RÓISÍN DUBH – The Black Rose of Ireland | Traditional Irish Song | Thomas Furlong Version скачать в хорошем качестве

RÓISÍN DUBH – The Black Rose of Ireland | Traditional Irish Song | Thomas Furlong Version

RÓISÍN DUBH (The Black Rose of Ireland) A traditional Irish song of devotion and allegory This historic Irish song, associated with the era of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, uses the image of a “Little Black Rose” as a poetic allegory for Ireland herself. The English version presented here is by Thomas Furlong and is performed to the original traditional melody. In times when open political speech was dangerous, Ireland was often personified as a woman in song. Róisín Dubh became one of the most powerful of these symbols — a lament, a vow of loyalty, and a promise that Ireland would not fall. Performed to the original traditional Irish air. Arrangement, Performance & Film © 2026 Irish Longing All Rights Reserved LYRICS (English Version by Thomas Furlong) O my sweet little rose, cease to pine for the past, For the friends that came eastward shall see thee at last; They bring blessings and favours the past never knew, To pour forth in gladness on my Róisín Dubh. Long, long, with my dearest, through strange scenes I’ve gone, O’er mountains and broad valleys I still have toiled on; O’er the Erne I have sailed as the rough gales blew, While the harp poured its music for my Róisín Dubh. Though wearied, O my fair one! do not slight my song, For my heart dearly loves thee, and hath loved thee long; In sadness and in sorrow I still shall be true, And cling with wild fondness round my Róisín Dubh. There’s no flower that e’er bloomed can my rose excel, There’s no tongue that e’er moved half my love can tell; Had I strength, had I skill the wide world to subdue, O the queen of that wide world should be Róisín Dubh. Had I power, O my loved one, but to plead thy right, I should speak out in boldness for my heart’s delight; I would tell to all round me how my fondness grew, And bid them bless the beauty of my Róisín Dubh. The mountains, high and misty, through the moors must go; The rivers shall run backward, and the lakes overflow; And the wild waves of old ocean wear a crimson hue, Ere the world sees the ruin of my Róisín Dubh.