,

Squashed and battered, ’twas a shame;

‘Fruit and nut are banned today,

So we’ll take it from your trousers!’

 

The props were whirring on the Saab,

A tarmac dash was on the cards,

I stumbled up the stairs – ’twas sad,

But I tripped upon my trousers!

 

The belt was still in Stornoway,

They had the flapjack with their ‘tae’;

I lost my pill, but they could say,

‘We have examined his trousers!’

 Am Bàrd Tirisdeach

………………….

 

THE WHITE ELEPHANT OF TIREE

 

 

Come, all you tartan tourists,

From Glasgow to Dundee,

And prepare to journey westwards

To the island of Tiree;

You’ll see there many wonders

But the best has just appeared;

You’ll see it standing proudly

At the top of Gott Bay pier.

 

You’ll see it where the cattle

Are loaded for the boat,

With white and black it is bedecked

To entice the slowest stoat;

And I know what you are thinking –

It is the brand new mart!

But no, my friend, you’ve missed it –

The experts call it ‘art’!

 

The artists came from Edinburgh

To sniff the Tiree air;

They looked around and high above,

At clouds and sea and rain;

And when they had concluded

That such scenes were very rare,

They set to work to catch them,

And box them in a square.

 

It is open to the heavens,

And when you walk its way,

You’ll see the blue above you,

And the white across the bay;

They say it’s just the ticket

To observe the island’s hues,

But if you’ve ever seen them,

Be prepared for narrow views.

 

 

White walls are all around you,

And you’ll think that you are penned,

As you walk along the gangplank

Towards the farther end;

With these huge panes to aid you,

You will see that sweeping bay

Less clearly than you’d view it

If you stood outside the frame.

 

 

Cal Mac must be laughing,

For it has a canny crew,

And it has built its office

To catch the fullest view;

The island’s lovely shoreline

Is before you as you stand;

These chaps have picked a winner

On the turf above the sand.

 

The crofters are now asking

Who put this elephant here,

When they are short of money,

And the mart has cost them dear;

But, of course, there are new cattle

Who come across the moat;

They will be glad to peep inside,

And run back to the boat.

 

I surely am no prophet,

But I think I see its end,

When a bull that’s going to market

Takes a ‘turas’ round the bend;

When it hurtles up that tunnel

To meet a bovine friend,

You will hear a huge explosion

When horns and glass contend.

 So come, you tartan tourists,

‘An Turas’ is for you,

For if you want a journey,

Here’s one that’s spanking new;

But if, like me, you’re thinking

This is something of a fad,

Here’s all the proof you’re needing

That the arty folk are mad.

 

 

'Now, then - which opening should I choose?', says
the Tartan Towerist. 'Left hand down a bit,' I'd say, 'and
you might meet a shaggy Heiland coo.....with a vooo...
and sort it out between yuz....'



Am Bàrd Tirisdeach

 

 ---------------------------------------------

Cumha Nic an Tughadair

Bidh cuid dhinn a’ caoidh,

’S cuid eile fo aoibh,

Leis an naidheachd gun d’ aog i fhèin.

Tè an ardain gun taobh

Ach ri airgead is maoin,

Is cìsean air daoin’ ‘gun fheum’.

 

Chuir i ruaig air gach laoch

Nach robh leatha an gaol,

Is nach toireadh ard-adhraidh don Tè.

 

Thug i Artair air splaoid,

Cosg gach sgillinn gu faoin,

’S an gual anns an t-saoghal gun spèis.

 

Am Malivinas nan gaoth,

Chaidh i shabaid le saod,

A’ cur casg air gach ‘daoi’ ach i fhèin.

 
An tè ud nach aom,

Nach gluais ach aon taobh,

Measaidh i gràin no mòr ghaol da rèir.

 

Ach thèid i nise fon aol,

’S cha tiUnndaidh i chaoidh –

Gheibh i chìs aig gach aon sa chrèidh.

 

Am Bàrd Tirisdeach

7.4.2013

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