Balaich an iasgaich – the fishing lads
Seo òran ainmeil a sgrìobh fear Leòdhasach, Dòmhnall Moireasdan, tràth san 20mh linn. Ged a bha e a’ smaoineachadh air luchd-iasgaich Eilean Leòdhais, tha an dealbh seo den t-saoghal aca ceart cho freagarrach do bheatha chruaidh nan iasgairean againn fhèin ann an Ros an Ear, ginealach air ais, agus gu ìre do dh’iasgairean air feadh an t-saoghal, gus an latha an-diugh.
Here’s a famous song written by a Lewisman, Donald Morrison, early in the 20th century. Although he was thinking about the Lewis fisherfolk, the picture he gives us of their lives is just as relevant to the hard lives of our own Easter Ross fishermen a generation ago, and probably the lives of fisherman around the world even today.
Balaich an iasgaich
Fàilte gu fearann air balaich an iasgaich
Iomradh is tarruing is gearradh a’ bhiathaidh;
Coma leam leabaidh no cadal no biadh
Gu faigh mi mo lìon an òrdugh.
Tha ‘n geamhradh cho fada ‘s an gallionn cho cruaidh,
Droch shìde le cabhadh, clach mheallain is fuachd,
Cha mhòr tha chuir-seachad aig balaich ‘an Ruaidh
Ach cèilidh is bualadh eòrna.
Bàtaichean Gallach a’ gearradh an t-siabain,
Biotadh gu caladh an aghaidh sruth lìonaidh,
Bàtaichean biorach aig Nisich is Siaraich
Fada mun iar air Rònaigh
Thig an Fhèill Phàruig mu ‘m pàigh sinn na fiachan
Ri dorghach nam biorach air lios an Taobh Siar;
Tha prìs air an langainn an Sasuinn am bliadhna
‘S gheibh mi mo lìon an òrdugh.
‘S i leabaidh as fhearr leam na gàbhadh nan tonn;
Tha plaide mo mhàthar ‘s mo làmh fo mo cheann
Na ‘s fheàrr na bhith lapadh ri fasgadh nan crann
Ag èisdeach ri srann nan ròpan.
Sud agaibh na balaich nach gearain air cruadal
Sìnt’ air a bhallaist gun pheallaig m’ an uachdar,
Còignear mo seisear ‘s an lethcheann air cluasaig,
Ulpagan cruaidhe Cheòsain.
Fàilte gu fearann air balaich an iasgaich
Iomradh is tarruing is gearradh a’ bhiathaidh;
Coma leam leabaidh no cadal no biadh
Gu faigh mi mo lìon an òrdugh.
The fishing lads
Welcome on land to the fishing lads
Rowing and hauling and cutting the bait
I care not for bed or for sleep or for food
Till I get my nets in order
The winter’s so long and the gale so fierce
Bad weather with blizzards and hailstones and cold
Hardly any other pastimes for the boys of Point
But ceilidhs and threshing barley
Caithness boats cutting the foam
Tacking to port against a flowing tide
Sharp-prowed boats of Ness men and West-siders
Far to the west of Rona
It’ll be St Patrick’s Day before we pay our debts
Line-fishing off the West Side
There’s a good price for ling in England this year
If I get my nets in order
I’d prefer a bed to the dangers of the waves
My mother’s blanket and my hand under my head
Better than being numb in the lee of the masts
Listening to the snoring of the ropes
These are the boys who don’t complain of hardships
Stretched out on the ballast without a blanket over them
Five or six of them, with their cheeks on a pillow
Of the hard stones of an Ceòsan
Welcome on land to the fishing lads
Rowing and hauling and cutting the bait
I care not for bed or for sleep or for food
Till I get my nets in order
Listen to Norrie Maciver and Bodega singing it: https://youtu.be/3lN-6jq4Cb4
or an older version by Archie Mactaggart: https://youtu.be/5XrD_lHsXH0
