Aus urheberrechtlichen Gründen wage ich es nicht mp3 hier abzulegen. Nur einige Texte von der "I'm Paul, that's all."-CD müssen schon sein
(Die gälischen Texte lass ich weg, denn wer außer Paul hat schon ein Gälisch-Wörterbuch?):

Die Sängerin Niamh (Nief!) Parsons haben wir in einem Pub in Dublin kennengelernt (siehe auch Reisebericht 1997 Dublin). Sie hat dort in einem Nebenraum hin und wieder ein Lied zum Besten gegeben, und Paul war bald im Gespräch mit ihr. Er fragte sie ganz locker, ob sie nicht nach Deutschland kommen und im Irish Folk Festival auftreten wolle. Später stellte sich heraus, dass sie eine der besten Sängerinnen in ganz Irland ist, und 1999 kam sie tatsächlich nach Deutschland!
Sie hat uns damals erklärt, dass die traurigen irischen Lieder nicht dazu da sind, die Menschen traurig zu stimmen, sondern im Gegenteil, die Traurigkeit herauszulassen und so bei der Bewältigung von Kummer und Leid zu helfen.
Hier der Text eines ihrer schönsten und traurigsten Lieder.

Black is the colour

(Traditional, lyrics as sung by Niamh Parsons )

Black is the color of my true love's hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She's got the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands

I love my love and well she knows
I love the ground whereon she goes
And I wish the day it soon might come,
when she and I can be as one.


I'll go to the Clyde and I mourn and weep,
but satisfied I never shall be
I write her a letter just a few short lines
And suffer death ten thousand times.


Then I sat down and I wrote this song
I wrote it neat, I wrote it long
And with every line I shed one tear
And at last I say: "Farewell my dear".


So fare thee well my own true love
I love you like the stars above
But if Heaven and Earth no more I'll see
I'll ne'er treat you like you treated me.

I love the ground on where she stands

"Background: This is an old song dating with tune origins probably dating to the 18th century. The lyrics were first recorded in around 1916 and believed to be out of the Appalacian Mountains, although it is so fully engrained in the folk tradition that many believe it to be out of Scotland as attibuted by the verse "I'll go to the Clyde" which is a river that runs through Glasgow."

Das folgende Lied war auf einer der ersten CDs mit irischer Musik, welche Paul mir zum Anhören gegeben hat. Es stammt aus der Zeit, als viele wegen Hunger und Armut aus Irland auswandern mussten. In diesem Lied geht es um Abschied von der liebgewonnenen Heimant und seinen Freunden.

Emigrant's Farewell   

Farewell to old Ireland the land of my childhood
That now and forever I am bound for to leave
Farewell to the shores where the Shamrock is growing
It's the bright spot of beauty and the home of the brave

I will think on its valleys with fond admiration
Though never again its green hills will I see
I am bound for to cross o'er the wide swelling ocean
In search of fame, fortune and sweet liberty

It's hard to be forced from the land that we live in
Our houses and farms we're obliged for to sell
And to wander alone among Indians and strangers
To find some sweet spot where our children may dwell

Oh, I have a wee lassie I fain would take with me
Her dwelling at present lies in County Down
It would break my poor heart for to leave her behind me
We'll both roam together this wide world around

So it's come along Bessie my own blue eyed lassie
Bid farewell to your mother and then come with me
And I'll make my endeavour for to keep your mind easy
Till we reach the greenfields of Americay

Our ship at the present lies in lovely Derry
To bear us away o'er the wide swelling sea
May heaven be her pilot and grant her fond breezes
Till we reach the greenfields of Americay

Our artists our farmers our tradesmen are leaving
To seek for employment far over the sea
Where they will get riches with care and with industry
There's nothing but hardship at home if you stay

So it's cheer up your hearts now you lads and you lassies
There's gold for the digging and lots of it too
Here's health to the heart that has courage to venture
Bad luck to the lad or the lass that would rue

There's brandy in Quebec at ten cents a quart boys
The ale in New Brunswick's a penny a glass
There's wine in that sweet town they call Montreal, boys
At inn after inn we will drink as we pass

And we'll call for a bumper of ale, wine and brandy
And we'll drink to the health of those far, far away
Our hearts will all warm at the thought of old Ireland
When we're in the greenfields of Americay