Fhuair mi an cothrom seinn còmhla ri Flòraidh NicNèill airson sreath de phrògraman rèidio an‑uiridh, agus bha mi toilichte an t‑òran seo fhaighinn bhuaipe. ’S e fìor urram a bh’ ann dhòmhsa a bhith a’ seinn còmhla rithe.  Tha mi ’n dòchas gun còrd seo ribh, a Fhlòraidh. 

This is a song by Neil MacLeod of Skye that I was fortunate to learn from Flora MacNeil for a BBC Scotland radio series called Trad Roots, directed by Donald Shaw and Alasdair MacCuish.  It was a great honour to sit for a day with her and learn songs.  This is one of them.

Mo Dhòmhnallan Fhèin
Nuair chruinnicheas an òigridh
Gu mire ’s gu sòlas,
Bidh mise nam ònar
An seòmar gun ghleus,
A’ cuimhneachadh còmhradh
An fhleasgaich a leòn mi,
’S an gaol thug mi òg do
Mo Dhòmhnallan fhèin.

Bidh m’ athair ’s mo mhàthair
Ri gearain ’s ri cràmhan,
A’ cantainn nach fheàrr mi
Na pàiste gun chèill,
Mo ghaol thoirt a dh’òigfhear
Bhios daonnan a’ seòladh
’S a sgaoileas a stòras
Gun ghò ris gach tè.

Nuair thachradh an còmhlan
Sa chlachan Didòmhnaich,
Nam measg cha robh òigfhear
Cho còmhnard na cheum;
Cho beusail na chòmhradh,
Cho fearail na dhòighean ‑
Bhiodh sùil aig gach òigh air
Mo Dhòmhnallan fhèin.

Tha dualagan bòidheach
Dhed chuailean nam phòca,
Do dhealbh air a còmhdach
Le òr ann an cèis;
Do shùilean cho beò leam,
Do ghruaidh mar na ròsan,
Ag ùrachadh dhòmhsa
Mo Dhòmhnallan fhèin.

Tha bliadhn’ agus còrr bhon
A thriall e o eòlas,
’S tha ìomhaigh cho beò leam
’S ged sheòladh e ’n‑dè;
Cha ghèill mi do dh’òigfhear
’S cha chèill mi na bòidean
No ’n gaol a thug mi òg do
Mo Dhòmhnallan fhèin.

My Own Donald
When the young gather
For sport and play,
I will be alone
In a room without music,
Remembering conversations
With the lad who caused me pain,
And the love I gave young to
My own Donald.

My father and mother
Complain and moan:
They say I am no better
Than a foolish child
To have given my love to a young man
Who is always at sea
And freely dispenses gifts
To every girl.

When the company used to meet
In the village on Sunday,
Among them there was no young man
As surefooted,
Nor as well spoken
And manly in his ways ‑
All the young girls admire
My own Donald.

I have beautiful locks
Of your hair in my pocket,
Your photograph is enclosed
In a gold frame;
Your eyes are alive to me,
Your cheeks are like  roses,
Reminding me of
My own Donald.

It’s a year and more
Since he left home,
And his face is as alive to me
As if he had sailed yesterday;
I won’t yield to any young man
And I won’t conceal the promise
That I gave when young to
My own Donald.