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Crodh an Tailleir

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O hi o ho crodh an tailleir
O hi o ho crodh an tailleir
O hi o ho crodh an tailleir
Siosar is meuran is snathad

Cha tuit iad an toll no feithe
Cha tuit iad an toll no feithe
Cha tuit iad an toll no feithe
Ma thuiteas gun tog e fhein iad

Tha mìle long air cuan Eirinn
Tha mìle long air cuan Eirinn
Tha mìle long air cuan Eirinn
'S truagh nach robh mi fhìn air te dhuibh

I first learned this song in Skye, without realising it was regarded as a lullaby. The words are more what you would expect of a young cattleherd, fed up with his lot and preferring the life of a tailor or travel abroad, than those of a mother. The tune could be described as a kind of port a beul since it mimics the piping style. It is recognised widely as a lullaby, though, and is categorised as such in Margaret Fay Shaw's 'Folksongs and Folklore of South Uist'.

Translation:

O hee o ho, the tailor's cattle...
Scissors and fingers and needle

They won't fall into a hole or a bog (morass) ...
If they fall he can lift them himself

There is a thousand ships on the Irish sea ...
It's a pity I wasn't on one myself