Description
An Ghiobóg
An Fear: Ná bí ag caoineadh gan a dhath, a bheainín Ná bí ag caoineadh gan a dhath
Bliain mhór sa taca seo ba dheas mo chulaith éadaigh Ba lúfar éadrom aigeantach a dhéanfainn bean a bhréagadh Ach shantaigh mise an ghiobóg mar bhí cupla bó mar spré ‘ci Is d’fhág sí ar an anás mé ‘s mo chraiceann geal gan léine.
An Fear: Ó! Mo chraiceann geal gan léine Ó! Mo chraiceann geal gan léin’
An Bhean:
Má bhí culaith mhaith an uair sin ort, b’fhéidir nár leat féin í; Ní raibh tú pósta seachtain go raibh fear na comharsa ‘ hiarraidh; Dhíol tú mo chuid ealaigh, le sin agus tuilleadh réiteach Is d’fhág tú ar an anás mé ‘s gan snáithe orm san oíche.
An Bhean: Óró dhíol tú mo chuid ba, a ghadaí Óró dhíol tú mo chuid ba
An Fear (ag caint):
Ní fhaca mé léine ghlan orm ariamh le linn mo phósta; Tá mo bhróga iontach cáidheach dhul chun Aifreann Dé Domhnaigh; Is nuair a chasann scaifte cailín orm ‘na seasamh ar an bhóthar – “Seo chugainn Worzel Gummidge!” agus caitheann siad clocha móra!
An Fear: Worzel Gummidge – is eisean Rastaman Worzel Gummidge Rastaman
A bhuachaillí, a bhuachaillí, an méid atá gan phósadh, Ná santaigí na giobógaí de réir mar bhíonn siad cóirithe Nó b’fhearr díbh cailín glan agaibh a scuabfadh amach i gcónaí Ná luaith bhuí na seachtaine dá cur amach Dé Domhnaigh.
An Fear: Luaith bhuí dá cur amach Dé Domnaigh! Luaith bhuí dá cur amach
An Bhean (ag caint):
Nuair a théann tú amach ar maidin – in ainm a bheith ag obair – ‘S é an áit a dtéann tú nó sa tábhairne síos an bóthar. Ar philleadh asíst ‘na bhaile duit ar theacht an tráthnóna Bíonn do bhríste gioblach stróicthe is tú comhair a bheith caoch-ólta.
An Bhean: Bhí tú ólta oíche aréir, caoch-ólta Bhí tú ólta oíche aréir
An Bhean:
A chailíní, a chailíní, an méid atá gan phósadh, Ná santaigí an sramaide mar gheall ar theach nó ar spleota B’fhearr liom buachaill fearúil ‘bheadh chun Aifrinn liom Dé Domhnaigh, Nó an leithéid sin de shramaide a bíos ag ól i gcónaí.
An Bhean: Is tú an sramaide gan dóigh Is tú an sramaide gan dóigh
An Fear:
Bliain mhór sa taca seo ba dheas mo chulaith éadaigh Ba lúfar éadrom aigeantach a dhéanfainn bean a bhréagadh Ach shantaigh mise an ghiobóg mar bhí cupla bó mar spré ‘ci Is d’fhág sí ar an anás mé ‘s mo chraiceann geal gan léine.
An Fear: Ó a bheainín! Ná bí ag caoineadh
Ná bí ag caoineadh gan a dhath…
The Husband:
A whole year since this time last year my clothes were perfectly fine
Light and agile and spirited I’d go a-courting women
But I fancied the untidy woman for ‘twas she had the two-cow dowry
But she left me here in poverty, my bare skin without a shirt.
The Wife:
If you had a good suit at that time maybe you didn’t own it;
You weren’t a week married till a neighbour came in looking for it
Then you sold my cattle and auctioned off the land
And you left me in dire poverty with no blanket on the bed.
The Husband (talking):
I never saw you wash a shirt the whole time we were married;
My shoes were mucky, filthy when I headed for Mass on Sunday
When I came on a bunch of girls standing by the side of the road
“Here comes Worzel Gummidge!” and they started throwing sods.
An Fear:
Boys! Boys! Boys! Boys! Those of you not married
Never fancy the untidy women because of the way they’re clad
Better for you a tidy girl who would always be brushing out,
Than the yellow ashes of the week on a Sunday thrown out.
The Wife (talking):
When you go out in the morning – supposedly to your work –
The place you really go to is the tavern down the road.
And then when you come home again as the evening is drawing near
Your trousers are all in tatters, blind drunk and on your ear.
The Wife:
Girls! Girls! Girls! Girls! Those of you not married
Never fancy the skinflint because of a house or patch
I’d prefer a manly boy than him coming to Mass on Sunday
Than the likes of that thick, useless yoke drinking till he drops.
