Paroles et traduction Alan Stivell - An alarch (Le cygne)

An alarch (Le cygne)

Eun alarc'h, eu alarc'h tramor,
War lein tour moal kastell armor

Refrain:
Dinn, dinn, daoñ! d'an emgann!
O! dinn, dinn, daoñ! d'an emgann ez an!

Neventi vat d'ar vretoned!
Ha mallozh ruz d'ar C'hallaoued!

Erru ul lestr e pleg ar mor,
E oueliuù gwenn gantañ digor

Digouet an aotrou Yann endro,
Digouet eo da ziwall e vro

D'hon diwall doc'h ar C'hallaoued,
A vac'hom war ar Vretoned.

Ken e laosker ur youc'adenn,
A ra d'an aod ur grenadenn;

Ken e son ar menezioù Laz;
Ha froen, ha trid ar gazeg c'hlas;

Ken e kan laouen ar c'hleier,
Kant lev tro-war-do, e pep kêr.

Deut eo an heol, deut eo an hañv;
Deut eo en-dro an aotrou Yann!

An aotrou yann a zo oaotr mat;
Ker prim e droad hag e lagad.

Laezh ur Vreizhadez a sunos,
Ul laezh ken yac'h evel gwin koez

Luc'h a daol e c'hoaf p'hen horell,
Ken e vrumenn an neb a sell.

Pa c'hoari kreñv e tarc'h,
Ken e taouhanter den ha marc'h.

Darc'h atav, dalc'h mat, Aotrou Dug
Dao warne! ai'ta! bug-o! bug!

Neb a droc'h 'vel e troc'htez-te,
N'en deus aotrou nemet Doue!

Dalc'homp, Bretoned, dalc'homp mat!
Arsav na truez! gwad oc'h gwad!

Itron Varia Vreizh, skoaz da vro!
Fest 'erbedenner, fest a vo!

Darev ar foenn, piv a falc'ho?
Darev an ed, piv a vedo?

Ar foenn, an ed, piv a fako?
Ar roue 'gav gantañ'raio.

Dont a ray a-benn ur gaouad,
Gant ur falc'h arc'hant da falc'hat

Gant ur falc'h arc'hant 'n hor bro-ni,
Ha gant ur falz aour da vediñ.

Mar plijje gant ar C'hallaoued
Daoust hag int mank ar Vretoned?

Mar plijje gant 'n aotroui roue,
Daoust hag-eñ eo den pe Zoue?

Skignañ 'ra bleizi Breizh-Izel,
O klevet embann ar brezel,

O klevet ar youc'h, e yudont:
Gant c'hwezh ar Challaoued e reont.

En heñchoù, e-berr e welour
O redek ar gwad evel dour.

Ken 'yey ruz-glaou brusk an houidi,
Hag ar gwasi gwenn o neuiñ.

Muioc'h a dammoù goaf, e skent,
Eget e karnelioù ar vro.

Paotred Bro-C'hall 'lec'h ma kouezhint,
Betek deiz ar varn e c'hourve'int;

Betek deiz ar varn hag ar feustl,
Gant an Trubard a ren ar reustl.

An diveradur eus ar gwez
'Ray dour benniget war e vez!

A Swan (The Swan)

A swan, my swan from overseas,
On the grey tower of an armored castle's

Refrain:
To battle, ding, ding, dong! To battle, so I sing!
Oh, to battle, ding, ding, dong! to battle I go!

Bad luck to the Britons!
And red ruin to the French!

A ship has crashed on the shore,
With white seagulls circling it

Lord John has come back again,
He has come back to defend his country

To defend us against the French,
Who are trampling on the Britons.

They have fired a gunshot,
Which has made a great hole in the shore;

They have made the Laz mountains ring;
And made the blue crows fly

They have made the bells happy,
They have rung the bells around hundreds of times in every town.

The sun has come, the summer has come,
Lord John has come back again!

Lord John is a good man;
His foot and his eye are very quick.

He has sucked the milk of a Breton woman,
A milk as strong as old wine

He throws his spear high in the air,
And he makes the people who see him shiver.

When he plays aggressively with his sword,
He cuts both men and horses in two.

Always strike, hold firm, Lord Duke
Come on! Charge! Boy-o! Boy!

Whoever cuts as you cut!
Has no master but God!

Hold on, Britons, hold on tight!
No truce! Blood for blood!

Our Lady Mary of Brittany, save your country!
Be prayed to much, be prayed to much!

Who will reap the hay?
Who will cut the corn?

The hay, the corn, who will cut?
The king gets away with it.

He will come at the head of a crowd,
With a silver sickle to reap

With a silver sickle in our country,
And a golden sickle to cut.

If it pleases the French
Are they more numerous than the Britons?

If it pleases our lord the king,
Is he more than man?

The wolves of Lower Brittany are scattering,
On hearing the sound of war,

On hearing the gunshot, they know:
They are boiling in the blood of the French.

In the ditches, you will soon see
The blood flowing like water.

The gorse bushes will be very red,
And the white herons swimming.

More spear points are coming down,
Than there are grains of sand in the country.

Wherever the French fall,
They will lie there until the day of judgment;

Until the day of judgment and the feast,
With the Trumpet sounding victory.

The sap from the trees
Will be holy water on their graves!