Irische Lieder / Irish songs
Auf dieser Seite haben wir irische Lieder zusammen gestellt, die einen Bezug zu einem in der Bilderschau angeführten Ort haben. Die Liste erhebt keinen Anspruch auf Vollständigkeit.
On this page we collected Irish songs that have a relation to locations from the slide show. This list is by no means complete.
Cockles and Mussels
The Curragh of Kildare
The Glendalough Saint
The Harp that once through Tara's Halls
The Meeting of the Waters
Old Skibbereen
The Rare Ould Times
Cockles and Mussels
(Traditional; Sequenced by Barry Taylor)
In Dublin's fair city where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.
As she wheeled her wheel barrow thro' the streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive alive O!
Alive alive O! Alive alive O! Crying cockles and mussels alive alive O!
She was a fishmonger; But sure 't was no wonder
For so were her father and mother before;
And they both wheeled their barrow through the strees broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive alive O!
Alive alive O! Alive alive O! Crying cockles and mussels alive alive O!
She died of a fever; And no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
But her ghost wheels her barrow thro' the streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive alive O!
Alive alive O! Alive alive O! Crying cockles and mussels alive alive O!
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The Curragh of Kildare
(Unknown)
Oh the winter it is passed and the summer's come at last
And the small birds are singing in the trees.
Their little hearts are glad but mine is very sad
For my true love is far away from me.
Oh the rose upon the briar and the clouds that float so high
Bring joy to the linnet and the bee
And their little hearts are blessed but mine can know no rest
Since my true love is far away from me.
All you that are in love and cannot it remove
I pity all the pain that you endure
For experience let me know that your heart is full of woe
It's a woe no water can cure
A livery I will wear and I'll comb back my hair
And in velvet so green I will appear
And straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare
For it's there I'll find tidings of my dear.
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The Glendalough Saint
(Traditional)
In Glendalough lived once a saint, renowned for his learning and piety
His manners was curious and quaint and he looked upon girls with disparity.
He was fond of reading a book when he could get one to his wishes.
He was fond of casting his hook in among the ould fishes.
But one evening he landed a trout, he landed a fine big trout, sir.
When young Kathleen from over the way came to see what the ould monk was about, sir.
'Oh, get out o' me way', said the saint 'For I am a man of great piety,
And me good manners I wouln't tain by mixing with female society.'
Oh but Kitty she wouldn't give in and when he got home to his rockery,
He found she was seating therein, a-polishing up his ould crockery.
Well he gave the poor creature a shake and I wish that the Garda had got him!
For he threw her right into the lake and, by Jaysus, she sank to the bottom.
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The Harp that once through Tara's Halls
(Traditional)
The harp that once through Tara's halls the soul of music shed
Now hangs as mute on Tara's wall as if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of fourmer days so glory's thrill is o'er
And hearts that once beat high for praise feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright, the harp of Tara swells.
The chord alone, that breaks at night, it's tale of ruin tells.
This freedom now so seldom wakes, the only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks, to show that still she lives.
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Master McGrath
(Master McGrath war ein Windhund der dreimal den begehrten Waterloo Cup für
Irland gewann.
Master McGrath was an greyhound who won the coveted Waterloo Cup for Ireland three times.)
Eighteen sixtynine being the date of the year,
The Waterloo sportsmen, they all did appear
To win the great prize and to bear it away,
Never counting on Ireland and Master McGrath.
And when they arrived there in big London town,
The great English sportsmen, they all gathered 'round.
One of the gentlemen gave a ha-ha,
"Is that the great dog you call Master McGrath?"
Lord Lurgon stepped forward and he said, "Gentlemen,
If there are any among you have money to spend,
For your great English greyhound I don't care a straw.
Five thousand to one upon Master McGrath."
White Rose stood uncovered, the great English pride;
Her trainer and owner were both by her side.
They led her away and the crowd cried, "Hurrah!"
For the pride of all England and Master McGrath.
As Rose and the Master, they both ran along,
"I wonder," said Rose, "what took you from home.
You should have stayed there in your Irish domain
And not come to gain laurels on Albion's plains."
"I know, " said McGrath, "we have wild heather bogs,
But you'll find in old Ireland we have good men and dogs.
Lead on, bold Britannia, give none of your jaw,
Snuff that up your nostrils," said Master McGrath.
The hare she led on, what a beautiful view,
As swift as the wind o'er the green fields she flew.
He jumped on her back and he held up his paw,
"Three cheers for old Ireland," said Master McGrath.
I've known many greyhounds that filled me with pride
In the days that are gone and it can't be denied,
But the greatest and the bravest the world ever saw
Was our champion of champions, brave Master McGrath.
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The Meeting of the Waters
(Thomas Moore 1779-1852)
There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.
Oh the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill
Oh! no - it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet Vale of Avoca! how calm cold I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease
And out hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
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Old Skibbereen
(Traditional)
Oh, father dear, I often hear you speak of Erin's isle,
Her lofty scenes, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild.
They say it is a lovely land wherein a prince might dwell.
Oh, why did you abandon it, the reason to me tell.
Oh, son, I loved my native land with energy and pride
Till a blight came o'er my crops, my sheep, my cattle died.
My rent and taxes were too high, I could not them redeem
And that's the cruel reason that I left old Skibbereen.
Oh, well do I remember the bleak December day,
The landlord and the sheriff came to drive us all away.
They set my roof on fire with cursed English spleen
And that's another reason that I left old Skibbereen.
Your mother, too, God rest her soul, fell on the snowy ground.
She fainted in her anguish, seeing the desolation ground.
She never rose, but passed away from life to mortal dream
And found a quiet grave, my boy, in dear old Skibbereen.
And you were only two years old and feeble was your frame,
I could not leave you with my friends, you bore your father's name -
I wrapt you in my cotamore at the dead of night unseen,
I heaved a sigh and bade good-bye, to dear old Skibbereen.
O, father dear, the day may come when in answer to the call
Each Irishman, with feelings stern, will rally one and all.
I'll be the man to lead the van beneath the flag of green
When loud and high we'll raise the cry - "Remember Skibbereen".
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The Rare Ouls Times
(Pete St. John)
Raised on songs and stories heroes of renown,
The passing tales and glories that once was Dublin Town.
The hallowed halls and houses, the haunting children's rhymes
That once was Dublin City in the rare ould times.
Ring-a-ring-a rosey, as the light declines,
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times.
My name it is Sean Dempsey, as Dublin as can be
Born hard and late in Pimlico, in a house that ceased to be.
By trade I was a cooper, lost out to redundancy,
Like my house that fell to progress, my trade's a memory.
And I courted Peggy Dignan, as pretty as you please,
A rogue and a Child of Mary, from the rebel Liberties.
I lost her to a student chap, with skin as black as coal,
When he took her off to Birmingham, she took away my soul.
The years have made me bitter, the gargle dims my grain,
'Cause Dublin keeps on changing, and nothing seems the same.
The Pillar and the Met. have gone, the Royal long since pulled down
As the great unyielding concrete, makes a city of my town.
Fare thee well sweet Anna Liffey, I can no longer stay,
And watch the new glass cages, that spring up along the Quay.
My mind's too full of memories, to old to hear new chimes,
I'm part of what was Dublin, in the rare ould times.