Ann an doras a’ Chaley
thachair E rium
’s dh’fhaighnich E dhiom
a robh mi ag iarraidh slàinte.
Bhà, iomadach slàinte.
Agus ann an doras a’ Chrown
chuala mi ’n Nàmhaid aig mo ghualainn
ag ràdh “Seachainn seo,”
ach cha do dh’èisd mi ris an Nàmhaid.
Ann an doras a’ Star
chunna mi sealladh de Bhetlehem
’s dhùin mi mo shùilean.
Ann an doras a’ Charlton
cha d’rinn mi àicheadh air mo ghràdh dhut
Ann an doras a’ Chlub.
An oidhch’ ud ann an Ibrox,
an solas a’ ciar-bhuidheadh air a staidhre,
an aol gun tiormachadh,
’s na taighean-seinns’ air sgaoileadh,
chuimhnich mi air tè dha m’ fheadhainn
ann a Singapore
nach bu bhuidhe dhomh.
Dearg, dearg tha fuil mo bheatha,
sin an fhuil anns a bheil slàint,
nuair a laigheas làn a’ bhotail
air mo sgòrnan anns a’ mhadainn
tha e mar gun d’fhuair mi gràs,
dearg, dearg tha fuil a’ bhotail
air mo chuisle, fuil mo ghràidh. |
At the door of the Caley
He met me
and asked me
if I was seeking for health.
Yes, many healths.
And at the door of the Crown
I heard the Devil at my shoulder
saying ‘Pass this by’,
but I did not listen to the Devil.
At the door of the Star
I saw a vision of Bethlehem
and I closed my eyes.
At the door of the Carlton
I did not deny my love for you
At the door of the Club.
That night in Ibrox,
the lights dun-yellow on the stair,
the pipe-clay not quite dry,
after the pubs had skailed
I remembered a girl I had
in Singapore –
she wasn’t a lucky omen.
Red, red is my life’s blood,
that’s the blood that’s full of health,
when the brimming bottle lies
on my gullet in the morning
then I feel I’ve found grace,
red, red is the bottle’s blood
on my veins, the blood I love. |
