Mo Nighean Donn as Bòidhche (Most Beautiful Brown-haired Maiden)

[read english version]

I heard the melody of this song from the singing
of the North Shore Singers but I took the words from a
version collected by Helen Creighton from Mr and Mrs.
Archie MacMaster, Port Hastings. A sailor sings of his
hardships during a storm at sea and how he will marry
his sweetheart when he gets home. Wendy MacIsaac made up
the tune at the beginning off the top of her head in
rehearsals for the CD, she’s calling it the Maynard
Street Reel.

“…That night that I was at sea, It rained and blew,
it grew cold.
I had to climb up, but alas I knew little of this…”.

Hao ro ri o, rathaill o
Hao ro ri o, rathaill o
Hao ro ri o, rathaill o
Mo nighean donn as bòidhche.

An oidhche bha mis’ air chuan,
Shil ‘is shéid i, dh’fhás i fuar;
Dhòmhsa b’ fheudar bhi dhol suas,
Mo thruaighe ‘s gun mi eòlach.

Thuirt e rium a dhol dh’ an chrann,
Thuirt mi-fhéin nach d’rachainn ann;
Thuirt e, “Feumaidh tu dhol ann,
Gur siod a gheall thu dhòmh-sa.”

Chaidh mise an sin suas,
Rinn mi’ n topsail chur mun cuairt,
‘S thuirt e rium nuair thâin’ mi nuas,
Nach robh e uamhaidh bòdhach.

“Mur a bheil” thuirt mi-fhéin
“Seo fear nach seall ‘n a dhéidh
Ged a rachadh e dh’an speur,
‘N a riobannan ‘s ‘n a ròpan”

Théid mi sios gu ceann Loch Mhéinn,
Far bheil d’ athair ‘gabhail táimh,
‘S gus a faigh mi thu air lâimh
Gu bràth cha dean sinn pòsadh.

Théid mi sios gu àit’ an t-sagairt
‘S théid ar n-éigheach air an altar
‘S mur tig sian sam bith ‘s an rathad,
Thig sinn dhachaidh pòsda.

Hao ro ri o, rathill o
Hao ro ri o, rathill o
Hao ro ri o, rathill o
My most beautiful brown haired maiden

That night that I was at sea, It
rained and blew, it grew cold.
I had to climb up, But alas I knew little of this.

He told me to climb the mast. I said
that I would not
He said “You must go up, As that is what you promised
me.”

I then went up the mast, I turned the
topsail around,
When I came back down he said, it was not terribly trim.

If it is not I said, Here is a man who
will not look after it,
Although it would go to the heavens In ribbons and
ropes.

I will go down to the Head of Loch
Meinn, Where your father lives,
And until I get your hand We will never be married.

I will go down to the priest’s house
And our wedding bans will be called at the altar,
And, if no obstacles come in our path, We will come home
married.