(Youth Whose Hair Is Golden Yellow - The Braes of Margaree)



Oganaich an o-fhuilt bhuide,

Leat a chinneadh sealg a's sithionn;

'S ann ad ghruaidh a bhiodh an rudha,

'N uair a bhiodh tu siubhal bheann!



'N uiar a dhieadh tu na stucan

Leis a 'ghunna chaol nach diultadh,

'S i do luaidhe ghorm a's d'fudar,

Chuireadh smuid air feadh nan gleann.



Na cnuic 's na glinn bu bhoidhche leinn,

'S iad cnuic is glinn a'Bhraighidh,

Mu'n tric bha sinn ri maran binn,

'S a' chomunn ghrinn a b'fhearr leinn



Chan 'eil ait' an diugh fo'n ghre/in,

'S am b'fhearr leam fhe/in bhi tamhachd

Na Braigh' na h-Aibhne measg nan sonn

O'm faighte fuinn na Gaidhlig.



Oganaich an o-fhuilt shniomhain,

Dh'fhag thu saca trom air m'inntinn;

'S mur a till thu nall do 'n tir so,

Mo thoil-inntinn bidh air chall.



Na cnuic 's na glinn bu bhoidhche leinn,

'S iad cnuic is glinn a'Bhraighidh,

Mu'n tric bha sinn ri maran binn,

'S a' chomunn ghrinn a b'fhearr leinn



Gur binn leam ceol an h-aibhne mo/ir,

'S i falbh an gloir a h-ailleachd;

Fhad's bhios i gluasad sios le fuaim,

Cha toir mi fuath do'n Bhraighidh.



Gu leir a bhla h air mo ghruaidhse,

Gu'n tug mi dhuit gaol nach fuaraich;

Dh'innis iad gu'n d'thug thu fuath dhomh,

Ach cha chreid mi, luaidh, an cainnt.



Oganaich an o-fhuilt bhuide,

Leat a chinneadh sealg a's sithionn;

'S ann ad ghruaidh a bhiodh an rudha,

'N uair a bhiodh tu siubhal bheann!



Oganaich an o-fhuilt bhuide,

Leat a chinneadh sealg a's sithionn;

'S ann ad ghruaidh a bhiodh an rudha,

'N uair a bhiodh tu siubhal bheann!



Youth whose hair is golden yellow

You will bag the deer when hunting

On your cheeks the colour's rising

When you tramp across the hills



When you climb up to the tall crags

With your slender trusty weapon

Then your blue lead and gun powder

Scatter smoke among the glens



The hills and dales most beautiful to us

are the hills and dales of the Braes (Margaree),

where we often sang

sweet melodies in the friendly company we liked best.



There is no place today, under the sun,

where I would prefer to live

in the Braes of the river

amongst the heroes who were wont

to sing Gaelic songs.



Sweet to me is the music of the great river

as it meanders amidst the glory of its beauty;

as long as it contiues to course to the sea

I will never hate the Braes.



It is showing in my cheeks now

That my truest love I gave you

They are saying that you hate me

But I don't believe their talk.