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Fichead 's a h-Ochd
Measgachadh Speactraim
Written by Marcas Mac an Tuairneir and Nick Turner
Produced by Nick Turner
Buy Now on Bandcamp
Fichead 's a h-Ochd (Measgachadh Speactraim)
Thathar ag ràdh gur e seo mo là,
gun toir an linn seo dhuinn
cothrom cur an cèill,
ach tha dìomhaireachd gu domhainn na mo chridhe,
nach ceadaichear idir chur mu sgaoil.
Air an oidhche ’s mi an àird,
le siosar na mo làimh,
a' feuchainn sin le leabhar,
ged nach leugh mi lideadh fhathast.
Anns a’ mhadainn 's mi an àird,
’s e bhios ann ann am facal sgrìobhte,
Gàidhlig ga glaodh thar gach briathar.
Nuair thèid mi staigh air a' chiad là,
cuiridh mi romham mo chor is mo chothrom
a ghlacadh le dà làimh,
ach aig an deasg, nach mi a bhios fo bhruadar.
Saoil, cò ris am bi an saoghal coltach,
nuair a bhios mi fichead ’s a h-ochd.
Thathar ag ràdh gur e seo mo là,
gun toir an linn seo oirnn
fuasgladh nam beul,
ach tha briathrachas nach gabhar innse,
nach fhaca ann am faclair Dwelly fhèin.
Air an oidhche ’s mi an àird,
le iarann nam làimh,
lèine ’s cèisean air a' bhòrd,
stamp is seòladh air gach tè.
Anns a’ mhadainn ’s mi an àird,
’s e bhios ann, am facal sgrìobhte,
deiseil ri chur le dòchas ’s fèill.
Nuair chaidh mi staigh air a’ chiad là,
chuir mi romham, mo chor is mo chothrom,
a ghlacadh le dà làimh,
ach aig an deasg, nach mi a bha cho bruadarach.
Seo, cò ris a bheil an saoghal coltach,
agus mi tha fichead 's a h-ochd.
They say that this is my day,
that this era will bring us
the opportunity to express ourselves,
but there is a secret, deep in my heart,
that can never be exposed.
When I'm up late at night,
with scissors in my hand,
working with a book
that I can't yet even read.
When I'm up in the morning,
what I'll see is the written text,
Gaelic pasted over every word.
When I go in on the first day,
I will decide to take hold of my rights
with both hands,
but at the desk, I will be dreaming.
Wondering what the world will be like,
when I am twenty-eight.
They say this is my day,
that this era will unbind for us
our mouths,
but there are words that can never be spoken,
that can't be found in Dwelly's dictionary.
When I'm up late at night,
with an iron in my hand,
a shirt and envelopes on the table,
stamped and addressed, every one.
When I'm up in the morning,
what I'll see is the written text,
Gaelic pasted over every word.
When I went in on the first day,
I decided to take hold of my rights
with both hands,
but at the desk, I was a dreamer.
This is what the world is like,
now I am twenty-eight.